e held her hand and, I believe, had just raised it to his lips.

I hurried on, annoyed with myself for being so inquisitive. But the
beautiful face of the girl became impressed upon my memory.

Count Bindo, the nonchalant, audacious cosmopolitan, who spent money so
freely, was a veritable marvel of cleverness and cunning in all matters
of chicanery and fraud. He was evidently a man who, though still young,
had a pretty dark record. But what it really was he carefully concealed
from me. I can only admit that I had now become an adventurer like the
others, for in each case I had received a certain portion of the profits
of the _coups_ which we had assisted each other in effecting. True, we
lived a life full of excitement and change, but it was a life I liked,
for at heart I was nothing if not a wanderer and adventurer. I liked
adventure for adventure's sake, and cared nothing for the constant peril
of detection. Strange how easily one can be enticed from a life of
honesty into one of fraud, especially if the inducements held out are
an adequate recompense for any qualm of conscience.

The actions of our friend, Sir Charles Blythe, were also rather
puzzling. He seemed to be taking no part in whatever scheme was in
progress. If I met him in public on the Esplanade, or elsewhere, I
saluted him as a chauffeur should, but when we met unobserved I was his
equal, and on several occasions I made inquiries which he refused to
satisfy.

We had been nearly three weeks in Scarborough when, after dinner one
evening in the big hall of the hotel I saw the audacious Bindo seated
drinking coffee with a little, queer, wizen-faced, but rather
over-dressed old lady, towards whom he seemed to be particularly polite.
She was evidently one of those wrinkled, yellow-toothed old tabbies who
still believe themselves to be attractive, for, as I watched covertly, I
saw how she assumed various poses for the benefit of those seated in her
vicinity. Though so strikingly dressed, in a gown trimmed with beautiful
old lace, she wore no jewellery, save her wedding ring. Her airs and
mannerisms were, however, amusing, and quickly made it apparent that she
moved in a good set.

From the hall-porter I presently learned that she was a Mrs. Clayton, of
St. Mellions Hall, near Peterborough, the widow of a wealthy Oldham
cotton-spinner, who generally spent a month at that hotel each year.

"She's a quaint old girl," he informed me in confidence. "Thinks no e