ht
across Europe to Florence, where, at Nenci's, the builders of
motor-bodies, I, in obedience to orders, had it repainted a bright
yellow--almost the colour of mustard.

When, a fortnight later, it came out of the Nenci works, I hardly
recognised it. At Bindo's orders I had had a second body built, one made
of wicker, and lined inside with glazed white leather, which, when fixed
upon the chassis, completely transformed it. This second body I sent by
rail down to Leghorn, and then drove the car along the Arno valley, down
to the sea-shore.

My orders were to go to the Palace Hotel at Leghorn, and there await my
master. The hotel in question was, I found, one of the best in Italy,
filled by the smartest crowd of men and women, mostly of the Italian
aristocracy, who went there for the magnificent sea-bathing. It was a
huge white building, with many balconies, and striped awnings, facing
the blue Mediterranean.

Valentine had travelled with me as far as Milan, while Bindo had taken
train, I believe, to Berlin. At Milan my pretty companion had wished me
adieu, and a month later I had taken up my residence in Leghorn, and
there led an idle life, wondering when I was to hear next from Bindo.
Before we parted he gave me a fairly large sum of money, and told me to
remain at Leghorn until he joined me.

Weeks passed. Leghorn in summer is the Brighton of Italy, and everything
there was delightfully gay. In the garage of the hotel were many cars,
but not one so good as our 40-h.p. "Napier." The Italians all admired
it, and on several occasions I took motoring enthusiasts of both sexes
out for short runs along the old Maremma sea-road.

The life I led was one of idleness, punctuated by little flirtations,
for by Bindo's order I was staying at the Palace as owner of the car,
and not as a mere chauffeur. The daughters of Italian countesses and
marchionesses, though brought up so strictly, are always eager for
flirtation, and therefore as I sat alone at my table in the big
_salle-a-manger_ I caught many a glance from black eyes that danced
with merry mischievousness.

Valentine, when she left me in Milan, had said, laughingly--

"I may rejoin you again ere long, M'sieur Ewart, but not as your
pretended wife, as at Brussels."

"I hope not, mademoiselle," I had answered quite frankly. "That game is
a little too dangerous. I might really fall in love with you."

"With me?" she cried, holding up her small hands in a quick gestu