The next day, the next, and three other succeeding days, I spent nearly wholly with Pierrette and Madame.
A telegram I received from Bindo from the Maritime Station at Calais asked if Mademoiselle was still at Beaulieu, and to this I replied in the affirmative to Clifford Street.
I took the pair up the beautiful Var valley to Puget Theniers, to Grasse and Castellane, and through the Tenda tunnel to Cuneo, in Piedmont—runs which, in that clear, cloudless weather, both of them enjoyed. When alone with my dainty little companion, as I sometimes contrived to be, I made inquiry about her missing father.
Mention of him brought to her a great sadness. She suddenly grew thoughtful and apprehensive—so much so, indeed, that I felt convinced her story as told to me was the truth.
Once, when we were seated together outside a little café up at Puget Theniers, I ventured to mention the matter to Madame.
“Ah! M’sieur Ewart,” exclaimed the old lady, holding up both her hands, “it is extraordinary—very extraordinary! The whole affair is a complete mystery.”
“But is there no suspicion of foul play? Do not the police, for instance, suspect Monsieur Martin?”
“Suspect him? Certainly not,” was her quick response. “Why should they?”
“Well, he has disappeared also, I understand. He is missing, as well as the jewels.”