emoiselle, Raoul, Martin, and the rest of
them, of my intention--to explain to the police the whole queer story. I
knew quite well that Regnier had the jewels intact in a bag in his room
at the Hermitage, and rather feared lest he might pitch the whole lot
into the sea, and so get rid of them. That there were grave suspicions
against him regarding the mysterious death of a banker at Aix six months
before--you recollect the case--I knew quite well, and I was equally
certain that he dare not risk any police inquiries. I had a tremendously
difficult fight for it, I can assure you; but I stood quite firm, and
notwithstanding their threats and vows of vengeance--Mademoiselle was,
by the way, more full of venomous vituperation than them all--I won."

"You won?" I echoed. "In what manner?"

"I compelled Regnier to disgorge the booty in exchange for my silence."

"You got the jewels!" I gasped.

"Certainly. What do you think we are here for--on our way to
Amsterdam--if not on business?" he answered, with a smile.

"But where are they? I haven't seen them when our luggage has been
overhauled at the frontiers," I said.

"Stop the car, and get down."

I did so. He went along the road till he found a long piece of stick.
Then, unscrewing the cap of the petrol-tank, he stuck in the stick and
moved it about.

"Feel anything?" he asked, giving me the stick.

I felt, and surely enough in the bottom of the tank was a quantity of
small loose stones! I could hear them rattle as I stirred them up.

"The settings were no use, and would tell tales, so I flung them away,"
he explained; "and I put the stones in there while you were in Nice, the
night before we left. Come, let's get on again;" and he re-screwed the
cap over one of the finest hauls of jewels ever made in modern criminal
history.

"Well--I'm hanged!" I cried, utterly dumbfounded. "But what of
Mademoiselle's father?"

Bindo merely raised his shoulders and laughed. "Mademoiselle may be left
to tell him the truth--if she thinks it desirable," he said. "Martin
has already cleared out--to Buenos Ayres, minus everything; Regnier is
completely sold, for no doubt the too confiding Martin would have got
nothing out of 'The President'; while Mademoiselle and Madame are now
wondering how best to return to Paris and face the music. Old Dumont
will probably have to close his doors in the Rue de la Paix, for we have
here a selection of his very best. But, after all, Mademoiselle-