ed me to proceed.

I glanced at her, but she was to all appearances quite unconscious of
the extraordinary contents of the Count's letter.

We had run fully twenty miles in silence when at last, on ascending a
steep hill, I turned to her and said--

"The Count has sent me some very extraordinary instructions,
mademoiselle. I am, after passing the frontier, to become Count de
Bourbriac, and you are to pass as the Countess!"

"Well?" she asked, arching her well-marked eyebrows. "Is that so very
difficult, m'sieur? Are you disinclined to allow me to pass as your
wife?"

"Not at all," I replied, smiling. "Only--well--it is
somewhat--er--unconventional, is it not?"

"Rather an amusing adventure than otherwise," she laughed. "I shall call
you _mon cher_ Gaston, and you--well, you will call me your _petite_
Liane--Liane de Bourbriac will sound well, will it not?"

"Yes. But why this masquerade?" I inquired. "I confess, mademoiselle, I
don't understand it at all."

"Dear Bindo does. Ask him." Then, after a brief pause, she added, "This
is really a rather novel experience;" and she laughed gleefully, as
though thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

Without slackening speed I drove on through the short winter afternoon.
The faint yellow sunset slowly disappeared behind us, and darkness crept
on. With the fading day the cold became intense, and when I stopped to
light the head-lamps I got out my cashmere muffler and wrapped it around
her throat.

At last we reached the small frontier village, where we pulled up before
the Belgian Custom House, paid the deposit upon the car, and obtained
the leaden seal. Then, after a liqueur-glass of cognac each at a little
cafe in the vicinity, we set out again upon that long wide road that
leads through Ath to Brussels.

A puncture at a place called Leuze caused us a little delay, but the
_pseudo_ Countess descended and assisted me, even helping me to blow up
the new tube, declaring that the exercise would warm her.

For what reason the pretty Valentine was to pass as my wife was, to me,
entirely mysterious. That Bindo was engaged in some fresh scheme of
fraud was certain, but what it was I racked my brains in vain to
discover.

Near Enghien we had several other tyre troubles, for the road had been
newly metalled for miles. As every motorist knows, misfortunes never
come singly, and in consequence it was already seven o'clock next
morning before we entered Brussels by the Porte de