nd
of herself, and always trying to hang on to some woman with a title,
even if she's only a baronet's wife. Some ill-natured woman has
nicknamed her the Chameleon--because she changes her dresses so often
and is so fond of bright colours. But she's a good old sort," he added.
"Always pretty free with her tips. Her son is here too."

Whoever or whatever she was, it was evident that Bindo was busily
engaged ingratiating himself with her, having previously established a
firm friendship with her son, who, by the way, had left Scarborough on
the previous day.

I happened to have a friend who was chauffeur to a doctor in
Peterborough, therefore I wrote to him that evening, making inquiries
regarding St. Mellions and its owner. Three days later a reply came to
the effect that the Hall was about ten miles from Peterborough, and one
of the finest country seats in Northamptonshire. It had been the
property of a well-known earl, who, having become impoverished by
gambling, had sold it, together with the great estate, to old Joshua
Clayton, the Lancashire millionaire. "She keeps a couple of cars," my
friend concluded. "One is a Humber voiturette, and the other a
twenty-four Mercedes. You know her chauffeur--Saunders--from the Napier
works."

Of course I knew Saunders. He was once a very intimate friend of mine,
but for the past couple of years I had lost sight of him.

Why, I wondered, was Bindo so intensely interested in the over-dressed
old crone? He walked with her constantly on the Spa, or along the
Esplanade; he lounged at her side when she sat to watch the parading
summer girls and their flirtations, and he idled at coffee with her
every evening. After a few days Sir Charles Blythe, alias Sinclair, was
introduced. By prearrangement the bogus baronet chanced to be standing
by the railings looking over the Spa grounds one morning when Bindo and
his companion strolled by. The men saluted each other, and Bindo asked
Mrs. Clayton's leave to introduce his friend. The instant the magic
title was spoken the old lady became full of smiles and graces, and the
trio walking together passed along in the direction of Holbeck.

Two days later Henderson appeared on the scene quite suddenly. I was
walking along Westborough late one evening when somebody accosted me,
and, turning, I found it was our friend--whom I believed to be still on
the Continent. He was dressed as foppishly as usual, and certainly
betrayed no evidence that he was