“Oh, I see! Now I begin to understand.”
“Yes. Has he not more than half a million francs at stake?—for I am my father’s only child.”
“Certainly, that places a fresh complexion on matters,” I said; “but does Monsieur your father know of the engagement?”
“Mon Dieu! no! I—I dare not tell him. Monsieur Martin is only a clerk, remember.”
“And how long has he been in the service of the house?”
“Not a year yet.”
I was silent. There was trickery somewhere without a doubt, but where?
As the especial line of the debonnair Count Bindo di Ferraris and his ingenious friends was jewellery, I could not help regarding as curious the coincidence that the daughter of the missing man was travelling in secret with me to the Riviera. But why, if the coup had really already been made in London, as it seemed it had, we should come out to the Riviera and mix ourselves up with Pierrette and the mysterious Madame Vernet was beyond my comprehension. To me it seemed a distinct peril.
“Didn’t the Princess purchase any of the jewels of your father?” I asked. “Tell me the facts as far as you know them.”