Before we approached the cross-road the first faint flash of dawn showed away on our left, and by the time we reached Sisterton the sun had risen. At an auberge we pulled up, and got two big bowls of steaming café au lait, and then without much adventure continued our way down to Mirabeau, whence we turned sharp to the left for Draguignan and Les Arcs. At the last-mentioned place she resumed her seat at my side, and with the exception of her hair being slightly disarranged, she seemed quite as fresh and merry as on the previous day.
Late that night, as in the bright moonlight we headed direct for Cannes, I endeavoured to obtain from her some further information about herself, but she was always guarded.
“I am searching for my dear father,” she answered, however. “He has disappeared, and we fear that something terrible has happened to him.”
“Disappeared? Where from?”
“From London. He left Paris a month ago for London to do business, and stayed at the Hotel Charing Cross—I think you call it—for five days. On the sixth he went out of the hotel at four o’clock in the afternoon, and has never been seen or heard of since.”
“And that was a month ago, mademoiselle?” I remarked, surprised at her story.
“Nearly,” was her answer. “Accompanied by Madame Vernet, I went to see M’sieur Lepine, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and gave him all the information and a photograph of my father. And I believe the police of London are making inquiries.”
“And what profession is your father?” I asked.
“He is a jeweller. His shop is in the Rue de la Paix, on the right, going down to the Place Vendôme. Maison Dumont—perhaps you may know it?”
Dumont’s, the finest and most expensive jewellers in Paris! Of course I knew it. Who does not who knows Paris? How many times had I—and in all probability you also—lingered and looked into those two big windows where are displayed some of the most expensive jewels and choicest designs in ornaments in the world.