“Did you see that woman over there?—­still playing—­the woman in black and the jade beads, against whom Monsieur Courtin warned us?”

“Yes, mother, I noticed her.  I’ve just been telling Hugh about her.”

“A mysterious person—­eh?” laughed Hugh with well-affected indifference.  “But one never knows who’s who in Monte Carlo.”

“Well, Mademoiselle is apparently something of a mystery,” remarked Brock.  “I’ve seen her here before several times.  Once, about two years ago, I heard that she was mixed up in a very celebrated criminal case, but exactly what it was the man who told me could not recollect.  She is, however, one of the handsomest women in the Rooms.”

“And one of the wealthiest—­if report be true,” said Lady Ranscomb.

“She fascinates me,” Dorise declared.  “If Monsieur Courtin had not warned us I should most probably have spoken to her.”

“Oh, my dear, you must do no such thing!” cried her mother, horrified.  “It was extremely kind of monsieur to give us the hint.  He has probably seen how unconventional you are, Dorise.”

And then, as they strolled on into the farther room, the conversation dropped.

“So they’ve heard about Mademoiselle, it seems!” remarked Brock to his friend as they walked back to the Palmiers together in the moonlight after having seen Lady Ranscomb and her daughter to their hotel.

“Yes,” growled the other.  “I wish we could get hold of that Monsieur Courtin.  He might tell us a bit about her.”

“I doubt if he would.  These French officials are always close as oysters.”

“At any rate, I will try and make his acquaintance at the Metropole to-morrow,” Hugh said.  “There’s no harm in trying.”

Next morning he called again at the Metropole before the ladies were about, but to his chagrin, he learnt from the blue-and-gold concierge that Monsieur Courtin, of the Ministry of Justice, had left at ten-fifteen o’clock on the previous night by the rapide for Paris.  He had been recalled urgently, and a special coupe-lit had been reserved for him from Ventimiglia.

That day Hugh Henfrey wandered about the well-kept palm-lined gardens with their great beds of geraniums, carnations and roses.  Brock had accepted the invitation of a bald-headed London stock-broker he knew to motor over to lunch and tennis at the Beau Site, at Cannes, while Dorise and her mother had gone with some people to lunch at the Reserve at Beaulieu, one of the best and yet least pretentious restaurants in all Europe, only equalled perhaps by Capsa’s, in Bucharest.

“Ah!  If she would only tell!” Hugh muttered fiercely to himself as he walked alone and self-absorbed.  His footsteps led him out of Monte Carlo and up the winding road which runs to La Turbie, above the beautiful bay.  Ever and anon powerful cars climbing the hill smothered him in white dust, yet he heeded them not.  He was too full of thought.