III
IN WHICH THE COUNT IS PUZZLED
My sweet-faced little charge had returned into the back of the car, and was sound asleep nestling beneath her rugs when, about three o’clock in the morning, we dashed through the little village of Cagnes, and ran out upon the long bridge that crosses the broad, rock-strewn river Var, a mile or two from Nice.
My great search-light was shining far ahead, and the echoes of the silent, glorious night were awakened by the roar of the exhaust as we tore along, raising a perfect wall of dust behind us.
Suddenly, on reaching the opposite bank, I saw a man in the shadow waving his arms, and heard a shout. My first impression was that it was one of the gendarmes, who are always on duty at that spot, but next instant, owing to the bend of the road, my search-light fell full upon the person in question, and I was amazed to find it to be none other than the audacious Bindo himself—Bindo in a light dust-coat and a soft white felt hat of that type which is de rigueur each season at Monty among smartly-groomed men.
“Ewart!” he shouted frantically. “Ewart, it’s me! Stop! stop!”
I put the brakes down as hard as I could without skidding, and brought the car up suddenly, while he ran up breathlessly.
“You’re through in good time. I was prepared to wait till daylight,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Everything. The young lady’s asleep, I think.”
“No, she is not,” came a voice in French from beneath the rugs. “What’s the matter? Who’s that?”