Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE LONELY HOUSE

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

The Lonely House

Good Old Anna

Love and Hatred

Lilla: A Part of Her Life

The Red Cross Barge

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

THE
LONELY HOUSE

BY

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

AUTHOR OF “LILLA,” “LOVE AND HATRED,” “GOOD OLD ANNA,” “THE CHINK IN THE ARMOUR,” ETC.

NEW

YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1920,

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE LONELY HOUSE

CHAPTER I

Lily Fairfield seemed to be rushing along a dark tunnel. It was as if she were being borne on wings. A keen, delicately perfumed air was blowing in her face. Far ahead of her there was a pin-point gleam of bright light—that surely must be the end of the tunnel? But as she swept on and on, farther and farther, the gleam did not grow larger or brighter. It seemed to remain, a white fixed star of light, infinitely far away.

Though the experience was intensely vivid, in a sense the girl was conscious that she was experiencing one of the strange, curious dreams, not wholly unpleasant, though sometimes verging on nightmare, which had haunted her at certain intervals during the whole of her not very long life.

With dreadful suddenness, out of the dark void above there leapt on her a huge black and white cat. She could see its phosphorescent eyes glaring at her in the darkness; she could feel its stifling weight on her breast.

She awoke with a strangled cry—to realise that the nightmare cat had materialised from a book which had fallen out of the net-rack of the swaying French railway carriage in which she was traveling!

She looked round her, still a little dazed by her strange dream. And then she grew very pink, for the only other two occupants of the railway carriage were smiling at her broadly.

There was unveiled admiration and eager interest in the face of the older man, a middle-aged Frenchman named Hercules Popeau, and a kind of unwilling admiration in that of his companion. And yet Angus Stuart, captain in the London Scottish, was repeating to himself the quaint, moving Scotch phrase, “A guid sight for sair e’en.”

Lily Fairfield was certainly an agreeable example of what the cynics tell you will soon be a vision of the past—a delightfully pretty, happy hearted, simple natured, old-fashioned English girl—a girl who had “done her bit” in the Great War, and yet who was as unsophisticated as her grandmother might have been—though eager for any fun or pleasure that might come her way.

Lily’s horrid nightmare faded into nothingness. It seemed so wonderful, after having left a London dark in fog and rain, to find herself in this fairyland of beauty. On her left a brilliant sun gleamed on the softly lapping waters of the Mediterranean, while to her right the train was rushing past lovely gardens full of the exquisite colouring which belongs to the French Riviera alone.

Could it really be only four days since Uncle Tom had seen her off at Victoria?

Though neither of them had said much, each had known it to be a solemn parting, the end of a happy chapter which had begun when Lily was five years old. Sixteen years had gone by since the orphan child had arrived at The Nest, Epsom, to become the charge, and in time the beloved adopted daughter, of her father’s brother, a retired member of the Indian Medical Service, and his prim but kindly wife.

At first the war had not made much difference to The Nest and its occupants. Uncle Tom had taken over the practice of a resident doctor who had gone off to the front; and after the war had lasted two years Aunt Emmeline had at last allowed Lily to do some war work. This was not an amusing, exciting job of the kind so many of her young friends were doing, for it consisted in the dull business of looking after some Belgian refugees. Incidentally, she had thus acquired a good colloquial knowledge of French, a knowledge which should now prove useful.

The Great War closed a chapter in many a British girl’s life, but in Lily’s case it was death, not the war, that had done so. Aunt Emmeline, always so prudent and fussy, had caught influenza just after the Armistice, and had died in four days.

To the surprise of all those about her, the sudden ending of the war and her aunt’s death coming together had been too much for the girl. She was ordered a complete change of scene, and it was then that Uncle Tom bethought himself of a certain clever, good-natured, and energetic lady, the Countess Polda, who had been what old-fashioned people would call a connection of his wife’s.

It all hung on what was now very old family history. The Countess had been the daughter, by a first wife, of an Italian who had become, some forty years ago, Aunt Emmeline’s stepfather. Thus, while entirely unrelated, she and Countess Polda had for a while called each other sister. Each of them had married—the one an Englishman, Tom Fairfield, and the other a certain Count Polda, who belonged to what had seemed to her English connections a very extraordinary nationality, for he was a subject of the Prince of Monaco.

Some twelve years ago the Countess had written to know if she might come and stay at The Nest for a few days while paying a business visit to London.

Uncle Tom, who was more forthcoming than his wife, had declared heartily that of course they must have her. And so she had arrived, to become in a sense the romance of Lily’s childhood. “Aunt Cosy,” as the little girl had been taught to call her, had about her something so hearty, so vivid, and so affectionate! Also she dressed beautifully, and wore lovely jewels. Everything about her appeared rich and rare to the English child.

Aunt Cosy had taken a great deal of notice of the little girl. She often said how much she wished that Lily could make friends with her beloved son, Beppo.

Beppo was the Poldas’ only child. To him the Countess was passionately devoted; he was never far from her thoughts, and his name was constantly on her lips. Even now, after all these years, Lily remembered a miniature of Beppo which his mother had worn in a locket round her neck under her dress. It showed a pale, rather sickly-looking boy. Lily had sometimes wondered idly into what sort of a man he had grown up. Beppo had been sixteen or seventeen when the Countess had paid her memorable visit to England—he must be nearly thirty now.

At intervals the Countess would write the Englishwoman whom she called sister a letter which was at once formal and gushing. Two years after her visit to Epsom she had written to say that she and her husband, after spending most of their married life in Italy, had gone back to his native place, Monaco, where they had bought a small property, and where they hoped to spend a peaceful old age.

It was to La Solitude that Lily Fairfield was now on her way, to become Aunt Cosy’s “paying guest” for three months.

Lily took a little black leather case out of her pocket. It was the first time she had opened it since she had put in it the £50 in £5 notes which had been her Uncle Tom’s parting gift. It had seemed to the girl an enormous sum of money, but, “it will melt much sooner than you think,” he had said, smiling, but all the same he had told her not to let any strangers know that she had it.

The notes now lay safe in an envelope on one side of the letter-case. From the other flap she drew out a letter which she had never held in her hand before, though Uncle Tom had read it aloud to her the morning it had arrived, about ten days ago.

On a large and rather common-looking sheet of notepaper was written in a sloping hand, with what must have been an almost pin-point nib, the following letter:

La Solitude, Monaco.

My Dear Thomas,

I offer you sincere condolence on the death of the beloved Emmeline.

In answer to your kind inquiries I am glad to say our son is in excellent health, serving his country as a patriot should do in these dark days. He did not fight, for he has always been delicate; also very intelligent. He was of more use to Italy by staying in Rome than he would have been at the front.

And now, dear friend, to business and pleasure both. We shall be delighted to take your sweet Lily for the winter. You say “round about four pounds a week.” In old days willingly would we have taken her for less than that, but now, alas, everything is very expensive. I suggest, therefore, five pounds a week, hoping that will not seem to you exaggerated. You say she should be much out of doors—that will be easy; we are surrounded by orange trees and olive groves; there is also a garden to which the Count gives much thought and care. We are quiet people and seldom go down into Monte Carlo. We neither of us frequent the Casino. The fact that we are householders in Monaco would make it illegal for us to gamble, even were we drawn to do so, which we are not. But I will see that Lily does not lead too dull and sad a life with her Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo.

If the terms, five pounds a week, suit you, may I suggest that you telegraph? Letters take so long coming and going. Perhaps you will add the approximate date of Lily’s welcome arrival.

Receive, dear Thomas, the assurance of my affectionate and grateful memory.

Cosima Polda.

Lily folded the letter up again. It told a good deal, and yet it seemed to tell her nothing real of the writer. She knew that Uncle Tom had liked the Countess far more than Aunt Emmeline had done. Aunt Emmeline always sniffed when her step-sister was mentioned, and yet the Countess had appeared to be so very fond of her.

Turning back the flap of the little case, Lily noticed there was something else there. What a methodical man Uncle Tom was, to be sure! In addition to the Countess’s letter, he had put the telegram which had arrived just as they were starting for the station—the telegram which asked Lily to postpone her arrival for two days. Uncle Tom had wired back that that was impossible, as all arrangements had been made, and he had again given the exact hour of her arrival at Monte Carlo.

Both Lily and Angus Stuart realised that they owed their very comfortable journey from Paris to their kindly, quaint fellow-traveller, Hercules Popeau.

A party of South Americans had made a determined effort to turn Lily out of the first-class carriage where she had settled herself with some difficulty in Paris. It was this at the time unpleasant episode which had made her acquainted with both Captain Stuart and M. Popeau. Captain Stuart had come forward and taken her part, but with very little result. And then, suddenly, there had emerged from the big crowd of travellers a short, stout, quiet-looking man, accompanied by an official with the magic letters P.L.M. on his cap. He had made very short work of the blustering South Americans, and had settled the three—Captain Stuart, Lily Fairfield, and the stout elderly Frenchman—into the carriage. Then, with a bow, he had handed the key of the door leading into the corridor to the man who Lily now knew was Hercules Popeau. Theirs had been the only airy, half-empty compartment in the long, dirty train.

As was natural, the three had become very friendly during the journey, and both Lily’s fellow-travellers, the cheerful, talkative Frenchman, and the silent, quiet Scotsman, had vied with one another to make Miss Fairfield comfortable.

“We shall be at Monte Carlo in a very few minutes!” exclaimed M. Popeau. He spoke good English, but with a strong French accent.

The train went into a tunnel. Then, with a series of groans and squeaks, drew up at what Lily knew must be her final destination, Monte Carlo Station.

They all stepped down from the high railway carriage and waited till the comparatively small crowd of travellers had been seized by the smart-looking hotel porters who had come to meet them. But though Lily glanced eagerly this way and that, she could see no one who in the least reminded her of the Countess Polda, or, indeed, of any person who could be looking out for her.

M. Popeau saw the growing look of discomfiture on his pretty companion’s face. He turned to Captain Stuart: “Mademoiselle must have lunch with us at the Hôtel de Paris, eh?” But Lily shook her head very decidedly, and so, “Very well. Then I will look after our young lady,” he exclaimed in his decided, good-humoured way. “I know what you would call ‘the ropes’ of Monte Carlo. We will now find a nice carriage, and I will accompany her to her destination.”

“I thought of doing that,” said Captain Stuart, a little awkwardly.

M. Popeau shook his head. “No, no! It is more right, more convenable, that I should go. Am I not our friend’s temporary guardian?”

They all three smiled at what had become by now a special little joke, and gratefully Lily followed the two men up the broad steps which looked more like those in a palace than in a railway station, till they reached the road running through the beautiful, tropical-looking gardens, which always seem to have an unreal touch of fairyland about them.

M. Popeau again turned to Captain Stuart: “You will not require a carriage,” he said briskly. “The Hôtel de Paris is close by. Tell the manager that you are with me, and ask him to give you a good room, with the same view as mine. Say I am joining you at déjeuner. Oh, and Mon Captaine? One word more——”

Captain Stuart turned round. He had not been listening to M. Popeau, for his mind was full of the English girl to whom he was about to say what he fully intended should only be a very temporary farewell. “Yes,” he said mechanically. “Thanks awfully.”

“Listen to me!” exclaimed M. Popeau imperiously. “You are to tell the manager of the Hôtel de Paris that our food has been—what do you say in England?—filthy for the last two days! Ask him to arrange that a lunch of surpassing excellence is ready in forty minutes from now. Can I trust you to do this, my friend?” He spoke so gravely that Lily began to laugh.

“You are greedy,” she said reprovingly. “You make me feel quite sorry I didn’t accept your offer!”

“There’s still plenty of time to change your mind!” exclaimed both men simultaneously.

“My friends will have waited lunch for me.” She did feel sorry that she could not go along with these kind people and have a good lunch before meeting Count and Countess Polda. But not for nothing had her Uncle Tom always called her, fondly, his dear old-fashioned girl.

She held out her hand to Captain Stuart. He took it in his big grasp, and held it perhaps a moment longer than she expected, but at last:

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly. “Good-bye, Miss Fairfield. Let me see—to-day is Saturday. I wonder if I might call on you to-morrow, Sunday?”

“Yes, do,” she said a little shyly. “You’ve got the address? La Solitude?”

It was nice to know that they would meet again to-morrow.

CHAPTER II

As for M. Popeau, who was looking about him trying to find out if any changes had taken place in five very long years, he was telling himself, for perhaps the thousandth time in his life, what very queer, odd people the British were!

He liked them, even better than he had done when, as a young man, he had met with a good deal of kindness in England. But still, how queer to think that a nice girl—a really nice girl—should permit such a stranger as was this Captain Stuart to call on her—without any kind of proper introduction. He hoped her Italian friends—or were they relations?—would not misunderstand. He feared they certainly would do so, unless she pretended—but somehow he did not think she would do that—that the young man was an old acquaintance, someone who had known her at home, in her uncle’s house.

And then his quaint, practical French mind began to wonder whether Captain Stuart was well off—whether his affections were already engaged—whether, in a word, he would, or would not, make a suitable husband for this so charming girl?

Sad to say, M. Popeau’s peculiar walk in life during the war-worn years had made him acquainted with the fact that it sometimes happens that quite delightful-looking Englishmen are capable of behaving in a very peculiar manner when in a foreign country, and when in love!

He turned around abruptly. Captain Stuart was already some way off; and the Frenchman’s eyes softened as they rested on the slender figure of the girl now standing by his side. She looked so fresh, so neat, too—in spite of the long, weary, dirty journey from Paris.

Lily, who, when she thought of her appearance at all, was rather disagreeablely aware that she was clad in a pre-war coat and skirt, would have been surprised and pleased had she known how very well dressed she appeared in this middle-aged Frenchman’s eyes—how much he approved of the scrupulously plain black serge coat and skirt and neat little toque—how restful they seemed after the showy toilettes and extraordinary-looking hats worn by the fair, and generally eccentric, Parisiennes with whom fate brought him in constant contact.

A victoria drawn by two wiry-looking, raw-boned little steeds dashed down upon them. M. Popeau put up his hand, and the horses drew up on their haunches.

Giving the porter a very handsome tip, M. Popeau helped Lily into the carriage and then got in himself. “La Solitude!” he called out to the driver.

The man pointed with his whip to the mountain sky-line.

“Twenty-five francs,” he exclaimed, “and that only because I wish to oblige monsieur and madame! I ought to ask fifty francs. It’s a devil of a pull up there!” He rapped out the words with an extraordinary amount of gesticulation.

Lily had had some trouble in following what he said, but her experience with the Belgians stood her in good stead. A pound for what she believed must be a short drive? That seemed a great deal.

She turned in some distress to her companion. “Pray don’t come with me,” she exclaimed. “The man will take me there all right. I quite understood all he said.”

“Of course I’m going to take you there,” said M. Popeau. “My lunch will taste all the better for a little waiting. But you? Will you not change your mind and come and lunch at the Hôtel de Paris, mademoiselle?”

Poor Lily! She felt sorely tempted. But she shook her head.

And then something rather curious happened. A taxicab passed slowly by. M. Popeau stood up and hailed it. He took out of his pocket-book a dirty ten-franc note. “Here, my friend,” he said, addressing their astonished driver, “it is too great a pull for your gallant little steeds, so we will take that taxi. Help me to transfer the young lady’s luggage.”

No sooner said than done, in spite of a very sulky protest from the taxi-driver, who had not the slightest wish to take on a new fare. He had brought a party out to Monte Carlo from Mentone, and was going back there.

“You should be glad, very glad indeed, my good boy,” exclaimed M. Popeau, “to have the chance of earning twenty-five francs by a few moments’ drive. Come, come, be amiable about it! You know perfectly well that you are bound to take me by the law.”

“Not in Monaco,” said the man sullenly. “The law is not the same in France as in Monaco.”

“If you are a Monegasque,” exclaimed M. Popeau, “then you must be well acquainted with my friend, M. Bouton.”

The man’s manner changed, and became suddenly cringing.

“Aha! I thought so!” M. Popeau turned to Lily. “My friend Bouton is Police Commissioner here,” he observed significantly.

“Where do you want me to go?” asked the man, in a resigned tone.

“To La Solitude.”

Without any more ado the taxicab turned round and started at a speed which seemed to Lily very dangerous. It was a whirlwind rather than a drive. But once they had left the beautiful gardens, and were through the curious network of town streets which lie behind the Casino grounds, the man slowed down, and soon they were breasting the hill up what was little more than a rough, dry, rutted way through orange groves and olive trees.

“Turn your head round,” said M. Popeau suddenly, “and then you will see, my dear lady, one of the six most beautiful views in the world, and yet one which comparatively few of the visitors to Monte Carlo ever take the trouble to climb up here and enjoy.”

Lily obeyed, and then she uttered an exclamation of delight at the marvellous panorama of sea, sky, and delicate vivid, green-blue vegetation which lay below and all about her. Monte Carlo, with its white palaces, looked like a town in fairyland.

Up and up they went, along winding ways cut in the mountain side. Even M. Popeau was impressed by the steepness of the gradient, and the distance traversed by them.

All at once the taxi took a sudden turn to the left and drew up on a rough clearing surrounded by old, grey olive trees. The atmosphere was strangely still, and though it was a hot day, Lily suddenly felt chilly—a touch, no doubt, of the mountain air. There crept over her, too, a queer, eerie feeling of utter loneliness.

“Your friends have certainly well named their villa! Even I, who thought I knew the whole principality of Monaco more or less well, never came across this remote and lonely spot.”

“This is the most convenient point by which a carriage can approach the villa,” said the driver turning round. “The house is not far—just a few yards up through the trees.”

“All right. Get down and help me carry the lady’s luggage.”

The man loaded himself up with Lily’s small trunk, and M. Popeau took a big Gladstone bag she had had on the journey. “Please don’t do that!” she exclaimed. “The man can come back presently for the bag. I’ll give him a good tip in addition to the twenty-five francs.”

“Nonsense!” said M. Popeau, quite sharply for him. “Of course this cab is my affair. It’s going to take me back to the Hôtel de Paris. I intend to give the driver thirty francs—I had no idea it was as far.”

At the top of a row of steps cut in the rocky bank was a wicket gate, on which were painted in fast-fading Roman letters the words “La Solitude.”

The cabman opened the gate, and the three passed through into a grove of orange trees. Soon the steep path broadened into a way leading straight on to a lawn which fell sharply away from the stone terrace which formed the front of a long, low, whitewashed house.

In a sense, as M. Popeau’s shrewd eyes quickly realised, La Solitude had an air of almost gay prosperity. It was clear that the bright green shutters, those of the six windows of the upper storey and those of the windows which opened on to the terrace, had but recently been painted.

Two blue earthenware jars, so large that they might well have formed part of the equipment of the Forty Thieves, stood at either end of the terrace, their comparatively narrow necks being filled with luxuriant red geranium plants, which fell in careless trails and patches of brilliant colour on the flagstones.

Built out at a peculiar angle, to the left of the villa, was a windowless square building which looked like a studio.

Lily was surprised to see that every window on the ground floor of the house had its blind drawn down, and that above the ground floor every window was shuttered. But that, as any foreigner could have told her, had nothing strange about it. Most people living in Southern Europe have an instinct for shutting out the sun, even the delightful sun of a southern winter day. Still, to Lily’s English eyes the drawn blinds and closed shutters gave a deserted, eerie, unlived-in look to La Solitude.

As they all three stood there, M. Popeau and the driver having put down the luggage for a moment on the hard, dry grass, the first sign of life at La Solitude suddenly appeared in the person of a huge black and white cat. It crept slowly, stealthily, round the left-hand corner of the house, intent on some business, or victim, of its own, and rubbed itself along the warm wall.

Lily felt a little tremor of surprise and discomfort. It was an odd coincidence that she should have seen in her dream-nightmare just such a cat as was this cat now moving so stealthily across her line of vision!

“The front door is to the right,” said the driver.

They walked along the terrace, and Lily began to feel very much distressed and worried. Supposing the Count and Aunt Cosy had gone off on a week-end visit? Would their servants have left the house entirely alone? She feared the answer to this question might easily be “Yes.”

The entrance to La Solitude was just a plain, green-painted door let into the bare house wall.

M. Popeau rang the old-fashioned iron bell-pull, and its strident tone seemed to tear across the intense stillness which enveloped them; and then they waited what seemed to all three a considerable time.

“I think,” said M. Popeau, smiling suddenly all over his fat, pale, good-natured face, “that you will be compelled to come back with me and eat that good luncheon ordered by Captain Stuart, Miss Fairfield!”

But even as he said the words the door opened slowly, and an old woman, dressed very neatly in a faded blue print dress, with a yellow silk bandana handkerchief tightly wound round her head, stood, unsmiling, before them.

M. Popeau took command.

“This young lady has just arrived from England to stay with the Comte and Comtesse Polda,” he said pleasantly.

“We did not expect the lady till the day after to-morrow. Please come this way.”

She spoke quite civilly, but there was no glimmer of welcome on her thin, drawn-looking face. M. Popeau noticed that her intonation was pleasantly refined.

The driver put down, just inside the door, the luggage he had been carrying, and went off back to his taxi, while Lily and M. Popeau followed the old woman down the corridor. She opened a door to the left, and stood aside for the strangers to pass through into what seemed at first a completely darkened room. But with the words, “I will go and tell Madame la Comtesse you are here,” she went and drew up one of the opaque yellow blinds.

Lily Fairfield, tired, hungry as she was, looked round with an eager sensation of curiosity, and, to tell the truth, she was exceedingly surprised and interested by what she saw.

The drawing-room of La Solitude was indeed strangely furnished and arranged—to English eyes. Considering the size of the villa, it was a large room, long, and in a sense lofty, with four French windows opening on to the stone terrace. As the windows were all shut there was a slightly muggy, disagreeable smell in the room. The old Italian furniture, arranged stiffly round the room, was upholstered in faded tapestry which had obviously been darned with skill and care.

The whitewashed walls were hung with faded Turkey-red cloth, a fact which, to Lily’s eyes, added to the strangeness of the room, though, as a matter of fact, this material is a very usual, if old-fashioned, wall covering, in all French provincial towns and country houses. It formed a not unsuitable background to a number of mediæval and eighteenth-century portraits.

M. Popeau, who was looking round him with almost as much interest and curiosity as his young companion, realised, even in the poor light, that there was not what would be technically called a good—that is, a valuable—picture in the room. But he also told himself that they were genuine family portraits, proving that Count Polda—for he took the striking, sometimes sinister-looking, long-dead faces staring down at him to be the Count’s ancestors—had a right to his title.

Between the windows hung two superb gilt mirrors in beautiful carved and gilt wood floreated frames. They, and an ebony and ivory cabinet, were the only things of real value in the room. A shabby card-table, on which there lay, face upwards, some not very clean patience cards, stood near the farthest window.

There came the sound of quick steps in the corridor. The door opened, and Lily Fairfield beheld, for the first time for over ten years, the woman who had produced such a brilliant, lasting impression on the quiet Epsom household.

“My dear child! What a surprise! We were not expecting you till——” and then Countess Polda stopped short, for she had suddenly realised that there was someone else in the room besides her young kinswoman.

M. Popeau advanced, and bowed in that queer, cut-in-half way which Lily thought so quaint and funny. “Forgive my intrusion, Madame,” he said civilly. “I have been Mademoiselle’s travelling companion from Paris, and as I am very well acquainted with Monte Carlo, while she is quite a stranger to this beautiful part of the world, I thought it best to escort her to your hospitable house.”

While this colloquy was going on Lily was feeling more and more surprised, for somehow Aunt Cosy looked utterly different from what she remembered her as having looked twelve years ago. She had then appeared to Lily, a child of nine years of age, a very smart, fashionable-looking lady, wearing beautiful clothes. She now looked slightly absurd.

Meanwhile M. Popeau told himself that the Countess must once have been extremely handsome. He judged her to be about sixty, but she was tall, well built, and looked strong and active—in a word, younger than her years.

She wore a plaid skirt, one of those large patterns dear to the Parisienne’s heart. Her plain white blouse was cut like a man’s shirt and gave her, to a foreigner’s eye, an English look—as did also the now old-fashioned tie-cravat which she wore pinned to the blouse with a large emerald pin. The pin attracted M. Popeau’s attention, for it was set with an emerald which was, in his judgment, of considerable value. Doubtless it had belonged to the Count’s father. It was the sort of tie-pin a foppish man of wealth and position might have worn in the early thirties of the last century.

But what in a very different way impressed both Lily Fairfield and M. Popeau was the Countess’s singular-looking face and peculiar eyes. Her face, with its good, clearly-marked features and finely-drawn if narrow-lipped mouth, was of a most unbecoming colour, a kind of dusky red, which M. Popeau knew to mean some form of heart trouble. One of her eyes was green, the other blue.

She wore a curious and most elaborate “front,” bright chestnut-auburn in tint, consisting of masses of tight little curls. It was evidently the sort of coiffure which had been worn when Countess Polda was a young woman. Now it gave a touch of the grotesque to her appearance, the more so that when she turned round to shut the door it became apparent that she also wore what used, many years ago, to be called a “bun.”

Still, it was evident to M. Popeau that the person now standing before him was what is called, in common parlance, a woman of the world. She accepted his explanation of his presence with amiability, and expressed in well-chosen, voluble French her gratitude for his kindness to her young niece—he noticed she said “niece.”

“It is still to be Aunt Cosy, is it not, dear child?” she drew the surprised Lily affectionately into her strong arms and kissed her on both cheeks. “It will be very pleasant, very delightful, to me and to my husband to have a young and charming girl about the house!” she exclaimed. “We are no longer young—and the war has made us very lonely——” She shook her head sadly. “No one would believe how it changed Monte Carlo for a while. But now our old friends—English, French, Italian—are beginning to return. Already the war is being forgotten like a nightmare, a bad dream.”

They were all three still standing, and M. Popeau told himself that it was time he had his own good luncheon—and time for his young travelling companion to have hers. And then there came over the kind-hearted Frenchman a slight feeling of discomfort. Would Miss Fairfield be given a good luncheon, supposing the determined-looking lady who now stood before him had already had hers, in the foreign fashion, a couple of hours ago?

“I must be going,” he began. “We have had no food, any of us. Mademoiselle, also, will be glad of her déjeuner.”

As only answer the Countess went over to the window of which the yellow blind had already been drawn up, and with a vigorous movement she opened it. “Ah, that is better,” she exclaimed. “I have all the English love of fresh air, but my husband—he fears for his pictures—for the furniture! Look at our view, my little one—and you, too, Monsieur. It is the most splendid view in Monaco!”

But M. Popeau was not bothering about the view. He was looking with some concern at Lily Fairfield. She seemed a rather pitiful, lonely little figure, standing there in this odd-looking room. Somehow he hated leaving her there!

But the Countess was still talking, in that full, hearty voice of hers. “My husband’s family is of Monaco”—she smiled and showed her strong, good teeth. “In the fourteenth century they were almost as great people as the Grimaldis. Then the Poldas lived in Paris, in Rome, but when we lost our fortune, through unlucky speculations, it seemed simpler to come back to the Count’s native place. Here we have lived—nay, here we have vegetated—ever since!”

When she stopped to take breath, M. Popeau managed to get in his good-bye. “I hope,” he said pleasantly, “that you will allow me to come and pay my respects to you and to Mademoiselle? I will do myself that honour to-morrow, Sunday.”

“We shall always be delighted to see you,” replied the Countess heartily. “But it is a long climb. Still, kind friends sometimes take pity on my loneliness. As for my husband, he is like a goat, he can climb anywhere, he even disdains our good little Monaco carriages.”

“That reminds me that the taxi we had the luck to find is waiting out there just below the orange grove. So I will go out this way,” and M. Popeau walked out through the open window.

A few moments later there came the sound of the taxi turning round on the clearing below—and an acute feeling of loneliness and of depression stole over Lily Fairfield. She realised, suddenly, that she was tired out.

The Countess shut the window firmly, and she pulled down the thick yellow blind. Then she turned to her visitor. “Now,” she said, “now, my little one, what is it you would like to do? I am for the moment very busy.”

Her tone was still affectionate, still pleasant, but Lily felt a slight diminution of cordiality. “Perhaps I had better ask Cristina to show you your room. English ladies lie down a great deal, and you, my poor one, have been ill.”

“What I should like,” said Lily falteringly, “is something to eat, Aunt Cosy. I feel so hungry——” And as she saw a look of perplexity, almost of annoyance, pass over her hostess’s face, she added hurriedly, “Anything would do—some bread-and-butter—a cup of milk—or perhaps an egg.”

“I will see if there is any milk,” said the Countess reluctantly. “Butter, I know we have none—there will be some, I hope, to-morrow morning. As for an egg—yes, I believe Cristina did secure two eggs the day before yesterday. Your uncle and I, dear child, follow the custom of the country; we have our lunch at eleven. I should have expected that you also would have had something to eat at eleven, even in the train—but no matter, I will see what can be done.”

She went towards the door. “No, do not follow me”—her tone was peremptory. “Stay here for a moment. You can be looking at the pictures; they are of great interest and value—though, alas! the best were sold long ago to an American millionaire.”

Then a most unlucky thing happened! Though the Countess closed the door behind her firmly, the catch did not act, and it swung ajar. That being so, Lily could not help overhearing the short conversation in French that took place between mistress and maid in the passage outside.

CHAPTER III

“Come, come, Cristina, the young girl is hungry! It will not take you a moment to boil an egg.”

“The fire is out.”

“That does not matter; you may use my little English stove—it will not take many drops of wood spirit to boil an egg.”

And then Lily heard the Countess add in a low, meaning tone: “Remember that we are receiving with her a hundred and twenty-five francs a week. If she is not satisfied she will go. Also, as the Count said only the other day, she may be useful to us in other ways.”

The unwilling listener felt desperately uncomfortable. She began moving towards the door, but just at that moment the Countess, turning, saw that Lily must have overheard what had been said. Her already dusky face darkened. She looked excessively annoyed—a vindictive look came into her oddly coloured eyes. She evidently thought the English girl had been eavesdropping. But with an obvious effort she recovered her composure.

She motioned Lily farther into the darkened room and shut the door—this time making sure that it was shut.

“I desire to tell you one or two things,” she said slowly. “You are going to be a member of our household for, I hope, a long time, dear child—so it is better to cross the t’s and to dot the i’s, as they say in France. Cristina is not only an old and faithful servant—she was my husband’s foster-sister. You know what that means?”

Lily nodded.

“Thus we do not really regard her as a servant,” went on the Countess. “We are both very fond of her. She is an excellent creature, but she is not very amiable. I had to tell her that you were coming as a paying guest”—the Countess made a slight grimace. “Cristina is an old woman, and I hope you will not be offended with me when I say that I shall be glad if you will help a little in the work of the house.”

“I shall be delighted to do anything I can, Aunt Cosy,” said Lily eagerly. “A home was started in Epsom for the Belgian refugees, and the ladies of the place took it in turns to go in and do the housework.”

“You have relieved my mind! As I said just now to Cristina, I’m sure you will make yourself useful to us, as a dear, cherished little daughter might do. How sorry the Count will be that he was not at home to welcome you!”

Lily suddenly felt happier. It was nice of Aunt Cosy to have spoken to her so frankly.

“Do let me go into the kitchen and boil an egg for myself,” she exclaimed.

“Very well,” smiled the Countess. She preceded the girl till they came to a narrow passage, cut like a slit in the wall, to the right of the corridor. It led into the queerest little kitchen Lily had ever seen, and was not much bigger than an English bathroom. The stove—if you could call it a stove—was one for the exclusive use of charcoal. What light there was came from a far from clean skylight. On the distempered green walls hung various mysterious-looking copper pots and pans, the quaintest being a little roasting-machine in which could be cooked a tiny joint, or chicken. On the table was an old-fashioned methylated spirit lamp, on which there was now poised an enamelled saucepan full of water in which was an egg.

“Unfortunately La Solitude was built against the side of the mountain,” said the Countess, “so both the kitchen and the dining-room are lit from the sky. But from the front of the house we enjoy a view into three countries! We are not many yards from the frontier—the frontier which divides Monaco from France; and straight over the sea is Corsica, the cradle of the great Napoleon! To the left, of course, is Italy, my beloved country, though I count myself English, as you know. And now,” she concluded, “I will leave you in the good care of our excellent Cristina. I have some work to finish before to-morrow.”

When the Countess had gone the old servant laid a clean, unbleached napkin across the end of the kitchen table. She put out a plate, an egg-cup, salt and pepper, and half a long loaf. Then she turned, with a look of apology, to Lily.

“The dining-room is already prepared for dinner,” she said, in her soft, refined voice. “I fear I must ask you, Mademoiselle, to eat your egg here.”

“Of course I will,” exclaimed Lily. “And, Cristina, I hope you will allow me to help you a little in the housework?”

A curious look—was it of surprise or gratitude?—perhaps something of both—quivered for a moment over Cristina’s pale face. “You are very good,” she said quietly. “There is a good deal of work sometimes—when we have visitors.”

The water was now boiling, and as she spoke she took the egg out of the saucepan, and put it deftly into the egg-cup. And then, after Lily had sat down, the old woman stood and watched her eat. Had not the girl been so very hungry she would have felt a little shy and awkward under that silent, tense scrutiny.

Cristina suddenly observed: “I suppose Mademoiselle is a Protestant?”

Lily looked up. “Yes, of course I am.”

A sad look came over Cristina’s face. “Mademoiselle looks so good, so pure,” she murmured. “I thought perhaps that Mademoiselle was thinking of being a nun.”

“Oh, no, indeed I’m not!” Lily laughed outright, for the first time in this strange house.

“I myself,” said Cristina slowly, “at one time hoped to be a nun.” And then, clasping her hands, and with an emotion which transformed her quietude into something which greatly startled Lily, so violent and unexpected was it, her pale face became convulsed. “The devil prevented my becoming a nun. But for the devil I should now be a good and perhaps even a holy woman!”

Her breast heaved—she seemed extraordinarily moved and distressed.

Lily jumped up—not perhaps quite so surprised as she would have been but for some of her experiences with the more emotional Belgians. “I’m quite sure that you are a very good woman,” she said kindly.

But Cristina shook her head with an air of ineffable sadness and distress.

The kitchen door opened suddenly and Lily was astounded to see the change that came over the old waiting woman. She became coldly rigid; her look of agitation disappeared as if by magic.

She turned round: “Madame la Comtesse?” she said inquiringly, almost forbiddingly.

“Only to say, Cristina, that I’m going down the hill a little way to try and meet Monsieur le Comte. He will be loaded, as you know, with all manner of good things.” The speaker smiled, showing a row of strong, white teeth. “Will you show Mademoiselle her room?” She turned to Lily. “And you, dear child? Have you had a nice fresh egg?”

Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the little dark kitchen.

Cristina waited, listening, and then, when she heard the front door, at the end of the corridor, close to: “Are you really her relation?” she asked slowly. “You are not at all like her.”

“No: I’m not really related to the Countess.” Had she been more at home in French she would have tried to explain the peculiar connection. Meanwhile a pleased look came over old Cristina’s face. “I thought not!” she exclaimed.

There was a pause. Lily was telling herself with some amusement that, however fond the Countess might be of Cristina, Cristina was not over fond of the Countess. And yet how very nicely Aunt Cosy had spoken of the old woman!

Suddenly the huge cat, which had been the first living thing seen by Lily Fairfield at La Solitude, came noiselessly into the kitchen.

“Here is Mimi,” exclaimed Cristina. “He is so faithful, so intelligent! He follows me about like a dog.” She stooped and picked up Mimi. “Say good-day to Mademoiselle!” she said caressingly, but, as Lily drew near, the cat suddenly spat and swore.

Cristina put the creature down. “He is jealous,” she said. “He perceives that I am going to love Mademoiselle.” And sure enough, Mimi walked away with offended dignity.

“Before we go upstairs would Mademoiselle like to see the dining-room?” asked the old woman.

And then the girl had another of the surprises which seemed to be always meeting her in this curious French house—for she thought of Monaco as being part of France; which of course it is not. Turning the key in a door at the end of the corridor, Cristina stepped aside while Lily walked through into what struck her as a gloomy, and yet, in its way, a splendid room, and she realised suddenly that it was the windowless building she had seen from the lawn.

Through a circular skylight there fell a softened light on the beautiful old tapestry, moth-eaten in places, with which the walls were hung; and in the centre of the room was a round table, now spread with a lace tablecloth. It was set for three, a lace d’oyley marking each place, as did also three sets of exquisite old cut-glass goblets of varying sizes. In the middle of the table was a gold vase containing a bunch of brilliant coloured blossoms, such as may be bought anywhere along the Riviera for a few pence. They made a charming note of colour in the large room, and gave an air of festivity to the well-arranged dining-table.

The only other furniture in the apartment was a set of six tapestry-covered chairs, and a yellow marble sideboard with gilt legs.

On the sideboard were now set out three green and gold dessert plates, with Venetian glass finger-bowls on them, and two graceful, delicately-painted dessert dishes were placed ready for fruit.

Lily was rather surprised to see that there were no fewer than six cut-glass and coloured decanters filled with various wines and liqueurs, standing in a row behind the fruit plates.

Cristina stood by, looking at her expectantly.

“What beautiful tapestries, and—and what a lovely tablecloth,” said Lily at last.

She felt bewildered. She had never seen anything quite like this before. It was the sort of dining-table that she would have expected to see laid out in a palace. “The glasses must be very valuable,” she said admiringly. “I once saw a much less nice set, very like these, in a famous collection of cut glass.”

“I suppose I must now lay a fourth place,” said Cristina slowly. And then she added: “Mademoiselle was not expected till the day after to-morrow. Perhaps the Count will put off the visitor.”

“Who is coming to dinner—a lady or a gentleman?” asked Lily pleasantly.

Cristina hesitated a moment—and then, “A gentleman,” she answered.

The old woman led the English girl back into the corridor. A short, ladder-like staircase led to the upper floor of the villa. The storey above was divided like that below, by a corridor which ran right down the middle of the house.

Cristina took up the bunch of keys which hung at her girdle. “I sleep there,” she said, pointing to the first door to the right, “and Mademoiselle here.”

She unlocked the first door to their left, and ushered Lily into a room which impressed the girl as curiously dark and gloomy. But she soon saw the reason for that. The one window gave on to a stretch of deep, barren, heath-covered hill. Only by craning her head right out of the window could she see the sky. Below was a small, oblong yard, bounded by an outhouse.

Within the room, an old-fashioned mahogany bed of the low, curved Empire shape stood against the left wall. By the tiny fireplace was a shabby armchair upholstered in some kind of discoloured green material. There was no hanging cupboard; only a row of wooden pegs on the door. A pair of splendid brocaded silk and velvet curtains, looped up by the window, gave a touch of incongruous grandeur.

The room looked very unhomelike, and Lily suddenly felt sad and dispirited. “I think I will try and get a little sleep, so will you kindly call me, Cristina, when you think I ought to get up?” She hesitated a moment. “Does Aunt Cosy have afternoon tea?” she asked.

“Only when visitors are expected.” And then Cristina added, “We have no tea in the house now.”

“I have brought a little,” said Lily quickly; “about two pounds.”

Cristina went over to the window and drew the heavy curtains together, and then she slipped noiselessly from the room.

CHAPTER IV

When Lily awoke four hours later it took her a moment or two to realise where she was.

Jumping up, she drew back the curtains, and opened the window wide. Twilight was falling, and the stretch of heath-covered hillside looked dark, almost forbidding. She felt suddenly cold, and shivered as she drew back into the barely-furnished room.

Then she did her unpacking, quickly and methodically, and after a moment of hesitation put on a white gown. It was a white stockinette skirt and jumper, the sort of dress she would have changed into if she and Uncle Tom and Aunt Emmeline, in the old happy days, had been having some old friend to dinner. It was the first time she had worn anything but black since her aunt’s death, and she felt a little pang of remorse as she took up a black ribbon and put it round her slender, rounded waist. She did not want the Countess to think that she had forgotten dear Aunt Emmeline.

And then Lily bethought herself that it was rather strange that Aunt Cosy had said nothing about either Uncle Tom or her own late step-sister. The girl could not help feeling that her unexpected arrival had put out both Aunt Cosy and old Cristina very much. But Cristina had quite got over it; somehow Lily felt that she and Cristina were going to be friends.

She was not quite so sure about Aunt Cosy! To tell the truth, the Countess was already a disappointment to the girl; she was so unlike Lily’s recollection of her. She did not sufficiently allow for the great difference between her two selves—that between a shy, romantic child, and an observant, grown-up girl.

With regard to the man she knew she would be expected to call Uncle Angelo, Lily was quite unprejudiced, for she had never seen him, and had no idea what he was like. She hoped deep in her heart that he would be quite unlike Aunt Cosy.

She glanced at herself in the plain, discoloured mirror above the empty fireplace. Yes, her hair was quite tidy, and the long sleep had done her good. Already the magic change of scene was beginning to work. After all, she was not going to be here for very long—three months would go by very quickly, and it was pleasant to feel that she had, at any rate, two friends near by, for so she could not help considering Hercules Popeau and Captain Stuart.

Captain Stuart had asked her if she played tennis. There were tennis-courts of sorts at Monte Carlo—so he had said with a very pleasant smile. Like so many young Scots, he had a delightful smile. It quite transformed his keen, thoughtful, serious face.

At last she opened her door, and looked with some curiosity up and down the corridor. Four closed doors to her right evidently led into rooms which must have that wonderful view over which the Countess had waxed so enthusiastic. Lily was sorry Aunt Cosy hadn’t given her one of those front rooms. It would have been nice to have had that beautiful view spread out before her, instead of only the bare mountain.

She walked lightly down the staircase, and then she waited a moment, wondering a little what she ought to do.

At last she opened a door which she knew led into the drawing-room. It was empty, and the blinds had all been drawn up, probably one of the windows had been left open, for the room no longer felt stuffy.

She walked over to one of the windows, and then she could not help giving a little gasp of surprise, for, walking so softly that she had not heard the cat-like footsteps, someone had followed her into the room and now stood, silent, by her side—

It was—it must be—Uncle Angelo!

Count Polda was a quaint, dried-up-looking little man. His body was very thin, and yet his pallid face was fat. He was looking at Lily with a fixed, considering look.

“Uncle Angelo?” she said shyly, and then held out her hand.

He took her little soft hand in both of his podgy ones.

“This is Lili?” he said in French. “Welcome to La Solitude.” And then he dropped her hand, and with the words, “You play Patience—hein?” he turned to the card-table, and began moving the cards.

“No, I’ve never played yet.”

“You will learn—you will learn.” Uncle Angelo spoke in a preoccupied tone. “It passes the time away,” he said, and, still standing, he played the Patience through. But he did not pull it off, and Lily had the uncomfortable sensation that he attributed his bad luck to her presence.

Suddenly he raised his voice: “Cosy! Cosy!” he called out fretfully.

The door was pushed open suddenly.

“Yes, my friend,” said the Countess. She also had changed her dress, and now wore a purple tea-gown, and a handsome if old-fashioned-looking necklace composed of various large, coloured stones.

“Mr. Ponting will soon be here now,” said Uncle Angelo. “Is not that so? Is everything prepared?”

“Certainly, my friend.” Aunt Cosy spoke with a touch of impatience. “Cristina and I have got everything ready. I think you will have a good dinner. And so will our dear little Lily”—she drew near the girl, and put a big, powerful arm caressingly round Lily’s shoulders. “There was nothing to eat in the house when this dear child arrived! But to-night there is a banquet. The friend who is coming to dinner is going a long journey,” she said smilingly, “and so we want to give him what in England is called a good send-off.”

Uncle Angelo looked round at his wife. “An excellent expression,” he said slowly.

The Countess took her arm from Lily’s neck. “Is it not a beautiful view?”

And Lily, in heartfelt tones, replied, “Indeed it is, Aunt Cosy!”

The vast expanse of evening sky was turquoise blue, the sea a deep aquamarine; and the trees, grass, and huge geranium blossoms just outside on the terrace had turned to soft greys and purples.

Suddenly Lily bethought herself that she had not yet asked after the son of the house. “I hope you have good news of Beppo?” she said a little timidly.

And then, to her surprise, there came over Aunt Cosy a curious transformation. It was as though she became again what Lily remembered her as having been in those far-away days at Epsom. She became cordial, affectionate—the touch of affectation which so disagreeably impressed her young companion slid off from her as if it were a cloak.

“How nice of you to remember him!” she exclaimed. “What talks you and I used to have about him, little Lily! My beloved Beppo! How I long for you to see him. But I fear he will not be here for some time. Perhaps after the New Year he will come and spend a week with his old father and mother. He is the best of sons!”

She turned round and said something very quickly in French to her husband, the purport of which was: “Lily has just asked me about our beloved son. I have been telling her what a good fellow he is.”

Lily was touched to see how Uncle Angelo’s fat, placid face altered.

“He is an excellent boy,” he said quaintly. “The King of Italy thinks much of our Beppo. Some day Beppo will be what you call a—what?—a great man! He is already adding lustre to our name.”

“How sorry he must be that he was not well enough to fight,” said Lily shyly.

“He saw the Front,” said the Countess quickly. “He was there for two whole weeks. I will show you his picture in uniform.”

She left the room for a couple of minutes, and then came back with a photograph in her hand. “Is he not handsome?” she said eagerly.

Lily gazed at Beppo Polda’s portrait with a good deal of interest. Yes, he had grown up into a very good-looking young man. He had his mother’s good features, and he was evidently tall. Yet he was fairer than Lily supposed most Italians were.

“He is very English-looking, is he not?” said the Countess in a pleased voice.

“English-looking?” repeated Lily, surprised—to her eyes he looked singularly un-English-looking, but then perhaps that was owing to the way in which his hair was cut.

“My grandmother was an Englishwoman,” went on the Countess, “that is why I am so fair, that is why Beppo himself is fair—fair and tall. Beppo is considered one of the handsomest men in Rome. To-morrow I will show you a picture of Beppo on his horse. He is one of the great hunters, is my boy,” said the Countess proudly. “He is quite in the English set. There is no body exercise in which he is not an adept—he can even play cricket.”

Lily smiled. She liked Aunt Cosy much better than she did a quarter of an hour ago.

“Aunt Cosy?” she suddenly exclaimed. “Uncle Tom gave me fifty pounds in banknotes, and I think I had better ask you to keep the money for me. You can give me £5 from time to time.”

“Fifty pounds! But how dangerous, dear child! There are many brigands about, especially since the war ended.”

The Countess held out her hand, and Lily took the little leather case out of her bag.

“Angelo, where shall we keep this dear child’s money?”

“In here,” he said briefly, and going over to the ebony and ivory cabinet he unlocked it. Then he took the leather case and placed it in one of the drawers. Finally he shut the two folding doors of the cabinet and locked it up, putting the key back into a shabby purse which he had taken out of his pocket.

“I hope our friend Ponting has not elected to spend his last evening in the Rooms,” he said uneasily. But his wife answered, “No, no! Were that so we should have heard. Ah, there he is!”

Lily looked out of the window, near which she was still standing, and in the now growing darkness she saw a tall figure come striding across the lawn.

The Countess opened the long French window, and Lily stepped back, instinctively, to allow her to greet her visitor.

He was a big, fair, loose-limbed man, and over his dress-clothes he wore a big, sporting-looking coat.

There was a quick interchange of words. She heard the stranger say, speaking with what seemed to her an American accent, “You’ll have to be angry with me, Countess, for I’ve come to say that I can’t stay to dinner.”

And an exclamation of something like sharp displeasure did come from the Countess’s lips.

“I know I’ve behaved badly—but there it is! Some fellows have persuaded me to spend my last evening with them. You’ve been so kind to me I felt as if I must come up and tell you myself. I’ve got a carriage waiting for me down there.”

Both the Count and Countess expostulated more angrily than seemed quite civil. And then the Countess called out rather imperiously: “Lily, come and be introduced to our friend, Mr. George Ponting.”

The girl came forward, smiling a little, as the visitor stepped over the threshold of the window.

He held out his hand, and Lily noticed that he was wearing a gold bangle. “Why, who are you?” he asked abruptly. “And where did you come from?”

Lily was amused. “My name is Lily Fairfield,” she said. “I come from England. I arrived to-day. I’m going to stay at La Solitude for some time.”

“We had promised her such a delightful evening in your pleasant, amusing company,” said the Countess vexedly.

Mr. Ponting looked disturbed and sorry. “I didn’t know you had asked a lady to meet me,” he muttered.

He kept looking at Lily—it was rather a pathetic, hungry kind of a look. “It’s a long time,” he said, “since I’ve spoken to a young English lady. To my mind, foreigners don’t count—I only care for the girls of the Old Country.”

And then the Countess began to speak, kindly, persuasively. “Why not stop, Mr. Ponting? It will be better for you than having—what is the word?—a rowdy evening, and perhaps losing more of your good money.”

“The path of true wisdom would probably be not to join those chaps to-night, eh, Countess?” He looked oddly undecided. “It does seem nice up here,” he muttered.

“Dear friend, do me the pleasure of staying! Do not throw us over. See, my little Lily is longing for you to stay! My husband will go and pay off your driver.”

And so it was settled, almost in a few moments, that Mr. Ponting would stay and dine at La Solitude.

The Count stepped out of the window, then he called out, “Shall I tell the man to come back for you at about half-past ten?”

“Yes. I’ll be obliged if you will. There’s a good train at eleven into Nice. I’m sleeping there to-night, and am off across the blue sea to-morrow.”

Already the Count was disappearing down the path through the orange grove.

“Will you excuse me for a few moments?” said the Countess. “Lily, will you entertain Mr. Ponting?”

She shut the door, leaving the two young people alone together—not that Mr. Ponting was a young man in Lily’s eyes. As a matter of fact he was rather under than over forty.

“They’re awfully kind people,” Mr. Ponting began at once in a confidential tone. “They’ve been ever so good to me the last few weeks! I’m a lonely chap, and the first time I came up to this cute little place, well, it was like heaven after the sort of gang I’d got in with down there.”

“I suppose you’re American,” said Lily politely.

“American?” he coloured, slightly offended. “No—not I. I’m British, for all I come from Pernambuco.”

He went on talking eagerly, evidently liking the sound of his own voice, and delighting in his attractive listener.

After a very few minutes Lily felt as if she knew all about Mr. George Ponting. How, though he had spent all his youth building up a good business in Pernambuco, he had started for the Old Country on August 6, 1914. How awfully lonely he had felt in England, not knowing a soul. But how he had been all right once he got out to Flanders. How, though three times badly wounded, he was now as sound as a bell. Finally, how he had come to the Riviera to see a little of the world before going home and starting work again, and how he had found a pal, a splendid chap, who was sailing with him from Marseilles to-morrow night!

It was a simple, usual little story, no doubt, yet it touched Lily, and made her manner very kind.

Suddenly Mr. Ponting took out of his pocket a shabby shagreen case. He opened it and held it out to her. On the worn black velvet lay a small gold box, exquisitely chased in different coloured golds.

“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” he said complacently. “’Twould do for stamps—that’s what I said to myself, though I believe it was what people used to keep snuff in—queer idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Lily, smiling; “I think it is the prettiest little box I’ve ever seen!”

He opened it, and showed her engraved inside the lid the words, “Mon cœur à toi. Ma vie au Roi.”

“Say!” he exclaimed. “Will you have it? Just as a souvenir, you know!”

Lily shook her head. She could not take so costly a gift from a complete stranger.

“I know it’s good,” went on her companion quickly, “for a chap who they say is a big Paris curiosity-dealer offered me five hundred francs for it this afternoon. I got it in a queer way. A poor old soul whom I noticed playing at the Rooms—the sort of woman who isn’t up to Club form—came up to me last evening and asked if I’d give her a hundred francs for it. I’m sorry now that I only gave her that much! It must be worth a good bit more than five hundred francs if a dealer offered that for it.”

He was still holding out the little shagreen case. “Look here,” he exclaimed again, “you take it—do!”

Lily shook her head decidedly. “I shouldn’t care to have anything so valuable, for I’ve no place to keep anything of that sort here,” she said a little awkwardly. “I’ve even had to ask the Countess to keep the money I brought from England.”

“Is that so?” he exclaimed. “But this little box isn’t as valuable as all that! Do take it, Miss Fairfield.”

But Lily shook her head again, even more decidedly than before. “Honestly, I’d rather not,” she said firmly.

“All right! I’ll just give it to the next pretty girl I meet.” He looked hurt and angry.

“Please forgive me!” Lily was really sorry. Was she making a fuss about nothing? And yet—and yet she knew that the box was worth twenty pounds at least.

The door opened. “Supper is quite ready,” said the Count, in his refined, rather mincing voice. “The Countess awaits you in the dining-room.”

The curious, windowless apartment was lit by candles set in four cut-glass candlesticks on the table itself, and by two silver candelabra on the sideboard. Silver bowls full of delicious hot soup were standing ready on the round table, but the rest of the meal was cold.

The waiting was done deftly and quickly by Cristina; she had put on a lace cap and apron, and she looked a quaint and charming figure, in spite of her age. But Lily was concerned at her look of illness and fatigue. Cristina to-night was terribly, unnaturally pale.

Mr. Ponting, who sat opposite his host, did not need much entertaining, for he did all the talking, and ate but little of the delicious cold lobster soufflé and big game pie which had followed the soup. But, as the meal went on, Lily could not help noticing uncomfortably that the visitor was drinking very freely the three kinds of wine.

Count Polda did not take any wine himself, but he often got up and helped his guest generously. The Countess also took wine, but in strict moderation. Once she offered her guest water, but he shook his head.

Lily grew more and more uncomfortable. She wished Mr. Ponting would eat more and drink less! She herself was dreadfully hungry, and she was the only one of the four there who made a really good meal. Rather to her surprise there was no sweet, only some fine fruit, and again she was the only one of the four who took any of it. And then, at last, Cristina brought in coffee. Lily refused to take any. She fancied it might keep her awake.

For perhaps the tenth time Mr. Ponting had begun a long, somewhat incoherent speech with the words: “And now I’ll tell you a yarn,” when Lily saw Aunt Cosy make her a little sign, and she got up.

The visitor looked up with a rather dazed look. “Why,” he said thickly, “going already?”

“Only to the salon,” said the Countess smoothly. “You and the Count, dear friend, will follow us presently.”

She motioned Lily out in front of her rather mysteriously, and then she shut the door.

“Foolish fellow!” she exclaimed, and there was a touch of harsh contempt in her voice. “But still he is amiable, and the Count, who is a student of human nature, is amused by such a man as Mr. Ponting.”

Lily said nothing, but she felt annoyed. It was horrid of Aunt Cosy to speak like that of kindly, grateful Mr. Ponting.

The Countess went on: “It is sad to see such a fine young man drink too much!”

Lily felt depressed, almost miserable. No man when in her company had ever become even slightly the worse for drink. A touch of resentment with the Count came over her; why had he gone on filling up Mr. Ponting’s glass?

Almost as if Aunt Cosy could see into the girl’s mind, she exclaimed: “The second time our friend dined here I said to Angelo, ‘We will not let him have so much to drink.’ But he actually got up, again and again, and went to the sideboard and helped himself. So Angelo, who is nervous about his beautiful decanters—they are very rare and could not be replaced under hundreds of francs each—Angelo made up his mind that he himself would pour out what our guest insisted on having!”

“It is indeed a pity,” said Lily in a low voice.

She hated this talk about their guest, and she dreaded the thought of his reappearance in the drawing-room. It was therefore with relief that she heard the Countess suddenly exclaim: “And now you had better go upstairs and get a good long night’s rest, dear child. Are you not sleepy?”

“Yes,” said Lily. “I do feel sleepy. That’s why I didn’t take any coffee.”

The Countess opened the dressing-room door. “Cristina?” She spoke for once in quite a low voice.

The old woman emerged at once from the little passage leading to the kitchen. “Yes,” she said. “Does Madame la Comtesse want anything?”

And again Lily was struck by Cristina’s deathly pallor.

“Bring a glass of water for Mademoiselle”—the words were uttered very curtly.

And then, rather to Lily’s surprise, there came a touch of color in Cristina’s pallid face. She turned away, then came back a few moments later with a glass of water in her hand.

“Thank you very much,” said Lily gratefully. This was a kind thought of Aunt Cosy.

“I have got a candle already lighted in Mademoiselle’s room,” said Cristina.

Holding the glass of water, Lily turned to Aunt Cosy to say good night.

“Take care!” cried the Countess sharply. “You might spill some of that water over my dress. I will not kiss you to-night, dear child, but I will make up for it to-morrow!”

It was clear she was anxious to get rid of the girl before the two men came out of the dining-room, and Lily went off, quickly, upstairs.

Her bedroom looked dreary and uncomfortable, very unlike her pretty, bright room at The Nest.

She walked over to the little table by the bed where stood a lighted candle, and began drinking the water. It had a slight taste, and holding it up to the light she saw that it was cloudy. She put it down without drinking any more. After all, she did not feel very thirsty.

She glanced round her—how dark and gloomy the room looked! It smelt stuffy and airless. She turned and pushed aside the heavy curtains and saw the window was closely shut. She opened it, top and bottom. Ah, that was better!

And then she looked at the little travelling clock Uncle Tom had given her the first time she had left The Nest on a visit, years ago. It was just after ten—later than she thought—still, she must unpack the rest of her things.

She had just finished doing so when she heard the noise of a door opening and shutting downstairs. That must be the Count and Mr. Ponting leaving the dining-room. How long they had stayed there!

There came the sound of another door opening and shutting—that of the drawing-room. And then Lily suddenly bethought herself with some dismay that she had no idea when the Count and Countess had breakfast, or at what time they would like her to be called. Surely she ought to ask Cristina?

She walked over and opened the door of her bedroom, and at once she heard a voice from below call out, “Is that you, Lily? Do you want anything?”

There was a note of apprehension and surprise in Aunt Cosy’s accents.

“I only want to know what time breakfast is.”

“If you will ring, Cristina will bring you a cup of coffee, English fashion.”

The Countess actually came up the staircase. She looked flustered and ill at ease, and was gazing at the girl with a disturbed expression. “I hoped you would have been asleep by now, dear child,” she said.

“I had to finish unpacking,” Lily said. “I suppose Mr. Ponting is just going? Do remember me to him—I didn’t say good-bye to him, you know.”

“I will—I will!” said the Countess hurriedly. “Goodnight, and sleep well.”

Something—she could not have told you what—made Lily open the door after she had heard the Countess go down the steep, narrow stairs.

And then all at once there came Aunt Cosy’s loud hearty voice: “Good-bye, Mr. Ponting, good-bye—and good luck!”

The words echoed through the quiet house. And Lily, now suddenly feeling very, very tired, after the many adventures of the day, undressed, said her prayers, and blew out the light. She was glad to feel that her first day at La Solitude was over, and that a long, quiet night lay in front of her.

CHAPTER V

It may have been an hour later when suddenly Lily Fairfield sat up in bed. In a moment she knew where she was, and yet she did not really feel awake. She told herself with a feeling of fear that she was asleep—asleep, as she had been asleep that night ten days ago, when she had started walking in her sleep, so frightening greatly Uncle Tom.

Something now seemed to be impelling her, almost ordering her, to get up and to begin walking through the silent, sleeping house. She fought against the impulse, the almost command; but it was as if a stronger will than her own was forcing her to get out of the low, old-fashioned Empire bed.

She did so, slowly, reluctantly, and then she walked automatically across to the door of the room and opened it.

Surely she was asleep? Had she been awake she would have put on a wrapper before going into the passage. As it was, she felt impelled to open also the door opposite to that of her own room—the door which she had been told led into the room in which old Cristina, the friend-servant of the host and hostess, slept.

Lily walked blindly on, to the dim patch of light which was evidently the window of Cristina’s room. The blind was up, but the window was closed. She stared out, but she could see nothing, for it was a very dark, moonless night, and the great arch of sky above the sea was only faintly perceptible. And then, suddenly, Lily knew that she was awake, not asleep, for there fell on her ear the sound of deadened footsteps floating up from below—that is, from the terrace. A moment later she heard the long French window of what the Countess called the grand salon open quietly.

And then it was that all at once, standing there behind the still closed window, Lily remembered her fifty pounds—the fifty pounds she had asked Aunt Cosy to keep for her, and which she had seen Uncle Angelo put in the ebony and ivory cabinet!

What should she do? Should she fling open the window and call out? No, for that would scare the burglars away, if burglars they were.

Lily listened again, intently, and after what seemed to her a long, long time, she heard the window below closing to, very quietly. Then came the sound of footsteps—it seemed to her more than one pair of footsteps—padding softly away across the lawn into the wood. Then followed a curious, long-drawn-out sound—so faint that she had to strain her ears to hear it at all.

She gave a stifled cry—something had suddenly loomed up on the broad ledge the other side of the closed window. It was the big cat Mimi—Mimi dragging herself along by the window-pane and purring, her green eyes gleaming coldly, wickedly, in the night air.

Frightened and unnerved, Lily turned and felt her way through the dark room to the bed. She might at least wake Cristina, and tell her what she had heard. She put out her hand, and felt the smooth, low pillow—then slowly her fingers travelled down, and to her intense surprise she realised that the bed was empty, and that it had not been slept in that night.

Then she had made a mistake in thinking this room was Cristina’s room? She stood and listened—there was not a sound to be heard now, an eerie silence filled the house.

She suddenly made up her mind she would do nothing till the morning. It would annoy the Countess were she to make a fuss now. Already Lily was a little afraid of Aunt Cosy. If her money was indeed gone, then it was gone! Nothing they could do at this time of night would be of any use.

She walked gropingly across to the door, her eyes by now accustomed to the darkness, and so into the passage. Pushing open her own door, she quietly shut it. Then she went over to her window and, parting the curtains, took a deep draught of the delicious southern night air. It was extraordinarily and uncannily still and dark on that side of La Solitude.

She lay down and was soon in a deep, if troubled sleep.

When Lily Fairfield awoke the next morning she experienced the curious sensation of not knowing in the least where she was. What strange, bare, gloomy room was this? The very little she could see of it was illuminated by a shaft of dull morning light filtering through the top of the heavy velvet and silk curtains drawn across the window. To the left of the door was a long, low walnut-wood chest. With an inward tremor she told herself that it was like a coffin.

And then, all at once, she remembered everything! This was her bedroom at La Solitude—and yesterday had been the beginning of what ought to be quite an exciting and interesting experience.

All that had happened last evening came back to her with a rush. Her introduction to that rather rough Mr. George Ponting, who had yet been so kindly, so respectful, in his manner to her. She smiled and sighed a little as she thought of how hurt he had been at her refusing the beautiful little gold box. What sort of girl would get that box? she wondered.

Then she went over her queer experience of last night, or was it early this morning? It did not seem quite so real now as it had been then. Perhaps she had only fancied that one of the long drawing-room windows had been opened in the night?

She began to wonder at what time M. Popeau and Captain Stuart would come to-day. She did hope Countess Polda and her new friends would get on together. Somehow she doubted it—they were so very different!

She jumped up and pulled open the curtains. What a pity this room had only a view of the small courtyard below and of the bare hillside above! But she was not likely to spend much time in her bedroom.

During the last two years Lily had always got up extremely early because of her war work. She turned towards the travelling clock which she had put on the mantelpiece. Ten o’clock? Impossible! It must have stopped last night—but no, it was ticking away as usual. How dreadful that she should have so overslept herself! Dreadful, and yet, after all, natural, after all those days of travel.

And then she looked at the glass, the contents of which she had not drunk the night before. There was a white sediment at the bottom of the water. She told herself that perhaps the one thing in common between The Nest and La Solitude was that they were both built on chalk.

She wondered where the bathroom could be. Putting on her dressing-gown, she opened her bedroom door. The passage was full of sunlight—a curious contrast to her room.

The only open door besides her own was that just opposite. She peeped into it. It was a little empty slip of a room. It had seemed so big last night in the darkness.

She ran down to the kitchen. Cristina was sitting at a little table, drinking a cup of coffee.

As the door opened, the old woman jumped up with a curious look of apprehension and unease on her face. Then she smiled a rather wan smile. “Ah, Mademoiselle!” she exclaimed. “You startled me. Would you like a cup of coffee? If so, I will bring it up to you in a few minutes.”

“I only want to know where the bathroom is,” said Lily.

Cristina looked at her uncomfortably. “Does Mademoiselle really want a bath?” she asked. “Mademoiselle looks so clean!”

And then, for the first time since she had been at La Solitude, Lily laughed a hearty, ringing, girlish laugh, and Cristina put her fingers to her lips. “Take care,” she murmured, “or you will wake them.”

She opened the door of what Lily had supposed the day before to be that of the scullery. It led straight out on to the small walled courtyard into which the window of her bedroom looked down. She followed Cristina across the courtyard to what looked like a sort of outhouse. The old woman took up her bunch of keys and unlocked the large double door. Then she motioned the girl to go in.

Lily looked about her with considerable curiosity. Surely Cristina could not expect her to have her bath here? And yet—yet there was a long, narrow zinc bath in a corner of the whitewashed building.

Close to where they were now standing—not far, that is, from the door—was a peculiar-looking trolley, of which the four tyred bicycle wheels were so large that they came above the top of the quaint-looking vehicle.

Cristina gave a slight push to this odd-looking object, and it rolled back noiselessly.

“What a very droll-looking thing!” exclaimed Lily.

“It is droll but useful,” said Cristina slowly. “It can be used for transporting anything. The Count uses it in the garden sometimes—it is very easy to move about.”

The old woman walked across to the corner of the room where stood the narrow zinc bath, and then Lily saw that above one end of it was a cold-water tap.

“This is the only fixed bath in the villa,” said Cristina apologetically. “It was installed on the occasion of Count Beppo’s stay here two years ago. He was very angry that there was no bathroom on the English system. So the Countess had this put in to pacify him! But he never used it. He moved instead to an hotel.”

Seeing Lily’s look of surprise and dismay, she added quietly, “Perhaps Mademoiselle will not take a bath this morning?”

“Oh, yes, I must have a bath!” exclaimed Lily. “But to-morrow I’ll ask you to let me make a good lot of boiling water in the kitchen.”

“It would be possible to make water hot here,” said Cristina hesitatingly.

And Lily saw that there was a little stove not far from the bath. She went up to the stove to look at it more closely, and then she put out her hand and touched it. “Why, it’s hot!” she said in a startled voice. “There must have been a fire here this morning!”

Cristina grew faintly red. “No,” she said, “not this morning—last night. But please do not mention it to Madame la Comtesse, Mademoiselle. I had a good deal of rubbish, and it is impossible to burn much in that tiny kitchen——” she was now speaking in a quick, agitated voice.

“Yes, I can well believe that,” said Lily. The stove, unluckily for her, was only warm, the fire had gone quite out. “I will make a fire now,” said Cristina, “and bring out a pot of water.”

“No, don’t trouble to do that. I’ll manage all right this morning.”

“Then I will bring Mademoiselle a towel.” And bring one she did, but it had a big hole in it.

And then, after she had performed her toilet under somewhat difficult circumstances, Lily went into the kitchen and enjoyed a big bowl of café-au-lait.

“I suppose there is an English church in Monte Carlo?” she asked hesitatingly.

And Cristina said: “I hope Mademoiselle will not go out alone this morning—it would make Madame la Comtesse angry if she did so.”

“Very well. I’ll sit on the terrace in the sun and be lazy,” said Lily.

Cristina came and unlocked the front door, and Lily walked round on to the terrace. The drawing-room doors were closely shut and the blinds were down. Surely she must have dreamt what had seemed to happen last night? But, alas! she had only been out there a very few moments when she heard loud exclamations of concern and surprise. It was the Countess talking rapidly and excitedly, by turns in French, English, and Italian. Mingling with her agitated accents were the more gutteral tones of Uncle Angelo.

Lily sprang up from the basket chair on which she had been sitting and, turning round, through the now open long French window she saw the Count, the Countess, and Cristina all standing together in the drawing-room round the ebony and ivory cabinet.

As soon as she saw Lily the Countess called out: “A terrible thing has happened, my poor child! This room was entered in the night—the lock of the cabinet was forced—everything in it taken! Oh, why did Angelo put your fifty pounds there, instead of taking it up to his room, where it would have been so safe?”

The Countess was actually wringing her hands. She seemed almost beside herself with distress. As for Cristina, the tears were rolling down her cheeks; she looked the picture of utter woe. The Count appeared the least disturbed of the three—but he was rubbing his hands nervously, and muttering to himself.

Yes, it was only too true! One of the doors of the beautiful inlaid cabinet had been wrenched off its hinges; it lay on the floor. As for the drawer into which she had seen Uncle Angelo place her little bundle of five-pound notes, the thief, in his haste, had stuck it in again anyhow, wrong side up. Yes, another drawer lay on the floor with papers scattered round it.

“They took some of the family documents—not all; so far that is good,” said Uncle Angelo at last.

“Would they had taken them all, precious as they are, and left our poor little Lily’s money intact!”

“Of course, it’s a misfortune,” said Lily ruefully. “But never mind, Aunt Cosy. It can’t be helped. I didn’t even keep the numbers of the notes, so I’m afraid there’s no hope of our ever being able to recover them. The police court at Epsom is always shut on Sundays, and I suppose it’s the same here?”

No one answered this remark.

“I cannot understand when it happened!” exclaimed the Countess. She turned sternly to Cristina. “Did you oversleep yourself?” she asked accusingly.

“I know when it happened,” said Lily. And then she told the Countess of her experience of the night before.

“Thank God you did nothing!” said the Count in French, and he really did look agitated at last. “The brigands might have shot you, had you given the alarm!”

As for Cristina, she sat down and, with a dreadful groan, threw her apron over her head and began rocking herself backwards and forwards.

“Be quiet, Cristina!” cried the Countess sharply. But the Count went up to his foster-sister, and patted her kindly on the head.

“You must come to me when you want a little money, dear child,” said the Countess, turning to Lily. “Perhaps generous Tom Fairfield will send you another fifty pounds when he hears of your loss?”

“He won’t hear of my loss for some time,” said Lily, “for he is leaving England to-day for the West Indies. But never mind, Aunt Cosy. I’ve got a letter of credit on the bank here.”

The face of the Countess cleared, and even Uncle Angelo looked round at her, quite an eager look on his fat face.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said the Countess heartily. “Tom is a very generous man. There is nothing low or mean about him.”

“He is goodness itself!” said Lily. And then she added a little shyly: “But the money is really mine, Aunt Cosy. Since my twenty-first birthday, which was the tenth of last July, I’ve had my own banking account. As a matter of fact, Uncle Tom wanted to give me a present, but he didn’t quite know what to get, so he gave me the fifty pounds.”

“Angelo! See whether among your tools you cannot find something that will at any rate temporarily restore our poor cabinet,” said Aunt Cosy briskly.

“As for you and I, dear child, we will go out for a little turn in the garden.”

The little turn consisted in Lily and the Countess walking up and down the lawn for half an hour.

For the first time Aunt Cosy asked Lily all kinds of questions about poor Aunt Emmeline’s illness and death—also as to whether she, Aunt Emmeline, had been a woman of means—whether she had left dear Lily a legacy—whether The Nest belonged to Uncle Tom, as also the furniture—and finally, whether Uncle Tom was likely to marry again? This last question shocked Lily, but it was evidently a very natural one from the speaker’s point of view.

And then, all at once, the Countess exclaimed: “And how about Miss Rosa Fairfield? Is she still living?”

“Oh yes!” Lily laughed. “Cousin Rosa is very much alive, though she’s over eighty. She leads that dull, quiet life so many very old people like to live. She much disapproved of my coming abroad; she wanted me to go and spend the winter with her.”

“I wonder you did not do it,” said the Countess thoughtfully. “Miss Rosa must be very rich.”

“Yes,” said Lily. “Cousin Rosa is certainly very rich. But I should have become melancholy mad—living that sort of life!”

There was a pause. “And who will get her money?” asked the Countess.

Lily hesitated a moment—then, “I believe—in fact I know, for she told Uncle Tom so three or four years ago—that I am to have most of it, Aunt Cosy.”

“You. Lily Fairfield?”

There was an extraordinary accent of surprise, excitement, and gratification in Aunt Cosy’s vibrant voice.

She stopped in her vigorous walk and turned and faced the girl. “Oh, you English?” she exclaimed. “How unemotional and cold you are! You do not show the slightest joy or excitement when telling this wonderful news. Why, Miss Rosa Fairfield must have—how much?” As Lily said nothing, the Countess went on: “A hundred thousand pounds—that is what poor Emmeline told me!”

“Yes, I believe she has quite that.”

“And you do not feel excited?” The Countess Polda gazed searchingly at the now flushed girl.

“I suppose I should have felt excited if I’d suddenly learnt the fact,” said Lily slowly; “But I’ve always known it—in a sort of way. I remember when I was quite a little girl hearing Aunt Rosa say to Uncle Tom that she thought she ought to be consulted about what school I was to be sent to, as I was to be her heiress. But I think Uncle Tom didn’t feel quite sure about it till two or three years ago. She sent for him on purpose to read him her will.”

“And what is your fortune apart from that, dear child?” asked the Countess abruptly.

It was rather an indiscreet thing to ask, but Lily had a straightforward nature, and, after all, she saw no reason for trying to parry the question. She had always heard that foreigners were very inquisitive.

“My father left me eight thousand pounds,” she said quietly. “But Uncle Tom would never take any of the interest of it for my education. He paid for everything, just as if I had been his daughter. So I have got a little over ten thousand pounds now—you see, my parents died when I was such a little child, and the money was very cleverly invested.”

“Ah, yes, poor little thing!” exclaimed the Countess affectionately. “Well, even that is a pretty fortune for a young girl!”

She waited a moment as if making a calculation. “That would bring in—yes, if well invested—not far from fifteen thousand francs a year, if I am right. Then you have the enjoyment of that now, dear child?”

“Yes,” said Lily, “I suppose I have.”

“No wonder you took the disappearance of the fifty pounds in so philosophical a manner!” the Countess laughed rather harshly.

They walked on a few steps. And then Aunt Cosy said suddenly: “You should not tell people of this money, Lily. I hope you do not talk freely to strangers?”

And then the girl did feel a little offended. “I’ve never spoken of my money matters to any living soul till to-day,” she said with some vehemence. “And I shouldn’t have said anything to you, Aunt Cosy, if you hadn’t asked me!”

“Ah, but it was right for me to know. I am your guardian for the moment. You have been entrusted to me. In Monte Carlo there are many—now what are they called in England? We have an expression of the kind in Italy, and there is yet another in France, but it is not so good as the English expression——”

“What expression is that?” asked Lily.

“Fortune-hunters,” said Aunt Cosy grimly.

“Fortune-hunters are not likely to come across my path,” the girl laughed gaily.

“No, not while you are at La Solitude.”

The Countess smiled, showing her large, good teeth, which somehow looked false—so even, so strong, so well matched in colour were they. But they were all her own.

As at last they turned to go into the house, the Countess said suddenly: “Another Sunday, my dear Lily, I should like you to go to the English service. It is the proper thing to do.”

Lily felt rather taken aback. “I thought of going this morning,” she said frankly, “but Cristina seemed to think you would be annoyed if I went off alone to try and find the place by myself.”

“I will see in the guide-book if there is an afternoon service,” said the Countess hesitatingly. “Your Uncle Angelo might escort you as far as the door of the hotel where the English clergyman now officiates. I should not like you to walk about Monte Carlo alone.”

There was a pause. “I think M. Popeau and Captain Stuart are coming to-day,” said Lily at last. She could not keep herself from blushing a little.

“Captain Stuart?” echoed the Countess sharply. “And who, pray, is Captain Stuart?”

By this time Lily had become rather tired of Aunt Cosy’s constant questions. “He is a friend of mine,” she said quietly. “Perhaps he won’t come, but M. Popeau said he meant to do so—don’t you remember, Aunt Cosy?”

“Yes, I remember now. Well, he seems a very good sort of man——” She spoke with a touch of condescension in her voice. “And he must be rich, or he would not be staying at the Hôtel de Paris.”

Lily could not help smiling a little satirically to herself. Aunt Cosy’s love of money jarred upon her. It reminded her of the story of the man who, when his wife asked him to call on some people, giving as a reason that they were very rich, answered: “I would, my dear, if it were catching!”

Aunt Cosy, perhaps, thought that wealth was catching.

CHAPTER VI

Lily’s first real luncheon at La Solitude consisted of the remains of last night’s excellent, almost luxurious supper. But a rough-looking, unbleached tablecloth had taken the place of the beautiful lace one, and the fine cut-glass decanters had disappeared from the sideboard.

They all three drank out of coarse, thick glass tumblers, and they ate off heavy yellow plates. But the food was of the best, and they all make a good and hearty meal—once, indeed, Aunt Cosy, looking affectionately at the girl, exclaimed: “Yes, do not stint yourself, my little Lily, for we have to live as a rule exceedingly simply. It is a strange fact”—a hard tone came into her voice—“that Cristina has never learnt to cook. Even I can cook better than Cristina!”

She looked at her husband as she spoke, and he, glancing up, observed in French: “She does well enough. We have to buy cooked food, as fuel is so dear.”

“Yes,” said the Countess crossly, “but fuel was not always dear. And Cristina always cooked badly.” She turned to Lily: “I had thought of asking you if you knew a little simple cooking—the delicious milk puddings that I used to have at The Nest long years ago even now make my mouth water, as you so funnily say in England. They are nutritious, and at the same time cheap. But they do not teach English girls to do such useful things.”

“Indeed they do!” answered Lily, smiling. “I’ll cook you a rice pudding to-night, if you like, Aunt Cosy, though I don’t know if I shall be able to brown the top properly as you haven’t got an oven!”

“No, no, I do not want you to roughen those pretty hands before Beppo arrives,” observed the Countess. Then, all at once, she broke into rapid French: “I am explaining to our little friend that I want her to look her best when Beppo arrives.”

“Beppo?” queried the Count. “But Beppo is not coming, that I know of, before the end of January?”

“Oh yes, he is! He is coming very soon. I heard from him to-day.”

Lily felt surprised, for Cristina had told her that morning that there were no postal deliveries on Sunday at La Solitude.

They all three got up and went back into the drawing-room, and at once the Count walked over to the card-table and, sitting down, started on his Patience again.

“And now what will you do?” said the Countess hesitatingly, turning to Lily.

“I will go into the kitchen, Aunt Cosy, and help Cristina to wash up,” said the girl.

“But take care of those pretty hands!” The warning was uttered very seriously.

Poor Lily! She could not help rather regretting her offer. At home there had been gallons of hot water, nice clean teacloths—everything, in a word, required for the tiresome process known as washing-up. But Cristina simply piled everything into a basin full of tepid water, then she rubbed each plate with a dirty-looking little mop, and finally handed each plate and dish to Lily to dry with what looked like a rather worn old towel!

Suddenly Lily realised that the towel she was using to wipe the plates was the very towel, with a hole in it, with which she had dried herself with such very mixed feelings in the outhouse this morning! It almost made the gently nurtured English girl feel sick; and yet what could she say or do? Cristina evidently saw nothing wrong in it. And it was a fact—to Lily rather a shocking fact—that the plates looked perfectly clean after having been submitted to this disgusting process.

All at once Cristina crept up close to her—it was such a quick, stealthy movement that it startled Lily.

“Listen,” said the old woman. “Listen, Mademoiselle! You must insist on having enough to eat! You are paying one hundred and twenty-five francs a week. I know it; for the Countess had to tell me. So do not let her starve you!”

“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t do that!” said Lily.

She smiled, but deep in her heart she was grateful to old Cristina. “What am I to say?” she whispered back.

“You are to say that you must have two eggs and two cutlets every day—also two large glassfuls of milk,” said Cristina quickly.

“But surely there will be plenty of food when Count Beppo arrives?” said Lily.

Cristina shook her head. “The young Count is not coming till after New Year,” she said.

“Oh yes, he is! The Countess told us at luncheon that she had heard from him to-day, and that he was coming very much sooner—perhaps in a week or ten days.”

Cristina looked extremely surprised. Then she said suddenly: “Even so, speak to-day, Mademoiselle. Why be short of food for ten days?”

A dozen questions sprang to the girl’s lips. But she did not wish to discuss her host and hostess with even the most trusted and best-liked servant. Even so, she made up her mind to take Cristina’s advice, and to tell Aunt Cosy courteously but firmly that she had been used at home to good plain food, and, further, that the doctor had said she required feeding up.

Lily had only half-written her first letter to Uncle Tom when she heard the front-door bell echo through the house. She had not heard that bell ring since M. Popeau had pulled the rusty iron bell-pull on her first arrival at La Solitude, for their last night’s visitor had come up through the orange grove and across the lawn. The front door seemed to be scarcely ever used.

She got up and opening her door, waited for quite a little while. No doubt it was M. Popeau and Captain Stuart? She was astonished at her own keen pleasure, and, yes, relief, at the idea of seeing her two kind friends again. And then, when there came another peal, she made up her mind to run downstairs. She could not help feeling that Aunt Cosy was not at all anxious to continue her slight acquaintance with M. Popeau. It would be dreadful, dreadful, if Cristina had been told to say “Not at home.”

At the bottom of the staircase a door was open, giving access to a room Lily had not yet seen. It was evidently the Countess’s own sitting-room. But there was a big writing-table near the window, and it looked more like a man’s study than a lady’s boudoir.

The Countess was standing not far from the door, with a very singular expression on her face. She appeared startled, even frightened, as also did Cristina, who was standing close to her. They both looked up when they heard the girl’s light footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs. “Shall Mademoiselle answer the door?” Lily heard Cristina whisper.

“I think it must be M. Popeau and Captain Stuart,” said Lily a little nervously.

“Of course! How foolish of me not to have thought of them!”

The Countess’s face cleared, her look of anxiety was succeeded by one of relief. “Run, Cristina! Run and open the door to the two English gentlemen. What will they think of us keeping them waiting like this?” Then she turned to the girl: “I have no tea in the house, but you have some tea, I know, Lily. Will you give a little to Cristina?”

“It’s so early—only three o’clock. I don’t think they’ll want tea now,” said the girl smiling. She was feeling extraordinarily pleased at the thought of seeing her two travelling companions again.

But alas the visit was a disappointment to Lily.

They all five sat in a formal circle round the empty grate of the stuffy salon for some time, and Lily had no opportunity of exchanging a word alone with the visitors. M. Popeau talked a great deal, in fact at one moment he even out-talked the Countess. He answered her many questions as to life in war-time Paris with the utmost frankness and good humour; and he carelessly brought into his conversation the names of many well-known Parisians, all, it appeared, good friends of his. As he had intended should happen, his hostess’s respect for him visibly grew.

But when the genial Frenchman threw out a suggestion that Miss Fairfield should come back with him and with Captain Stuart to spend an hour at the Casino, the Countess shook her head.

“No, no,” she exclaimed. “Nice English people do not gamble on Sunday, M. Popeau! I should have thought that even you would have known that, speaking such beautiful English as you do. I seldom go down the hill. But soon my son will be here, and he will escort Miss Fairfield where I myself may not go. My son is an Italian, so he can do as he likes when he comes here; he can even go to the Club and play—to my regret. But his father cannot do so, being a native of the Principality!”

At last the Countess turned her attention to Captain Stuart, and it is not too much to say that she riddled her younger visitor with questions. How long had he been a soldier? In which of the battles of the war had he fought? Where exactly had he been wounded? How much money did a British captain earn? Was he an only child, or had he brothers and sisters? Were his parents still alive, and in what part of Scotland did they live?

All these somewhat indiscreet questions Captain Stuart answered with composure. But finally, when the Countess, looking at him searchingly, suddenly asked how long he had known Miss Fairfield, Lily was astonished to hear him answer thoughtfully: “It seems a lifetime to me since I first met Miss Fairfield.” But after he had made this surprising answer, he looked across at Lily, and she saw a funny little twinkle in his eye.

A break occurred when Cristina opened the door noiselessly and announced that gouter was quite ready.

The whole party went off to the dining-room, where, Lily saw with amazement, the splendours of the night before had been restored. Once more the lace tablecloth was spread out on the round table, once more the fruit was piled on the beautiful high crystal dishes, and now there were five old painted china teacups set out in a semi-circle. The only incongruous touch was that the tea had been made in a fine old silver coffee-pot.

“Will you pour out the tea, dear child?” said the Countess suavely. “That is a task we always delegate to young ladies,” she said, turning to M. Popeau. “In England the old wait upon the young. But that is not right.”

Lily poured out some of the straw-coloured liquid into each of the cups. Both M. Popeau and Uncle Angelo took three lumps of sugar; Captain Stuart took none. As for the Countess, she declared she would not have any tea at all.

And then, at last, having spent altogether a little over an hour at La Solitude, the two visitors prepared to depart. Lily and the Count walked down with them through the garden, the Countess having decided that she would stay in the house. And then, for the first time, Lily and Captain Stuart were able to exchange a few words.

“Can’t you give your aunt the slip and come off with us now, just as you are?” he asked in a low voice.

Lily shook her head. “Aunt Cosy would never forgive me! She’d be awfully shocked if I were to do that after what she said.”

“I suppose she would,” said the young man reluctantly. “Still, she can’t keep you cooped up here all the time. Do make her understand that in England girls go about by themselves, Miss Fairfield.”

“I’ll try and make her understand it,” said Lily, smiling, “but it won’t be easy. She’s tremendously determined.”

“I can see that. I hope they’re nice to you?” he added a little anxiously. And he looked at her with one of the quick, shrewd looks to which she had become accustomed during their long journey together.

But this time there was something added—a something which made Lily’s heart beat. She asked herself inconsequently what exactly he had meant when he said that he felt as if he had known her a lifetime? But all she said was:

“They are very kind to me in their own way, and I think I’m going to be quite happy here.”

Twice, while she and the young man had been talking apart together, she had seen Uncle Angelo look towards them uncomfortably, hesitatingly, almost as if he thought he ought to cut across their conversation.

“Can’t you come down for a game of tennis early to-morrow morning? Do! I could come and fetch you any time you fix.”

Perhaps M. Popeau heard the whispered invitation, for he said to Uncle Angelo: “By the way, it has suddenly occurred to me, could not you and Mademoiselle lunch with me to-morrow?”

The Count hesitated. It was clear that he was very much tempted to accept. “I’m not certain about my wife’s plans,” he said at last, “so I fear I must refuse your kind invitation this time.”

“Captain Stuart has to go to Milan for a few days, and I am giving myself the pleasure of accompanying him. But we shall certainly be back by next Sunday,” said M. Popeau amiably.

Lily felt curiously taken aback—indeed, sharply disappointed. The thought that her late fellow-travellers were going to be away for something like a week filled her with dismay.

She had known vaguely about this proposed trip of Captain Stuart’s, for during their journey he had asked M. Popeau about the trains from Monte Carlo to Milan, explaining that he had a relation living there who had asked him to come over and see him. But at that time Captain Stuart had been a stranger to her—now she felt as if he was an old friend!

Perhaps something of what she was feeling showed in her face, for the Scotsman said suddenly: “I don’t really want to go to Milan this week, Popeau. Why shouldn’t I wire and say I will come later on?”

But M. Popeau shook his head decidedly.

“You forget, my friend, that all arrangements have been made. I do not think that we can make any change now.”

“Well, well,” said the Count easily. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, messieurs, in about ten days’ time. Meanwhile, my young niece can have a real rest. She has been ill, and must not over-exert herself. There will be plenty of time to show her the sights of Monte Carlo after you return.”

They were standing round the little gate which formed the boundary of the property of La Solitude, and after shaking hands, English fashion, with Captain Stuart and M. Popeau, the Count and Lily slowly made their way up to the house again.

The Countess was waiting for them, rather impatiently, in the salon. And then all at once Lily summoned up courage to say very quietly but very firmly: “I’m afraid, Aunt Cosy, you’ll have to become accustomed to my going about by myself. You see, I’m not a French girl but an English girl. I simply couldn’t stay in a house where I didn’t feel free to come and go.”

“But of course you’re free!” exclaimed the Countess. “Absolutely free, dear child. I regret not having allowed you to go out this afternoon with M. Popeau and your old friend, Captain Stuart, but I did not think you would like to do what English people do at Monte Carlo on Sundays.”

“I did not want to go to the Casino,” said Lily, firmly. “But I do want to join the tennis club, and to have a good game now and again. I suppose you know some lady who would put me up, Aunt Cosy?”

The Countess hadn’t the slightest idea of what Lily meant by being “put up,” but she nodded amiably.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I will certainly find some lady. Meanwhile your Uncle Angelo will take you down to Monte Carlo to-morrow morning, just to show you the way. He has purchases to make, and he will be able to see about the tennis. It is, so I understand, quite a young girl’s game.”

“That Parisian asked me to lunch to-morrow; he desired Lily to come too,” interposed the Count.

“Oh, I do not think you can do that, my friend,” said the Countess decidedly. “I wish you to help with several important matters to-morrow. You can go some other day.”

“He and the Englishman are going away to Italy for a few days.”

“Are they indeed?” said the Countess, indifferently. She hesitated—“I would like to ask you what is perhaps a very indiscreet question, my sweet child,” and she fixed her bright, differently-coloured eyes full on Lily.

“Yes, Aunt Cosy?” The girl looked up.

“I suppose you are not what is called in England ‘engaged’?” asked Aunt Cosy, very deliberately.

The colour flamed up in Lily’s cheeks. “No, I am not engaged, Aunt Cosy.”

There was a curious pause, and then the Countess went on: “When you are writing to your uncle, dear girl, I hope you will tell him that we are doing our best to make you happy”—there was a pleading, almost an anxious, tone in her voice.

“Of course I will!” said Lily affectionately.

She felt, as she expressed it to herself, “rather a pig” for having stood up to the Countess. She was astonished too, at her easy victory. Aunt Emmeline had been so very different! She would never give in if she thought a thing wrong. Lily could not help reflecting that the five pounds a week must mean a great deal to Count and Countess Polda. She could see that they were both painfully anxious that she should stay on at La Solitude, and be happy and comfortable there.

A week can pass like a flash, or it can seem an eternity. The first week of Lily Fairfield’s stay at La Solitude was, truth to tell, more like a month, and a very long month, than a week. She did her best to feel happy and comfortable, though it was a strange kind of life for a girl used to all the cheerful comings and goings of an English country town. After she had helped Cristina with the housework each morning there was absolutely nothing left to do during the rest of the day.

Twice during that long week Lily accompanied the Count into Monte Carlo, or rather into that part of the Principality which lies in a hollow between Monaco and Monte Carlo, and which is called the Condamine. While there, they had spent the whole of their time shopping in the funny little native shops, the Count bargaining as if the question of a few sous was of the utmost moment to him.

The second time they went down the hill, she asked Uncle Angelo to show her where the English service was held each Sunday, and it was then that he offered to show her the English bank. Indeed, the only time she was allowed to go to Monte Carlo by herself was when she suggested that she should pay the Countess four weeks in advance.

It had seemed strange at first to be walking all alone in a foreign town, but she had managed quite well, and the famous bankers had been very courteous to their pretty new client. The gentleman to whom she had given her letter of credit had shaken his head when she had told him about the unfortunate theft of fifty pounds, but he had not been as surprised as she had been that the police had not been told about it.

“It would have been sheer waste of time, my dear young lady,” he said smiling, “and would have only exposed your relations to a great deal of worry. A visit from the police always entails a great deal of fuss and unpleasantness on the Continent.”

During the same little expedition Lily bought, at a very big price, six wicker chairs and a little outdoor table as a present to Aunt Cosy; and to her relief the Countess seemed delighted with the gift. As the days went on it became increasingly clear to Lily Fairfield that either the Count and Countess Polda were very poor, or very mean. They were always trying to save a sou here and a sou there; they were extraordinarily fond, too, of talking about money.

One rather surprising, and, yes, exciting, thing happened to Lily during that long, dull first week at La Solitude.

Captain Stuart wrote her three longish letters. They were simple, informal, pleasant letters, telling her something of how Milan had struck him, and how grateful he was to good-natured M. Popeau. But though they were in a sense quite ordinary epistles, they gave the girl pleasure, and made her feel less lonely.

But when the second letter came Lily could not help having an uncomfortable suspicion that it had been steamed open and then closed down again. She hated herself for suspecting such a thing, but she had already come to the conclusion that Aunt Cosy was sly and, when it suited her, very unscrupulous.

Now, it is an unfortunate fact that slyness always breeds slyness. Lily had a frank, open, straightforward nature; but, then, she had always been treated by Uncle Tom and Aunt Emmeline in a frank, open, straightforward way. Neither of them would have dreamt of opening one of her letters! Had they thought she was carrying on an unsuitable correspondence they would have taxed her with it at once, and Aunt Emmeline might have gone so far as to forbid her to receive letters from a correspondent of whom she did not approve. But it would all have been frank and above board.

Henceforth Lily took good care to be up when the postman came to the door, and so, when Captain Stuart’s third letter arrived on the Saturday morning, it was handed to her direct. In this last letter the Scotsman told her that he hoped to see her at the English Church service on Sunday morning.

That was all. And yet it cast a glow of pleasure over the whole of that long, dull Saturday. It was hot and airless, even up at La Solitude, and in the night there was a terrific storm of thunder, wind, and rain.

CHAPTER VII

Lily got up the next morning feeling very happy and cheerful. Not only were kindly M. Popeau and her new friend Captain Stuart now back in Monte Carlo, but Beppo Polda’s arrival was definitely fixed for the following Tuesday. His mother talked of him incessantly, and was evidently exceedingly anxious to make his visit a success.

Lily could not help feeling touched by Aunt Cosy’s wonderful love of, and pride in, her son, and, as she got ready to start for church, the girl told herself that it would be amusing to see Beppo after having heard so much about him. And then, all at once, she asked herself, blushing a little, how Beppo Polda would get on with Angus Stuart! They were certain to be very different!

“When Beppo is here you will be very gay!” the Countess had exclaimed the night before. “I do not care for Monte Carlo. But you and Uncle Angelo will be there a great deal. Beppo knows all the smart set in London and in Paris as well as in Rome! I hope you have brought some pretty clothes with you, dear child. If not, perhaps it would be well to purchase one or two new dresses, eh?”

“Yes, perhaps I ought to get a few things,” said Lily smiling. “I’ve hardly had anything new since the war. At first I felt it to be wrong; later on everything became so dear!”

“You will not find anything very cheap here,” said Aunt Cosy, shaking her head.

And now, on this Sunday morning, she was sorry that she only had the plain black coat and skirt she had arrived in from London. Still, when she went into the kitchen, on her way out, Cristina looked up, and smiled at her very kindly. “Mademoiselle looks as fresh as a rose,” she exclaimed.

“I’m going to church,” said Lily. “Is there anything I can do for you in the town?”

And then Cristina said that she would be very grateful if Mademoiselle would do a little commission. Not in the town, but on the hill, at the cottage near the chapel where they sold her new-laid eggs. “Has Mademoiselle time to do this before going down to church?”

“Heaps of time,” said Lily gaily, and then she added: “Now that my friends are back in Monte Carlo I hope I shall be able to join the tennis club, so you’ll get rid of me sometimes, Cristina!”

And then Cristina said something which touched the English girl. “I shall miss you very much, my little lady. You are a ray of sunshine in this lonely house.” And the old woman sighed, a long-drawn-out, mournful sigh.

When Lily found herself on the rough path leading upwards towards the top of the great hill she was amazed at the destruction the storm had wrought. Even the sturdy olive trees had suffered, and the more delicate flowering bushes were beaten to the earth.

After doing her errand she walked on a few steps along the path across the mountain side. She felt tired of the road leading down past La Solitude, and so she made up her mind to go down by another way to the town. There was a rough, steep way cut into long, low steps—as is the fashion in those parts—which was bound to bring her not far from the hotel where the service was now held each Sunday morning.

After a while she realised that this new way of going down the hill would take her much longer than the old, familiar way. She glanced at her wrist watch. Though she had allowed herself plenty of time, she must hurry now, or she would be late.

She struck off to her left—intending to pick up the road which led straight down to Monte Carlo—into a beautiful, if obviously neglected, grove of orange trees. As she did so she realised that she had not got nearly so far down the hill as she had supposed, for she was only just below the little clearing where the taxi had stopped on her first arrival at La Solitude.

And then, while walking along a narrow path through a plantation of luxuriant bushes, Lily suddenly experienced what is sometimes described as one’s heart stopping still.

Right in front of her, barring her way, there lay on the still wet earth an arm—stretching right across the path.

She stopped and stared, fearfully, at the stark, still, outstretched arm and hand lying just before her. The sleeve clothing the arm was sodden; the cuff which slightly protruded beyond the sleeve was now a pale, dirty grey; the hand was clenched.

All at once she saw the glint of gold just below the cuff, and she remembered, with a feeling of sick dread, the bangle which George Ponting had worn just a week and a night ago!

She did not turn and run away, as another kind of girl might have done. Instead she covered her face for a moment with her hands, and then forced herself to look again.

At last she stooped down, and then she saw that the arm belonged to a body which was mercifully half-concealed from her terror-stricken gaze by a large broken branch.

The deathly still, huddled-up figure had evidently rolled over forward during the storm from under the shelter of a big spreading bush.

She drew a little nearer, full of an awful feeling of repulsion, as well as of fear. And then she noticed that a small automatic pistol was lying on the coarse grass near the body.

Did that mean that the unhappy man had killed himself? Nay, it was far more likely, so the girl told herself, that he had been set on by the same gang who had broken into La Solitude the very night he had been there.

There was no sign of a struggle, but then the storm of the night before would have obliterated any traces of that sort. In the bright, clear sunlight the raindrops still glistened on the evergreen leaves; it was not only a beautiful but a very peaceful scene.

Again she forced herself to stoop down and look, and then tears welled up slowly into her eyes; it seemed so piteous that what was huddled up there should have once been a man—a man, too, who had seemed so full of life, even of a kind of bubbling vitality, only a few days ago.

She stood up, faced with a disagreeable personal problem. Ought she to go back to La Solitude and tell the Count and Countess Polda of her horrible discovery? Or would she be justified in going on straight down to the town, and first informing the two men who seemed so much more truly her friends than did Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo?

M. Popeau was always so helpful in an emergency. Surely he would know what to do far better than either the Count or Countess? They would probably be very glad to be relieved of whatever might be the necessary steps in such a case as this.

As she had been the first person to find the body, Lily naturally supposed that she would have to see the police, and she knew that it would be less unpleasant to do that with M. Popeau than with her nervous, fussy host, or her queer-tempered hostess.

She walked quickly upwards, to find herself, as she had expected to do, on the little clearing. From there she knew every step of the way down into Monte Carlo. So she hurried on, still feeling terribly shaken and upset, though much more at ease, now that she had made up her mind as to what she ought to do.

As Lily approached the hotel where the English Church service was always held, she noticed that people were walking up to the door, reading a notice that had been pinned up on it, and then turning away. The notice explained that as the chaplain was ill there would be no service that morning.

A deep, low voice suddenly sounded in her ears, “Good morning, Miss Fairfield.”

Such commonplace words! Yet as Captain Stuart held out his hand, for the second time to-day the tears welled up into Lily’s eyes. But this time it was because there had come over her a sensation of such infinite relief. Somehow she felt as if the man before her was a bit of home, and she realised how dreadfully lonely and forlorn she had been since they had last met.

As for Angus Stuart, he was looking at Lily with concern. She looked ill—very ill! She was pale, and there was a look of terror on her face. What could have happened? A feeling of positive hatred for the Count and Countess Polda rose up in the young man’s mind. What could they have done to make the girl look as she was looking this morning?

“Is anything the matter?” he asked abruptly.

Lily pulled herself together. “Forgive me!” she exclaimed. “It’s stupid of me to be so upset. But something dreadful has happened to me this morning! I’ll tell you about it, and then you will be able to advise me as to whether I ought to go to the police—now, at once. I also thought of asking M. Popeau what I had better do.”

“Tell me what happened,” he said quietly. “We will go and find Popeau presently. He’s taking a little constitutional up and down outside the Hôtel de Paris.”

And then Lily told him shortly and quietly of her awful discovery in the orange grove.

Angus Stewart was greatly surprised as well as concerned at her story. Then he had done the Count and Countess Polda an injustice? They were in no way responsible for the way Lily Fairfield looked this morning.

“D’you mean that you’ve no doubt that the poor fellow you found to-day was the man who was dining at La Solitude the night you arrived?” he asked.

The fact struck him with fresh surprise. What queer people Count Polda must know! He had very little doubt in his own mind that the unfortunate Ponting had committed suicide after a big loss at the Casino.

“I think I can say that I am quite sure,” she answered, in a troubled voice. “But I confess I didn’t look at—at the face. In fact, I tried not to see it! Oh, Captain Stuart, I feel as if I shall never, never get that hand—that cuff—that bangle—out of my mind! I seem to see the poor fellow’s arm lying across the path, as if barring my way——”

He saw that her eyes were fixed with a look of horror on the ground in front of her.

“Look here!” he exclaimed authoritatively. “That’s quite wrong, Miss Fairfield—really wrong! Life is full of tragedy and unhappiness. I’ve seen some very terrible things in the last five years, and though I don’t exactly want to forget them, I never allow my mind to dwell on them. It’s morbid, as well as wrong! No doubt the poor man had lost heavily in the Rooms, and thought he would put an end to his troubles. But it was very selfish of him to go and do it there—in the garden of the people who seem to have been so kind to him.”

“If he really did do it, he didn’t do it exactly in their garden,” she said in a low voice; “it was—oh, well, I should think quite thirty yards below the place where the grounds of La Solitude end. He chose the place so carefully that it might have been months before he would have been found, had it not been that I rather foolishly thought I should like to try and find a new way down into the town.”

Somehow it was a comfort to Lily to find that Captain Stuart felt so sure Mr. Ponting had killed himself.

There was a pause. And then: “I feel better now that I’ve told you,” said Lily in a low voice.

“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “After all, we know that there are a certain number of suicides each year at Monte Carlo, though Popeau declares that there are much fewer than people believe.”

They found the Frenchman walking up and down in front of the Hôtel de Paris, and Lily, troubled and upset though she was, told herself that she had never seen such a delightful scene! The palace-like white Casino, the brilliant-coloured flowers, the palms, the blue-green sea, made a delightful background to the groups of cheerful, prosperous-looking people who were walking about the big open space between the hotel and the Casino. It seemed like a scene on another planet compared to the hillside and the quiet, lonely house where she had spent the last week. But she could not help reminding herself that ten days ago poor George Ponting had probably formed part of this gay, carefree crowd.

“Welcome!” cried M. Popeau, in his hearty voice. “It seems a long time, Miss Fairfield, since I saw you. I hope that you are very well, and that all goes happily at La Solitude?”

“Miss Fairfield has just had a most painful experience,” said Captain Stuart gravely. And then, in a few dry words, he told their French friend what had happened. But, perhaps because Lily again turned very pale, he made his story quite short.

Hearing the tale from another’s lips, brought back what had happened with dreadful vividness to poor Lily. Her lips quivered.

“I suppose I ought to go straight to the police,” she said nervously, “and I thought, M. Popeau, that perhaps you would not mind going with me?”

“Of course I will go with you.” He spoke very feelingly and kindly. “Try not to think too much of this sad event, my dear young lady. There has always been that one black blot on this beautiful place.”

He waved his hand towards the Casino. “Yonder is a monster which destroys the happiness of many while sometimes capriciously making the happiness of one. And now I suggest an early déjeuner. The Count and Countess cannot expect you back for another hour and a half at least. An English Church service goes on for a long time. You will be more ready to face my old friend, the Commissioner of Police, after a good lunch!”

Lily knew that a very small luncheon was to have been kept for her, and she could not help looking forward to a good meal. Yet when it was put before her she felt suddenly as if she could not eat.

M. Popeau always sat at a delightful little table in one of the great windows of the famous restaurant, and all three were soon happily established there. But the kindly host saw with concern that poor Lily looked at the delicious hors-d’oeuvres with a kind of aversion.

He put out his hand and laid it lightly over hers. “Come, come,” he said, and there was a touch of command in his voice, “this won’t do! I should have starved to death a very long time ago if I had allowed the sad things I have seen and heard to stop my appetite!”

Lily could not help smiling at the funny way he said this, but, “What makes it so much worse,” she said in a low voice, “is having actually known the poor man.”

“What d’you say?” said M. Popeau in a startled voice. “Known the poor man? I didn’t know that!”

“I forgot to tell you,” interposed Captain Stuart, “that as a matter of fact, Miss Fairfield is convinced that the body she saw is that of an Englishman called Ponting who had dinner at La Solitude the evening of the day she arrived there, a week ago yesterday.”

Lily turned her head away; the tears were now rolling down her cheeks.

“That certainly must have made the horrible discovery much worse for you,” said M. Popeau sympathetically. “Did this Mr. Ponting seem at all worried or depressed, Mademoiselle?”

“No, I can’t say that he did. We had a talk when he first arrived, for the Count and Countess left me alone with him for about ten minutes. Though he said he had lost a good bit of money, he didn’t seem to mind. I remember his saying: ‘I’ve done with Monte Carlo, and I’ve got off cheap, considering!’”

She felt it was too bad that she should spoil this pleasant lunch for her two kind friends. They all made a determined effort to talk of other things, and as the time went on, Lily unconsciously began to feel better.

“And how is my friend the Countess?” asked M. Popeau suddenly. “That woman interests me; I could not tell you why, but she seems to me a remarkable person—one with a tremendous amount of will power. I would not care to have been married to her! Hercules Popeau would have been a poor little bit of wax between her strong fingers.”

The other two smiled, but he had meant what he said.

And then a feeling of loyalty to her hostess made Lily exclaim: “I think the Count is quite happy, M. Popeau. They seem devoted to one another, and just now they are extra happy——”

“Why that?” asked Captain Stuart drily.

“Because their son, who lives in Rome, is coming to pay them a visit. They simply worship him!” She added: “I’m quite looking forward to seeing him. According to the Countess, he’s a most wonderful young man! He’s a great athlete, and yet——” she hesitated, “though only twenty-seven, he did not fight. Is that not odd? His mother says he served Italy better by staying in Rome.”

“Ah, an embusqué!” exclaimed M. Popeau.

“I hope not that!” said Lily.

“I should expect any child of hers to be exceptionally good-looking,” went on the Frenchman reflectively.

“Would you?” Lily was rather surprised.

“Yes, for the Countess Polda must have been very handsome in her day.”

“That’s true!” exclaimed Lily. “When she came and stayed with us in England when I was a little girl, I remember thinking her the most beautiful person I had ever seen! But somehow—I don’t know why—she looks very different now.”

“It is a great art—that of knowing how to grow old gracefully,” said M. Popeau sententiously. “The Countess does not possess that art. Only a very few women do possess it, my dear young lady. As you grow older do not forget the words of Hercules Popeau—every age has its own beauty. That is not an original remark; I believe it was first made by our great Napoleon when speaking of his mother, a very noble woman.”

And then Lily, her new trouble for the moment out of her mind, went on: “The Countess says that she would like her son to marry an Englishwoman.”

“Does she, indeed? and he is arriving here to-morrow?”

M. Popeau spoke with a touch of meaning in his voice, and the colour suddenly flamed up on Lily’s face; yet she felt sure that Aunt Cosy had had no particular person in her mind when she had made that remark.

“What is the name of this prodigy?”

“Beppo Polda.”

“Count Beppo Polda?” repeated the Frenchman. “I must try and find out something about this young gentleman, for I propose to do myself the honour of calling again on the Countess one day soon.”

By this time they were drinking their coffee, and while the two men each enjoyed a liqueur, M. Popeau made Lily drink a second cup of coffee.

When she had finished he said: “Now, my dear young lady, we had better go and look up my friend Bouton. He will not like being disturbed on a Sunday, but I feel you will be more comfortable when you have seen him. I want you to forget this sad affair—to wipe it out of your mind completely.”

He made a gesture in the air as if he was rubbing something out.

Lily felt as if she could never, never forget what had happened that morning. But she did not say so. She was asking herself, with some perplexity, where she had heard the name Bouton, and then, all at once, she remembered! It was the name which had produced such an extraordinary change in the taxicab-driver on the day of her arrival at Monte Carlo.

CHAPTER VIII

As they walked along the broad road which leads steeply down from Monte Carlo to the quaintly named Condamine, M. Popeau began talking almost as much to himself as to his young companion.

“The man we’re going to see,” he said, “is an autocrat, Miss Fairfield—one of the last real autocrats left in Europe. He has absolute power in this little country—I mean in Monaco. From his ruling there is no appeal. I remember he once caused an Englishman to be what would now be called deported. A fearful fuss was made about it! The man—his name was Johnson—was a nasty, cantankerous fellow, and it seemed that he had some relation in your Foreign Office. The affair dragged on for months—frightful threats were uttered. The British Ambassador in Paris was brought in—in fact it is not too much to say that had Monaco been a real country, with a fleet and an army, war might have resulted. But friend Bouton stuck to his guns, as the British so cleverly and truly say, and poor Johnson never came back!”

They were now turning into a very quiet, shadowed street composed of small but prosperous-looking houses.

“Just one word, Miss Fairfield!” Lily’s companion, guide, and mentor, stopped walking.

“Please do not volunteer any information unless you are asked a direct question,” he said gravely. “Even then it is not necessary for you to answer a question unless you wish to do so. I will tell the Commissioner of Police what happened, and I hope—I am not sure, but I think I may say that that will be the end of the matter as far as you are concerned.”

“I suppose I shall have to show the police where I found the body?” asked Lily in a low voice.

“I trust that will not be necessary.”

A few moments later they were standing in a formal-looking sitting-room, on the ground floor of the house to which they had been admitted by a pleasant-looking bonne à tout faire.

After they had waited some minutes the door opened and a tall, thin man, with a napkin tucked in his collar, entered with hand outstretched.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, dear friend! What can I do for you?” he exclaimed. “You have come just too late to share our Sunday lunch. My married daughter, her husband, and her two children have come over from Nice and we have been having something of a festival. Sit down—sit down!”

As he spoke he was measuring Lily with what she felt to be a pair of very sharp eyes.

“I am ashamed to have come on a Sunday,” began M. Popeau.

“Not at all—not at all! I am delighted to see you,” said M. Bouton, “and there are certain things that will not wait. I hope Mademoiselle is not a new victim of the gang of thieves I mentioned to you yesterday? So far they have spared the Hôtel de Paris. But I have a clue—and it will not be long before they are laid by the heels.”

“I am here,” said M. Popeau quietly, “because a sad thing befell this lady, Miss Fairfield, to-day on her way to the English Church service. She is staying in a villa called La Solitude, some way above Monte Carlo, and, wandering a little way off the path, she suddenly came across a dead body! Of course, it gave her a terrible shock.”

To Lily’s astonishment, M. Bouton did not look surprised.

“Very sad,” he murmured. “The matter will have my very earnest attention. If Mademoiselle will give me a few particulars as to the locality where she made this painful discovery I will see to the matter at once. Would you kindly come this way?”

He opened the door, and passed on, in front of them, into a room built out at the back of the house. It was obviously his own study.

“Here is the plan of our Principality,” he observed, and Lily, glancing up, saw that a huge map covered one entire side of the room.

“Will you point out the exact spot where you made your sad discovery?” went on M. Bouton, handing her a long, light stick.

Lily stared anxiously up at the map, but she had no bump of locality on her pretty head.

M. Popeau took the thin stick from her hand. He laid the point lightly on the map, and pushed it up and up and up!

“Here is La Solitude,” he said at last, “so now we shall be able to find the exact place.”

“Ah, yes,” said M. Bouton. “La Solitude belongs to Count Antonio Polda. He and the Countess are nice, quiet people, almost the only people in Monaco with whom I have never had any trouble! It is my impression that somewhere about the fourteenth century a Grimaldi married a Polda—so the Count is distantly related to our sovereign.”

“Mademoiselle is a niece of the Countess Polda,” said M. Popeau quietly. “She is staying at La Solitude for the winter.”

M. Bouton looked at Lily with enhanced respect.

“Now take La Solitude as the point of departure, and try to concentrate your mind on where you found the body,” said M. Popeau, handing Lily back the cane.

She moved the point slowly, hesitatingly, down the map.

“Surely you are going too far!” cried M. Popeau.

“Perhaps I am——”

She knitted her brow in some distress. “Do you remember the place where our taxicab stopped?” she asked.

“Of course I do—it’s marked here.”

He took the wand from her hand. “Here it is—this little white spot.”

“It was just below there,” said Lily.

“Was it? How very strange!” exclaimed M. Popeau. And then he looked at the other man. “Do you remember what happened just there, six years ago, the last time I was at Monte Carlo, Bouton?”

The other shook his head.

“The affair of the Mexican millionaire!” exclaimed M. Popeau.

The Commissioner of Police turned round quickly. “I remember all about it now! Why, you’re right—it was just at that spot that he was found dead, too. What a strange coincidence! They mostly do it, as you know, within a very short distance of the Casino. You’d be astonished to know the number of poor devils who go and destroy themselves in that rather lonely place just beyond the station. They rush out of the Casino full of anguish and despair, and wander down the road. I always have a man stationed on point duty there—he has stopped more than one poor fellow from destroying himself. Ah, our beautiful, brilliant Monte Carlo has a very melancholy reverse side, has it not?” and he sighed.

But M. Popeau was still staring at the map. “It is indeed an amazing coincidence!” he muttered. “The more one thinks of it, the more amazing it is.”

“Yes, it certainly is a very curious thing that the Mexican should have been found in that very plantation,” said the Police Commissioner thoughtfully, “but life’s full of odd coincidences.”

“It will be quite easy for your people to find the body without further troubling Mademoiselle, will it not?”

“Certainly it will,” said M. Bouton. “Mademoiselle must try to forget this painful incident; and if I may offer a word of advice—” he waited, and looked rather searchingly into Lily’s candid, open face—“I counsel that Mademoiselle does not talk of what happened to any friends she may have in Monte Carlo. It naturally annoys the Casino Administration when these painful accidents are made the subject of gossip. Can we rely on Mademoiselle’s discretion? Is it necessary that she should tell anyone about the matter?”

A troubled look came over Lily’s face. “I feel I ought to tell the Count and Countess Polda,” she said reluctantly. “For they knew the poor man quite well.”

“Did they, indeed?” exclaimed the Commissioner of Police. “You did not tell me that, Mademoiselle.” He looked surprised. “Then can you tell me the suicide’s name?”

M. Popeau was standing behind M. Bouton, and Lily was astonished to see how upset he looked—he even made a sign to her to stop talking. She hesitated. But M. Bouton looked straight into her face and said sharply: “I don’t understand! I thought Mademoiselle had come across the dead body of an unknown man. I had no idea that she knew who the man was.”

He turned on M. Popeau. “You did not tell me that!” he exclaimed.

“There was nothing to tell,” said M. Popeau quietly. “Mademoiselle did not see the dead man’s face. She thinks it possible the body she saw was that of a man who dined at La Solitude about a fortnight ago. That is all.”

“Only a week ago!” corrected Lily. “And I am sure it was the man I saw. He wore a peculiar kind of gold bangle or bracelet on his wrist, and there was a gold bangle on the wrist of——” she faltered, overcome with the vision her own words evoked of that stiff, stark arm lying across her path.

“What was his name and nationality?” asked M. Bouton, taking a writing pad and pencil off the table.

“His name was Ponting,” said Lily slowly, “P.O.N.T.I.N.G., and I think he said he came from Pernambuco.”

M. Bouton suddenly uttered an exclamation of mingled surprise and relief. He rapidly unlocked a drawer in his writing-table, and took a packet out of it. “Your discovery, Mademoiselle, sets a mystery at rest! I was a fool not to think of it at once, for we have had urgent inquiries all this last week about this very man. But it never occurred to any of us that he had committed suicide—everything seemed against it! This is another proof that in a place like Monte Carlo you never can tell,” he went on, addressing his French friend. “People come here when they are desperate—not only desperate with regard to money—though, of course, that is the most common case—but desperate with regard to other things; they come to drown disappointment and sorrow—they fail in doing so, and then they kill themselves! Perhaps that is what happened to this man Ponting.”

“Yet he seemed quite happy,” observed Lily thoughtfully.

M. Bouton hardly heard what she said. He was showing his friend and colleague the little packet of letters he held in his hand.

Lily waited a moment or two. “Then I may tell the Count and Countess Polda?” she asked.

“I think we shall save you that trouble, Mademoiselle. After the body is found we shall have to ask the Count and Countess to submit to a short interrogation. We should not dream of troubling them were it not that this Mr. Ponting had a friend who is much distressed at his disappearance. We shall be glad, therefore, to know exactly how he spent his last evening. Did you yourself see him leave La Solitude?”

“No,” said Lily. “I had only arrived that day, and I went to bed early; but I heard the Countess say good-bye to him about a quarter of an hour after I had gone upstairs. As the house is not very substantially built, one hears everything.”

“That is an important point,” said M. Bouton. “You heard him leave the house, and then no more? You did not hear the shot fired, Mademoiselle?”

“I heard nothing at all. But I was very, very tired, and I went to sleep at once.”

She wondered if she ought to say anything about the burglary which had taken place that night. Then she remembered what both the Countess and the banker had said that bringing the police into the affair would only make a fuss and an unpleasantness for nothing. So she remained silent.

At last M. Bouton conducted them to his front door. He bowed to Lily, and shook hands warmly with M. Popeau.

“Without knowing it,” he exclaimed, “you’ve done me a great service, my good friend! I confess I do not like being disturbed on Sunday—the weekdays are full enough of trouble and of perplexing affairs. But I am more glad than I can say that what I may call the Ponting mystery has been cleared up in so satisfactory a manner. We’ve had a great deal of worry over the matter. But the cleverest of my detectives—I call him the bloodhound—was convinced that M. Ponting was not only alive, but far from here engaged in having a very good time! The theory of suicide we had completely dismissed from our minds. Does not this show how wrong even the most experienced people may be when dealing with human life and human problems?”

After they had walked a little way in silence, Lily suddenly turned to her companion and exclaimed: “I’m afraid you did not approve of my telling M. Bouton that I knew about poor Mr. Ponting?”

“As a general rule, my dear young lady, the innocent cannot say too little to the police. But I confess that this time I was wrong; I’m very glad that you spoke with complete frankness, though I do not suppose the Count and Countess will be pleased——”

“I don’t see why they should mind,” but even as she uttered the words a slight feeling of discomfort came over Lily.

M. Popeau smiled rather mysteriously.

“People do not care to be mixed up with affairs of this kind, especially in Monte Carlo. You heard what our friend said? The Count and Countess, though they have lived here many years, have never troubled the police. They have never even had a row with one of their servants! Well, now that record is broken. A suicide has been found on their property.”

“Not on their property,” corrected Lily. “Near their property.”

“That makes it all the harder for them to be brought into the matter,” said M. Popeau good-humouredly. “Mr. Ponting ill-repaid their hospitality.”

At that moment they both caught sight of Captain Stuart hurrying down towards them.

“Well?” he called out, “is it alright?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Yes,” replied M. Popeau, “quite alright! And now we must think of something to distract and interest Miss Fairfield for at least two or three hours. By that time everything up there at La Solitude will be over, and I do not want her to be associated with it in any way.”

Captain Stuart nodded. He thoroughly approved.

“I don’t suppose you feel in the mood for the Casino?” He turned to the girl. “Besides, it’s Sunday—and even I have an old-fashioned prejudice against gambling on Sunday!”

“Why shouldn’t we go up to the Golf Club?” suggested the Frenchman. “It’s quite a pleasant expedition, and from there it’s an agreeable walk to La Solitude.”

CHAPTER IX

The afternoon that Lily Fairfield spent on what is, perhaps, the most beautiful of all the golf courses in Europe will ever be remembered by her as a delightful interlude in a very troubled time.

For three hours she forgot the terrible thing which had happened to her that morning, or, if she could not entirely forget it, it receded into the background of her mind.

Everything is made easy—almost too easy—for the visitor to Monte Carlo. Thus Lily found an excellent set of clubs provided for her, and with M. Popeau looking on benevolently, she and Captain Stuart had a splendid game.

But when, at last, the three of them stood in front of the shabby front door of La Solitude, a feeling of apprehension, almost of terror, came over the girl.

“I hope Aunt Cosy won’t be angry with me for having gone to the Commissioner of Police,” she said nervously.

“You were quite right to do so,” said Captain Stuart shortly.

As for M. Popeau, he exclaimed, “Do let me come in with you, dear little lady! I can promise so to put the matter to the Countess that she will not be angry.”

But Lily shook her head. “I’m not such a coward as that.” She added, impatiently, “I do wish Cristina would come and open the door! I can’t think why they keep it locked. It’s literally the only way into the house, unless one of the drawing-room windows is open. In England there’s always a nice back door to a house of this sort.”

As she said the words, the door did open, and Cristina cautiously peered out to see who was there. The poor old waiting woman was very pale, and the two men, as well as Lily, were startled at her look of illness and of fear.

“Something terrible has happened!” Cristina muttered. “I fear I cannot ask the gentlemen to come in. We are in trouble here.”

“I’m glad they know. That will save you a disagreeable moment,” whispered M. Popeau, as he pressed Lily’s hand.

Cristina cut short Lily’s farewells, and shut the door almost rudely in the Frenchman’s face.

“I’m sorry you have come back,” she said to Lily, in a very low tone. “I wish you had stayed away till dinner-time! A fearful thing has happened!”

“I know,” said Lily soothingly. “You mean about Mr. Ponting.”

“You know?” echoed Cristina amazed, and she turned a startled look on the girl’s face.

“It was I who found the body and told the police,” the girl answered quietly. “But there is nothing to be frightened about, Cristina, though, of course, it is very, very sad.”

She was speaking in her usual clear voice, when suddenly the drawing room opened and the Countess peeped out. Her face was dusky red, and convulsed with anger.

“What is all this noise?” she exclaimed in French; “we cannot hear ourselves speak!”

Then, as she saw who it was, she went on, more quietly, in English, “Something very, very sad has occurred. You remember Mr. Ponting coming here to dinner? Well, after leaving the house that unhappy man, who had evidently been losing heavily at the tables, went out and killed himself. A cruel return for our hospitality! I desire you, Lily, to come in and tell this gentleman what you remember of that evening.”

Lily looked at the speaker, astonished at her state of agitation. The Countess Polda’s face looked terrible under the bright, auburn-brown hair on her “front.” Her hands were trembling. Even her voice seemed changed—it was as if she had lost control over it.

“Come in! Come in!” she cried impatiently, and yet she herself had been blocking the door.

Lily walked through into the drawing-room, and she saw that the Count, who also looked disturbed, though much less so than his wife, was sitting at his green baize card-table, apparently affixing his name to some kind of paper.

Opposite to him stood a man of about forty. The stranger had a pleasant, keen face, and though he was not in uniform, Lily felt sure he had come from M. Bouton. Somehow, she could hardly have told why, the sight of him reassured her.

“Come, come,” he said good-humouredly, “you must not allow this to disturb you so much, Madame la Comtesse. Desperate men are not likely to show much delicacy, even to those who have been kind to them. We are very glad indeed that the body has been found. My chief said to me only two hours ago that he owed a great debt to the young English lady.”

“The young English lady?” repeated the Countess. “Whom do you mean?”

“It was this lady, was it not, who found the body?” he replied, looking at Lily.

“Yes, I found the body,” Lily answered falteringly, for the Countess was now looking at her with a fearful expression of questioning anger on her face.

The man went on: “M. Bouton is most grateful to this young lady for having come and told him at once, to-day. But for Mademoiselle, the body of this man, Ponting, might have lain there a whole year! As you of course know, M. le Comte, that piece of property which lies just below your own orange grove belongs to that eccentric Sir John Cranion.”

“I know,” said the Count, looking up, “for I myself have tried to buy the property more than once. I wish more than ever now that I had done so, for we should have had it properly enclosed, and then this tragedy could not have happened there.”

“It would have happened somewhere else,” said the Frenchman philosophically. “And now, if Madame la Comtesse will also put her signature to this statement, I shall not trouble you any more, ladies and gentlemen.”

He waited a moment. “By great good luck, Mr. Ponting’s partner happened to be in Monte Carlo this afternoon. One of my men came across him in front of the Casino—they have all grown only too familiar with his appearance. He is, of course, very much distressed, and, what is more, foolishly convinced that his friend did not kill himself!”

“How can anyone feel any doubt about it?” cried Count Polda. “Everything points to the fact that the unhappy man, after leaving us, went off and shot himself. We all thought him very excited, and in a strange kind of mood—did we not?” he glanced at his wife, and at Lily.

“The funeral will take place to-morrow morning at the English cemetery,” went on the police-agent. “And that ends the story.”

“Would you like to interrogate my English niece?” asked the Countess suavely. She was beginning to recover her composure.

“No, I do not think it will be necessary. My chief himself saw the young lady, and heard what she had to say.”

He took his hat from one of the chairs. “And now,” he said politely, “I must bid you au revoir, and I hope it will be a long time before we have occasion to meet again!”

“Would you like to go out by this short way?” asked the Count obligingly. He opened a window, and the man, who Lily now felt sure was “the bloodhound,” passed rapidly through it, with a bow and a smile, and began walking across the lawn.

The Countess suddenly touched her husband’s arm. “Run after him,” she exclaimed, “and ask at what time the funeral will take place. I think it would be a mark of respect on your part to attend.”

He hesitated perceptibly.

“Do what I suggest!” she said urgently. “I am sure, Angelo, that I am right—quite, quite sure!”

The Count looked at his wife, and, after that look, he too went through the window, and began running after their late unwelcome guest.

And then all at once there crept over Lily Fairfield an acute, unreasoning sensation of acute, unreasoning fear. She told herself that her nerves were all upset; that everything was all right now. But——

The Countess shut the window; she turned round and put her arms akimbo; and Lily had never thought such anger and venomous rage could fill a human countenance. Instinctively she moved back, till a chair stood between herself and the woman who was now looking at her with such a terrible expression on her face.

“I do not at all understand what happened,” said the Countess at last, and though she did not raise her voice there was something very menacing in the tone in which she uttered these commonplace words. “Tell me exactly what took place this morning. How was it that you were away from the road? Why were you wandering in that deserted garden? Were you alone, or in company?”

Lily looked at her straight in the eyes.

“Of course I was alone, Aunt Cosy. I was on my way to church. As it was still early, I thought I would go down to the town by a new way.”

Her voice faltered and broke, and she burst into bitter tears.

The Countess pointed imperiously to one of the moth-eaten armchairs, and the trembling girl sat down on it, and buried her face in her hands.

“What I really want to discover”—the words were uttered with slow, terrible emphasis—“is why you went to the police without consulting us? Surely it would have been easy to come back to the house and tell your Uncle Angelo of your discovery?”

And then, perhaps fortunately, for Lily would have been hard put to it to give a truthful answer to that question, the Countess, carried away by her feelings of indignation and outraged wrath, hurried on, without waiting for the weeping girl’s reply:

“But no! It seemed simpler to go down and let all Monte Carlo know what had happened! I suppose it was your friend, Captain Stuart, who advised you to do that foolish thing—to go to the police?”

Lily raised her tear-stained face.

“No, it was not Captain Stuart,” she said dully. “I thought of it myself, Aunt Cosy. It was the first thing one would have done in England.”

“England is not Monte Carlo!” exclaimed the Countess harshly. “How often have I to tell you that? I shall never forget this afternoon—never! Thank God, my Beppo was not here!”

And then a most fortunate inspiration came to Lily Fairfield.

“The Commissioner of Police spoke very highly of you and of Uncle Angelo,” she said falteringly. “He seemed very sorry that such a thing should have happened so near La Solitude. He said you were related to the Prince of Monaco—I never knew that, Aunt Cosy.”

“It is not a relationship which we have ever presumed upon,” said the Countess rather stiffly, but her face cleared somewhat, “though it is true that hundreds of years ago a Grimaldi married a Polda. Still, I am glad of what you tell me, Lily, and it will console your uncle for the painful ordeal he had to go through. You will understand why I feel so angry and, yes, so hurt, that you have brought this trouble upon us, when I tell you that your Uncle Angelo had the awful task of identifying the body!”

An exclamation of regret and concern came from Lily’s lips. She did indeed feel very sorry for the Count.

“And then,” went on the Countess, “the affair has so upset Cristina! I really thought at one moment she would drop dead. But now”—she tried to smile, but it was much more like a grimace—“now we must all try and forget that it happened!” She took a turn about the room. “And I beg of you most earnestly, dear child, not to say a word about it to my son.”

“I promise that I will not do so,” said Lily eagerly.

“I am glad for your sake that that odious man did not ask for a statement from you. Had you to sign anything at the police station?” To Lily’s intense relief, she now spoke quite amiably, and her face was again set in its usual grim, handsome immobility.

“No, I was not asked to sign anything,” said the girl. “In fact, the Commissioner did not ask me many questions. He only wanted to know at what time poor Mr. Ponting left La Solitude, and I told him that as I was going up to bed I had heard you say good night to him. And, of course, of course, Aunt Cosy——” she blushed, and looked distressed.

“Yes?” said the Countess uneasily, “yes? What is it Lily? Is there anything that you’ve not yet told me?” A look of apprehension came into her eyes.

“I did not think it necessary to say that I thought poor Mr. Ponting had had too much to drink.”

“I’m glad you kept that to yourself!” There was great relief in the Countess’s voice. “I did not like to ask you, dear child, but, of course, I have had that painful memory in my mind all the time. To people like us there is something so strange in the love of strong drink. The first time that poor man came here he took a little too much, and I remonstrated with the Count—I begged him not to bring him again. But alas! Angelo has so kind a heart, and the poor fellow seemed so lonely.”

“I suppose one cannot help a guest having too much wine?” said Lily hesitatingly. There had come back to her mind the way the Count had filled up his guest’s glass again and again.

“It is difficult—very difficult! But you may have noticed that I offered him water?”

“Yes, I did notice that,” said Lily.

“Can you remember any of the questions asked you by that M. Bouton?”

Lily shook her head. “He asked me hardly any questions. He seemed exceedingly glad that I felt so sure it was Mr. Ponting’s body, for he had been having a lot of trouble over the poor man’s disappearance.”

Lily got up from the chair on which she was sitting.

“Please forgive me,” she said pleadingly. “I am very, very sorry that I’ve brought all this trouble and worry on you and on Uncle Angelo. It wasn’t my fault.”

“No, it was not your fault,” said the Countess graciously, “and I must ask you, dear child, to accept my own apology. I fear you thought me rather unkind. But you do not know—English people never can understand—how very disagreeable any fracas with the police can be, in either France or Italy. It means such endless trouble!”

The Countess walked to the window, she opened it and looked out into the semi-darkness.

“I suppose Angelo walked on down the hill with that man—perhaps to find out for himself the hour of the funeral. Do you mean to go to it, dear child?”

The question surprised Lily. “Would you like me to do so, Aunt Cosy?”

The Countess remained silent for a few moments.

“Yes,” she said decidedly. “It would be a mark of respect. I will not offer to go myself. There are things I must do before the arrival of my beloved Beppo. And then I could not walk up the hill again. I should have to have a carriage. You and Uncle Angelo do not mind walking.” She lowered her voice: “With regard to Cristina, encourage her to think of other things. Fortunately, she is fond of Beppo. His coming will be a distraction and pleasure to us all. Oh, my dear Lily, I do hope that my son and you will be good pals—as you so funnily say in England!”

It was past the hour at which they generally sat down to their simple evening meal. And Lily and the Countess were already in the dining-room when Count Polda walked in and sat down.

His wife was looking at him anxiously. “Is it all right?” she said in English. And he replied in French: “Yes—quite all right. The funeral is at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.” He sighed. “I am hungry!” he exclaimed plaintively.

The Countess got up and went to the sideboard. From there she brought back a beautiful liqueur decanter which Lily knew contained brandy.

“Have a little of this. It will do you good,” she said solicitously.

There was a pause. “Lily is very sorry that she brought all this trouble upon us, Angelo. But it was not her fault, poor child. She did not know any better. We must try and forget this tragedy—and nothing must be said of all this to Beppo, or in front of Beppo.”

“No, indeed!” said the Count.

And then his wife remarked rather suddenly: “I hope you remembered to order a wreath, Angelo?”

“Yes, I did remember.”

“Ah, that is right! I have told Lily that I should like her to go with you to Mr. Ponting’s funeral.”

“That is an excellent idea, Cosy!” The Count smiled. For once he looked really pleased, and Lily told herself, not for the first time, that he was a very odd sort of man.

CHAPTER X

As she got up the next morning Lily began to shrink inexpressibly from the thought of going to poor Mr. Ponting’s funeral. She longed to summon up courage and tell Aunt Cosy that she really felt too ill. As so often happens after a shock, she felt far worse to-day than she had done even immediately after her fearful discovery.

She went downstairs with laggard steps, to be met in the corridor below by the Countess.

“There is a quarter of an hour before you and Uncle Angelo must start,” she exclaimed, “and I have told Cristina to boil you an egg. Coffee is not sufficiently substantial.”

She shepherded the unresisting girl into the kitchen. Cristina’s eyes were swollen; she looked as if she had been crying all night.

“Now sit down,” commanded the Countess, “and eat what you call in England a good breakfast. It is right to show sorrow when something sad has happened, but do not look as if you yourself were dying! I do not want people to think that you, Lily, were in love with Mr. Ponting.”

Lily felt a shock of disgust. What a vulgar, heartless thing to say! She grew very red, and Aunt Cosy laughed harshly.

And yet the Countess Polda was feeling far better disposed to the girl than was usual with her. As she watched Lily daintily eating her egg, she was telling herself that her guest was certainly a very pretty girl. The type, too, that Beppo admired—that fair, rather delicate, English type dowered with an exquisitely clear complexion and what the French call blond cendré hair.

The pleasant thought that her beloved son would certainly approve of Lily cheered up the Countess mightily, and when Lily stood up she patted the girl’s hand. “You look very nice,” she said. “That black coat and skirt and the little toque compose just the right costume to wear on such a sad occasion as this.”

The Count’s voice was heard in the passage. “Cosy! Cosy!” he called out impatiently.

The Countess hurried out of the kitchen. And then Cristina seized Lily by the arm; “You will say a prayer for me,” she said in a trembling voice, “will you not, Mademoiselle?”

Lily was touched. “Yes,” she said, a little shyly, “I will certainly do so, Cristina.”

“I shall never forget yesterday—never—never—never!” Cristina uttered the words in a low voice, but with a terrible intensity.

“But you must try and forget yesterday,” said Lily firmly. “I mean to force myself to put out of my mind what happened yesterday morning. That, honestly, was much worse than anything that can have happened to you afterwards.”

“Yes, indeed! Had I been you I should have fainted!”

At that moment, “Lily! Lily!” came from the passage. “Come, my child, come! Your Uncle Angelo is quite ready.”

Lily ran into the corridor, and then, had it not been such a sad occasion, she would have burst out laughing! For the Count was dressed in an extraordinary costume. He wore a seedy old black dress suit, and on his head was a dirty white Panama hat with a deep black crape band. But Uncle Angelo was obviously quite unaware of the ludicrous effect he produced in the English girl’s eyes.

“Come, come,” he said impatiently. “I want to be in good time at the cemetery, for I shall have to leave at once after the funeral. There are several things I have to do in the town.”

“Do not forget to order the carriage for Beppo to-morrow,” called out the Countess.

“Is it likely that I should forget that?” There was a touch of scornful ill-temper in the Count’s usually placid tone.

The two curiously unlike companions walked down the hill in almost absolute silence. Lily often felt consciously glad that Uncle Angelo was such a very quiet, reserved person. Aunt Cosy’s constant torrent of talk tired and bewildered the girl.

“The cemetery is on the Nice road,” said Count Polda at last; “this is the shortest way to it.” They were now going down a rough stairway cut in the hillside.

It was still so early that there were only a few country folk laden with country produce trudging towards Monte Carlo. A delicious breeze blew up from the sea on to the broad, exquisitely-kept carriage-road which links Monaco with Beaulieu.

They had been walking along that road for only a few minutes when they were joined by M. Popeau. Lily was secretly very glad to see him, yet she was also surprised—not so surprised however, as he was to see her.

He turned courteously to Count Polda. “I have been wondering if you and Mademoiselle would care to go with me to the Prince of Monaco’s beautiful aquarium—I mean, of course, after the sad ceremony is over?”

“I fear I cannot have the pleasure you so amiably propose,” muttered the Count. “But I do not see why my niece should not avail herself of your kind thought. It would, as you say, distract her mind.” He spoke in a weary, preoccupied tone, as if hardly thinking of what he was saying.

They turned into the gate of the cemetery, and made their way to that portion of it where those English folk who die at Monte Carlo are reverently laid to rest. They soon came to the place they were looking for, and found a tiny gathering round the open grave. Lily was the only woman there, and her eyes filled with tears as she listened to the beautiful, solemn words of the English Burial Service being read over poor Mr. Ponting’s coffin.

Short as was the ceremony, it was scarcely over before Count Polda detached himself unobtrusively from the group of mourners, and disappeared in the direction of the gate.

As, slowly, Lily and M. Popeau walked away together, she suddenly heard herself addressed in a voice unknown to her.

“Are you Miss Fairfield? If so, may I have a word with you, madam?”

She looked round, startled. A tall man, obviously an Englishman, stood before her.

“Yes,” she said falteringly, “I am Miss Fairfield.”

“My name is Sharrow. I was Mr. Ponting’s friend and partner. I understand that you found the body?”

Then M. Popeau intervened. “Perhaps you will pardon me, sir, for saying that the police have all the particulars of that painful occurrence.”

“I have heard all they have to say; but I hope Miss Fairfield will not mind my asking her a few questions?”

M. Popeau looked very much annoyed and disturbed, perhaps unreasonably so, and Lily was thankful indeed that Count Polda was no longer there. After all, it was natural that this Mr.—what was his name?—Sharrow should wish to speak to her. She nerved herself for what must be, at best, a rather painful little conversation.

Mr. Sharrow’s next words took her by surprise.

“I think you will agree with me,” he said, slowly and impressively, “that Mr. Ponting was the very last man in the world to take his own life.”

Lily hesitated. She really did not know what to answer. And then M. Popeau again intervened.

“You forget, sir, that this young lady hardly knew your unfortunate friend.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Sharrow rudely. “She knew him quite well. He had been, to my knowledge, at least six or seven times to La Solitude. More than once I wanted him to take me up there, but no—he seemed to think that it would be indiscreet—that the Poldas were quiet people who would prefer to entertain one rather than two.”

“But I had only arrived at Monte Carlo on the day he came to dinner there for the last time,” exclaimed Lily. “I did have a few minutes’ talk with him alone, just before we went into the dining-room—but that was all.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Sharrow. “I did not know what you have just told me.”

“He seemed very happy,” she said slowly, “and yes, I must say that he did not seem to me in the least the sort of man to kill himself.”

Her evident sincerity touched the stranger, as did, too, her young, girlish charm of manner.

“I wish you would tell me exactly what did happen on that fatal evening,” he said earnestly. “The whole thing is so mysterious to me! Ponting had promised some friends of ours to dine with them and then to spend the evening at the Club. Unluckily I had an engagement at Nice, or I should have been there too. As it was, they waited on and on for him, but he neither came nor sent a message.”

“That’s very strange,” said Lily, “for I know that his cabman was told to take them a message.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said M. Popeau drily. “Cabmen are the most untrustworthy of messengers!”

“Oh, so he gave a message to the cabman?” said Mr. Sharrow slowly. “Of course, I didn’t know that. But what made him change his mind, Miss Fairfield? Surely he went up to La Solitude in order to tell the Count and Countess Polda that he couldn’t have the pleasure of dining with them?”

“I expect,” said Lily reluctantly, “that he saw how annoyed they were at his change of plan. They’re old-fashioned people, the sort of people who make rather a fuss about having anyone to a meal, even to tea”—a slight smile quivered over her face, and M. Popeau nodded—“and the Countess was rather disagreeable in her manner, when Mr. Ponting said he could not stay. I think they were really hurt,” she added. “They had got fond of him, and they had set their hearts on his spending his last evening with them; so, suddenly, he made up his mind that he would do so.”

“You’ve relieved my mind very much,” Mr. Sharrow was speaking quite politely now. “There seemed such an extraordinary mystery about the whole thing! But what you tell me clears it up. I should like to ask you one other question. About what time did Ponting leave La Solitude?”

“I had a very long, tiring journey,” said Lily frankly, “and I went up to bed quite early, before he left. Still, I heard the Countess Polda say good-bye to him—I should think a little before ten.”

“That fits in with my theory.” Mr. Sharrow nodded. “I think he left La Solitude with the idea of catching the ten-thirty train, and that then, on his way down to the station, he was waylaid and murdered.”

“Perhaps that was what did happen.”

But Mr. Sharrow was going on, as if speaking to himself, though addressing her.

“In this cursed place,” he said, “the police are so used to coming across suicides that they won’t admit the probability of murder—that must be very convenient for the kind of bandits who infest Monte Carlo! Why, they’ve had the most awful gang of thieves here during this last fortnight. The Commissioner of Police told me himself that they were desperate men who stuck at nothing. One of them when caught yesterday made a slash at his captor with a razor, and hurt him most awfully.”

“But is it likely that any of that gang would have been in that lonely place? It’s a sort of deserted garden, with boards up, warning people that it’s private property.”

“I know—I know! Of course I’ve been there——” He spoke with a touch of impatience.

“And then,” said Lily, “surely a thief would have taken away that curious kind of gold bangle poor Mr. Ponting wore? It was by that bangle,” she went on in a low voice, “that I identified him—I didn’t see his face.”

The words she uttered brought back very vividly her terrible experience, and her lips quivered.

Mr. Sharrow looked at her with concern.

“Forgive me,” he said impulsively, “for asking you all these questions; but Ponting has a mother out there, and you know she’ll want to hear everything.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” said Lily. “I was going down to church yesterday morning, and I rather foolishly tried to find a short cut, and—and—quite suddenly I saw an arm stretched across my path”—she stopped, overwhelmed with the recollection. “I saw something gleaming—it was Mr. Ponting’s bangle!”

“Yes,” interjected M. Popeau. “If your theory is correct, sir, why did the thieves leave this bracelet?”

“They took everything else,” said Mr. Sharrow shortly. “Luckily, he hadn’t much on him—perhaps thirty or forty pounds. But he had certain identification papers—a passport, and so on. They also disappeared. All that was left was the bangle, and his watch and chain. I don’t suppose altogether they were worth five pounds. The watch was only a plain silver watch, but he had worn it through all his fighting, and he was fond of it. He told me once he wouldn’t exchange it for the finest gold chronometer that was ever made.”

Mr. Sharrow’s voice became charged with emotion. “I dare say you gathered that he was a rough diamond, Miss Fairfield? But he was a thoroughly good chap, a splendid man, straight as a die, and generous—one of the most generous chaps I ever met!”

“Yes,” said Lily slowly, “I know that. He tried to make me accept a beautiful little gold snuff-box he had bought, out of kindness, from a poor old lady who had lost her money at the tables.”

“You never told me that,” said M. Popeau, surprised. “Have you got the box?”

Lily shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t take such a valuable present from a stranger.”

“Then that was also included in the haul the thieves made?” exclaimed Mr. Sharrow. “But I’m very glad I’ve heard about that box, for it might help to catch Ponting’s murderers. It’s just a chance, to tell you the truth, that they didn’t make a much bigger haul. Ponting was an eccentric chap in some ways—the sort of man who doesn’t trust banks. As a rule he carried about with him a very big sum. But on that very day—the day, I mean, that he was killed—I got him to deposit the kind of satchel thing in which he kept his money in the safe of the hotel where he and I were staying at Nice. The manager there has hit on the rather clever idea of having a number of little safes, which he lets out at five francs a day. I persuaded Ponting that it would be very much safer to leave his securities—for part of the money was in what they call ‘bonds to bearer’—there. It was insane to come every day, as he used to do, to a place like Monte Carlo with all that money on him.”

“What you tell me,” observed M. Popeau musingly, “alters everything, Mr. Sharrow. Of course, the fact that he might have had what was practically a fortune on him would give a very strong motive for his murder!”

“And yet,” exclaimed Mr. Sharrow impatiently, “I told all that to the Commissioner of Police, and it made no impression on him at all.”

“The truth is”—the Frenchman spoke with some heat—“the authorities here at Monaco don’t want to believe that a murder is ever committed. In such a garden of paradise”—there came a note of deep sarcasm in his vibrant voice—“they never look for the snake!”

“The police are convinced that during the eight days that the body lay in that orange grove some passer-by, probably a peasant, came across the body, took everything from it, and naturally said nothing of his discovery,” observed Mr. Sharrow.

“I confess that that has been my own theory up to now,” said M. Popeau. “And it would take even more than your curious revelations as to poor Mr. Ponting’s peculiar habit of carrying about his money to destroy that theory entirely. I think another thing. I can’t help suspecting that a professional thief, or gang of thieves, would have left the little gold snuff-box as well as the watch and the bracelet. They would naturally not care to take away something that could be identified positively as having belonged to their victim.”

“On the other hand,” said Mr. Sharrow thoughtfully, “one would never have thought they would have left anything made of gold.”

“You’re wrong there!” cried M. Popeau quickly. “Such folk are sometimes very superstitious. They probably thought that bracelet was the dead man’s mascot, and might bring them ill-luck! Besides, even a peasant would know that a thin gold band was not really valuable. Forty francs—fifty francs—even thirty francs might have bought it from what I hear.”

And then something which seemed to the Frenchman very dramatic occurred. Mr. Sharrow suddenly put his hand in his pocket and held out a thin gold hoop. “Here it is!” he exclaimed.

Lily gave a little cry and gasp.

“I beg your pardon,” he said remorsefully. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Fairfield. I am keeping it for the poor chap’s mother. This queer little bangle and the silver watch are the only two things I shall have to take back to her. It’s so pitiful! She was expecting him home after four years.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Lily, and she turned away. The tears had welled up into her eyes.

“Well,” said Mr. Sharrow, “there’s nothing more to say, I suppose. Thank you very much for having answered my questions so clearly. I wanted to go up and see the Count and Countess Polda, but I shan’t do so now. The Commissioner of Police begged me not to do it. He said they’d been terribly upset about the whole thing. After all, they were very kind to poor Ponting. It’s rather too bad they should have had all this worry through him, even if they did lead indirectly to his death.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” said Lily, distressed.

Deep in her heart she could not help knowing that it was because of her presence at La Solitude that the unfortunate man had stayed on, and this secret knowledge was a bitter trouble to her—one, too, which she felt she could never confide to anybody as long as she lived.

“Well, but it’s true!” persisted Mr. Sharrow. “If he hadn’t stayed on there that evening he would be alive to-day. He and I would be on our way home by now.” He sighed and held out his hand. “Good-bye, and forgive me for the trouble I’ve put you to.”

“Good-bye,” said Lily mechanically.

M. Popeau led the now weeping girl into a side path where there was a bench.

“You must not take this sad affair too much to heart,” he said soothingly. “You must try and forget it.”

“I can’t forget it! I shall never forget it!” sobbed Lily. “I’ve had such a terrible time since I last saw you, M. Popeau. The Countess was terribly angry that I had gone to the police!”

“I told you she would be,” interjected the Frenchman.

“Yes, I know you told me so. But that didn’t seem to make it any better!” Lily smiled, and tried to regain her composure. “Luckily, her son comes to-morrow, and I hope that will make her forget this dreadful, dreadful thing! But I shall never forget it.”

“Indeed you will, and must,” said M. Popeau, and there came a very authoritative tone into his kind voice. “It is your duty to do so, Miss Fairfield. English people have a great sense of duty—I appeal to that sense now! You must put this poor man out of your mind”—he hesitated—“for ever. Now promise me? You know I am your friend—I hope I shall always be your friend, Miss Fairfield.”

“I hope so too,” said Lily gratefully; “you’ve been wonderfully good to me! I don’t know how I should have got through the last fortnight if it hadn’t been for you——”

“If you are really grateful to me,” said M. Popeau gravely, “then there is one mark of your gratitude which I should very much appreciate.”

Lily looked round at him rather surprised. “Yes?” she said.

“That mark of gratitude,” he said deliberately, “is to trust me, Mademoiselle—always come to me when you are in any trouble. I do not only mean now at Monte Carlo. I mean afterwards. When in trouble, real trouble, come to Papa Popeau! Although I do not often talk of it—for, though you may be surprised to hear it, I am what you in England call a modest fellow, Miss Fairfield—Papa Popeau has a great deal of power. Papa Popeau can do all sorts of strange and wonderful things to help his friends.”

“I know he can,” said Lily gratefully. “I think that only Papa Popeau could have secured me such a comfortable journey.”

“That is true,” he said gravely.

He got up from the bench, and they began walking slowly down a cypress alley. “I think Captain Stuart is waiting for us in the road,” he observed.

And then Lily—she could not have told you why—blushed very deeply.

“You like Captain Stuart, eh?” said M. Popeau.

He was looking straight before him and he spoke quite lightly, yet Lily felt a little confused. She knew that he had seen her blush.

“Yes,” she said at last, “I do like him. He seems to me so—so——”

“I know,” said M. Popeau, “‘straight.’ That’s a fine English word. You are right, Miss Fairfield. Captain Stuart is a ‘white’ man—another of your English expressions that I like, that I have adopted for my own. But, Mademoiselle, he is also a jealous man. I would not like to make Captain Stuart jealous.”

And then all at once Lily remembered something the young Scotsman had said to her, something of which he had had the grace to be ashamed a moment later. “Foreign fellows are so infernally familiar!”—that was what Captain Stuart had said to Lily Fairfield after there had come a laughing interchange of words between herself and M. Popeau. It was impossible that the Frenchman could have heard those words. And yet—and yet—Lily felt a little uncomfortable.

“It is lucky that I am an old man,” went on her companion quietly. “Were I not an old man, I feel that our friend might possibly become jealous even of me. That would be most cruel, most unfair, and very hard on poor Papa Popeau! Hein?”

He pirouetted round on his heel for a moment, and then bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “of all your servants I am the humblest and the most devoted, and I regret very much now that I did not compel you to allow me to go into the villa with you yesterday afternoon!”

“I am sorry too,” said Lily in a low voice. “But I don’t know—I think Aunt Cosy would have had it out with me just the same after you had gone. She didn’t say much till the Count and the man from the police had left the house, and then—oh, then, M. Popeau, I’ve never seen anybody so angry!”

As they came through the gate to the cemetery they saw Captain Stuart’s lithe figure striding impatiently up and down the road. He took Lily’s hand—she had taken off her glove—and held it tightly for a moment, then he dropped it.

“I had no idea the funeral would take so long. Where are the other people?” he asked.

“There is another gate, they all went out by that, but I expected that you would be waiting here, my friend,” said M. Popeau smoothly. “And now we are going off to a little restaurant in the Condamine to have a good lunch.”

“I thought we were going to the Prince of Monaco’s aquarium,” said Lily smiling.

“All in good time.” M. Popeau looked as happy as a boy. “We must make the best of to-day,” he said, “even if it has begun badly, for from to-morrow, Mademoiselle will probably be much occupied.”

Captain Stuart looked quickly round at Lily. “Why that?” he asked shortly.

And even Lily felt surprised. What could M. Popeau mean?

“I think you will find that the arrival of the Countess Polda’s son will mean that you will be very much occupied,” said the Frenchman quietly.

Captain Stuart looked disturbed. “But you don’t even know this fellow?” he said, turning to Lily. “You’ve never seen him, have you?”

“No, that’s quite true. But all the same, I’m afraid M. Popeau is right. Only this morning the Countess told me that she hoped——” She waited a moment.

“Yes?” said Stuart impatiently. “She hoped what, Miss Fairfield?”

“She hoped that Beppo and I would be great friends.”

Lily felt a little ashamed of having said that. But, after all, it was quite true, and she did so want to know if Captain Stuart would—mind. Rather to her disappointment he remained silent.

CHAPTER XI

After a delicious fish lunch, which included the celebrated bouillabaisse so delightfully sung by Thackeray, none of the three felt in the mood for a visit to the Prince’s famous aquarium. Instead, they slowly went up to old Monaco and lazed about in the terraced gardens which overhang the sea.

After a while M. Popeau exclaimed: “I’m afraid I ought to go back now to the Hôtel de Paris, for I’m expecting a message from Paris.”

He looked at Captain Stuart and at Lily Fairfield in an odd, undecided way, and Captain Stuart reddened slightly under his tan. “I’ll take Miss Fairfield up to La Solitude,” he said shortly.

“I suppose that will be all right,” but the Frenchman still looked as if uncertain what to do.

“I can walk back to La Solitude quite well by myself,” said Lily smiling.

It always amused her to notice that M. Popeau seemed to regard her as something fragile and delicate, that required a great deal of looking after.

“I do not think that will be necessary, Mademoiselle,” the Frenchman said in a rather dry voice. “I can trust our friend here to see that you are provided with an escort.”

And then he took the girl’s hand and held it in his powerful, cool grasp for a moment or two.

“I am sorry you have had all this trouble,” he said feelingly. “You must forget that poor Mr. Ponting ever existed.”

“I don’t think I shall ever forget that, M. Popeau,” said Lily slowly, “or your kindness to me about it all.”

He ambled off, swaying a little as he walked. Lily looked after the peculiar and rather ungainly figure with a touch of affectionate regret.

“What a pity M. Popeau doesn’t take more exercise—just to keep himself in condition,” she said. It was strange to feel, as she did feel, that this foreigner, whom she had only known a fortnight, had already a very secure niche in her heart—in fact, a niche next to her dear Uncle Tom. “What a dear he is!” she exclaimed.

And then, for her companion remained silent and began tracing imaginary patterns on the sandy path with his stick, Lily suddenly felt overwhelmed with a sensation very new to her—that of intense shyness.

Strange to say—it really was strange when she came to think of it—this was the very first time she had ever been alone with a man who sat so curiously silent by her side, for she did not count the few moments they had spent together yesterday morning. She remembered a funny little interchange of words they had had yesterday on the golf course, when Captain Stuart had said in such a whimsical way that he wished they two could walk on and on “beyond the mountains’ purple rim.” It had been said lightly, as if in fun, and yet—though Lily’s mind and thoughts were then still full of her dreadful discovery—she had felt somehow that Captain Stuart’s fanciful suggestion had come from his heart.

He turned towards her, and, as if echoing her thought: “I wonder if you realise that this is the very first time, if we except yesterday morning, I’ve ever had an opportunity of saying a word to you alone!” he exclaimed.

And Lily answered with that touch of unconscious hypocrisy which even the most truthful girl may show in such a circumstance, “I suppose it is.”

“Our good friend, M. Popeau,” Angus Stuart spoke with a touch of irony, “shows himself a most efficient chaperon, Miss Fairfield——”

“He has very old-fashioned ideas,” said Lily a little awkwardly, “but I like him all the better for that.”

“So do I,” her companion’s voice altered, the irony died out of it. “Most nice Frenchmen have old-fashioned ideas—I mean about young ladies. I found that out during the war. But all the same—well, I often feel envious of M. Popeau, for he seems to be always doing things for you.” He turned round on the bench on which they were both sitting, and looked at her very earnestly. “I’m a lazy chap, but I’d like to—to be able to prove——”

Then he stopped dead, and Lily’s heart began to beat unaccountably.

What a pity it is sometimes that two human beings cannot see what is passing through each other’s minds and hearts. What a lot of trouble, pain—aye, and danger—their doing so would often save.

Angus Stuart was feeling exasperated with himself, and yet—and yet how could he take advantage of this unlooked-for opportunity? Deep in his heart he knew that he had fallen in love, practically at first sight, with Lily Fairfield, and that he was falling deeper and deeper into love each day. And yet, in a conventional sense, he hardly knew her, for they never could escape from M. Popeau. This was really the first time they had ever had a chance of a real talk together!

M. Popeau, well as he knew English, did not always express himself very happily. “Take advantage of her to-day, my friend,” was what he had said this very morning. But that was the very last thing he, Angus Stuart, would care to do with regard to any human being, least of all with a girl whom he was almost angry with himself to find he loved.

There had been a hint, too, about her having money. If there was anything in that, it also put him off. He was, as are so many young Scottish soldiers, “a penniless lad with a long pedigree.” Yet he didn’t want to marry what M. Popeau had called “a ’airess.” Still, deep in his heart he knew that all that really mattered to him was that he loved Lily Fairfield. During those long, dreary days at Milan he had thought of her the whole time—of her and of nothing else.

Stuart realised that he loved everything about Lily—from every shining hair on her well-set head, down to the unpractical buckled shoes on her pretty little feet. He had supposed, in his simplicity, that when one fell in love the right words always came. But they did not come to him to-day, sitting there by her side in that solitary garden full of brilliant bloom and colour, with the marvellous blue sea spread out before and below them, as far as the eye could see.

There are men, many men, who are in love with love. They delight in falling in love; the fact that they fall out of love almost as easily as they fall into love makes no odds at all.

But Angus Stuart was not that sort of man. Love was still to him an unfamiliar, rather menacing shape. He was ashamed of the strength of his feeling for Lily Fairfield. Now, at this moment, he felt he would give years of his life to have the right to turn round, take her in his arms and kiss her. What madness was this that was working in his brain?

He got up, and in a voice which shook a little, he said, “Shall we walk about a bit? You’ve never been up here in Monaco before, have you?”

“No,” said Lily. “And in some ways I like it even better than Monte Carlo. It’s as if one stepped right back into history, isn’t it?”

But she felt chilled, and somehow disappointed. She would have been quite content to sit on there in the lovely, deserted garden. She had thoughts that her acquaintance with Captain Stuart would make great strides once they were really alone together—that he would tell something about himself and his people. Why, she didn’t even know if he had a sister!

And yet in a way she did feel as if she already knew the young Scots soldier very well. It was as if they were bound by a strong invisible link the one to the other. She remembered the wonderful gentleness and kindness of his manner when she had come up breathless to the hotel door yesterday morning, her face blurred with crying. He had seemed to understand exactly what she was feeling, and he had soothed and comforted her. But now, this afternoon, he seemed quite unlike the man whom she had first told of her hideous discovery.

“I think I must be going up to La Solitude soon,” she said rather nervously. “Beppo Polda is arriving to-morrow, and they’re having a kind of spring cleaning in his honour;” she smiled a little. “I said I’d help Cristina with it.”

“Surely you needn’t go yet? It’s quite early,”—there was an urgent note in Captain Stuart’s voice.

“I ought to have been back by four. It’s that now,” she said.

As they walked through the narrow, mediæval street which leads to the great square in front of the Palace of Monaco, and as they made their way across the square to the kind of mall where stand the ancient iron cannons pointing their toy-like muzzles towards France, the barrier, the impalpable, yet very real barrier, which each felt had arisen between them seemed to melt gradually away.

It was Lily who first broke the barrier down. He had just told her that early in the war he had been given a special training job and had been stationed, though only for five weeks, near Epsom.

“I wish we had met then,” she said quickly, regretfully.

He answered eagerly. “I wish we had! Those were the loneliest five weeks of my life!” And then he said something implying that though there had been a great deal in the papers early in the war about showing soldiers hospitality, not much of it had come his way.

“That was perhaps a little bit of your own fault.” Lily wondered at her own daring, but he took it in good part.

“I daresay it was,” he said gravely. “I—I don’t make friends easily, Miss Fairfield.” Something outside himself prompted him to add: “I’ve never had what so many chaps seem to have now—a woman pal.” He added, honestly enough, “I never felt I wanted one till now.” And then, more lightly, “I wish you’d think of me as you do of—of M. Popeau.”

And then for the first time with him, there came a touch of coquetry into Lily Fairfield’s manner—that touch of coquetry which nature teaches every normal, happy-natured girl when the ball lies at her feet.

“He asked me to call him ‘Papa Popeau’ to-day,” she said demurely. “Somehow I can’t imagine your asking anyone to call you ‘Papa Stuart!’”

They both laughed, a mirthful, youthful peal of joint laughter. “And are you going to call him ‘Papa Popeau?’” asked Captain Stuart, smiling broadly.

She shook her head. “No, I really can’t do that—though I do like him—most awfully!”

“I won’t ask you to call me anything yet,” he said seriously.

He stopped speaking abruptly, and Lily, almost as if she was being “willed” to do it, turned and looked up into his face. She told herself that it was a fine, honest, strong face—not perhaps that of an always good-tempered man, but a face one would like to be looking up into if one were suddenly caught in a tight corner.

“I want to feel that we’re friends—really friends,” he said slowly. “If anything else disagreeable or painful should happen to you—which God forbid!” he added hastily, for he saw her face quiver and change a little—“then I hope you’ll come to me as readily as you would to—Papa Popeau!”

“I did come to you,” she said in a low voice. “I thought of you at once, yesterday morning. Aunt Cosy was furious with me because I didn’t go back to the house. But somehow I felt I would much rather come and tell you the dreadful thing which had happened to me.”

“I’m awfully grateful to you for saying that!” Angus Stuart’s measured voice became charged with emotion. He went on, speaking a little quickly: “I longed to take you to that police chap myself, but I knew that Popeau would do the job much better than I could do it. I suppose you know what Popeau really is?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea!” she exclaimed.

“He’s the head of a very important branch of the French Secret Service. Since the war he’s been worked to death; and though he’s on holiday now, they keep in very close touch with him.”

Lily was extremely surprised, and rather thrilled. “I wonder why he didn’t tell me?” she exclaimed.

“He’s an odd sort of man,” said Angus Stuart thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s exactly proud of his job, Miss Fairfield. Perhaps he’d rather you didn’t know. You’ll keep the fact to yourself, eh?”

“Of course I will!” said Lily.

She was beginning to feel very tired, and her companion looked at her solicitously.

The last few minutes had made a great difference to him. He felt a curious sense of peace come over him. How angelic of her to want to come to him when that dreadful thing happened to her! He would never, never forget her saying that to him. It was the first mile-stone in their friendship—a golden moment in his life. He had always felt that a woman worth the winning must be wooed before she is won. He told himself, as they walked side by side across the great sunlit space, that he had made a very good beginning.

“Now I’m going to drive you up to La Solitude,” he exclaimed, with a touch of that masterfulness which somehow Lily liked—when it came from him.

He hailed the solitary open cab which stood in the shadow of the building, now a barrack, where gambling was first started in the Principality fifty years ago.

To Lily’s distress, he did not bargain with the man—he simply threw him the name, “La Solitude,” in rather indifferent French.

The cabman whipped up his little horses, and a moment later they were rattling down the winding road cut in the side of the rock at a breakneck pace.

All too soon—or so it seemed to them both—they had reached the clearing below the Lonely House. Angus Stuart gripped Lily’s hand. “Then from to-day we’re pals—real pals?” he said, and Lily answered very seriously, “Yes.”

To Lily’s relief, the Countess was far too full of Beppo’s coming arrival on the morrow to trouble as to how the girl had spent her time after the funeral of George Ponting: and the rest of the afternoon was devoted to preparing a large front room, which was apparently always kept for Beppo.

There was not very much to be done, but certain pieces of furniture were moved in from the other rooms in order to make it more comfortable for the apparently luxurious young man’s occupation.

When, at last, tired out by the varied emotions of the day, Lily was going off to bed, the Countess said briskly: “We must be off early to-morrow morning to choose your pretty frocks before Beppo’s arrival! I shall be ready to start at nine o’clock. Your Uncle Angelo has ordered a carriage for us.”

Lily felt taken aback, and disappointed, too. She would so infinitely rather have chosen her new clothes herself! But there was nothing to be done, and as events turned out she was wrong to be disappointed, for she could not have done as well as she and Aunt Cosy did together.

CHAPTER XII

Monte Carlo in the morning is very unlike Monte Carlo in the afternoon or evening.