She was not mistaken. Blythe certainly had a very wide circle of friends. It was he who idled about the most expensive hotels at Aix, Biarritz, Pau, Rome, or Cairo, and after fixing upon likely jewels displayed by their proud feminine possessors, mostly wives of aristocrats or vulgar financiers, would duly report to Bindo and his friends, and make certain suggestions for obtaining possession of them.
To the keen observation of the baronet, who moved always in the smartest of cosmopolitan society, were due those robberies of jewels, reports of which one read so constantly in the papers. He was the eye of the little ring of clever adventurers who, with capital at their command, were able to effect coups so daring, so ingenious, and so cleverly devised that even Monsieur Lepine and his department in Paris were from time to time utterly aghast and dumbfounded.
That night I wrote a note to him, and at eleven o’clock next morning we met in a small café down in La Condamine. It was never judicious for any of our quartette to meet openly, and when on the Riviera we usually used the quiet little place if we wished to consult.
When the pseudo-baronet lounged in and seated himself at my table, he certainly did not present the appearance of a “crook.” Tall, erect, of peculiarly aristocratic bearing, and dressed in a suit of light flannels and a soft brown felt hat set jauntily on his head, he was the picture of easy affluence. His face was narrow, his eyes sparkling with good humour, and his well-trimmed beard dark, with a few streaks of grey.
He ordered a “Dubonnet,” and then, finding that we were practically alone, with none to overhear, he asked—
“Why did you write to me? What do you want?”
“To know the truth about Pierrette Dumont,” I said. “Madame has been telling me about you. When did you arrive?”
“The day before yesterday. Bindo sent me out.”
“What for?”