e the affair became easier, but more risky.
Henderson had already been reconnoitring the shop for a week and had
conceived a clever plan by which we got in from the rear, quickly opened
the two big safes with the copied keys, and cleared out all old
Lemaire's best stock. I'm rather sorry to have treated little Gabrielle
so--but, after all, it really doesn't hurt her, for old Lemaire is very
rich, and he won't miss twenty thousand pounds as much as we're in need
of it. The loving husband is still in Genoa, and poor little Gabrielle
is no doubt thinking herself a fool to have so prematurely shown her
wedding ring."

CHAPTER III

THE STORY OF A SECRET

This story of a secret is not without its humorous side.

Before entering Paris, on our quick run up from Marseilles after the
affair of the jeweller's shop, we had stopped at Melun, beyond
Fontainebleau. There, a well-known carriage-builder had been ordered to
repaint the car pale blue, with a dead white band. Upon the panels, my
employer, the impudent Bindo, had ordered a count's coronet, with the
cipher "G. B." beneath, all to be done in the best style and regardless
of expense. Then, that same evening, we took the express to the Gare de
Lyon, and put up, as before, at the Ritz.

For three weeks, without the car, we had a pleasant time. Usually Count
Bindo di Ferraris spent his time with his gay friends, lounging in
the evening at Maxim's, or giving costly suppers at the Americain. One
lady with whom I often saw him walking in the streets, or sitting in
cafes, was, I discovered, known as "Valentine of the Beautiful Eyes,"
for I recognised her one night on the stage of a music-hall in the
Boulevard de Clichy, where she was evidently a great favourite. She was
young--not more than twenty, I think--with wonderful big coal-black
eyes, a wealth of dark hair worn with a _bandeau_, and a face that was
perfectly charming.

She seemed known to Blythe, too, for one evening I saw her sitting with
him in the Brasserie Universelle, in the Avenue de l'Opera--that place
where one dines so well and cheaply. She was laughing, and had a
_demi-blonde_ raised to her lips. So essentially a Parisienne, she was
also something of a mystery, for though she often frequented cafes, and
went to the Folies Bergeres and Olympia, sang at the Marigny, and mixed
with a Bohemian crowd of champagne-drinkers, she seemed nevertheless a
most decorous little lady. In fact, though I had not spoke