The world is a strange one beneath the surface of things.  Those who passed the imposing gates of the beautiful old English manor-house never dreamed that it sheltered one of the most notorious female criminals in Europe.  And the worshipful magistrates and their wives who visited her would have received a rude shock had they but known.  But many modern adventuresses have been able to bamboozle the mighty.  Madame Humbert of Paris, in whose imagination were “The Humbert Millions,” used to entertain Ministers of State, aristocrats, financiers, and others of lower degree, and show them the sealed-up safe in which she declared reposed millions’ worth of negotiable securities which might not see the light of day until a certain date.  The avaricious, even shrewd, bankers advanced loans upon things they had never seen, and the Humberts were the most sought-after family in Paris until the bubble burst and they fled and were afterwards arrested in Spain.

Molly Maxwell was a marvel of ingenuity, of criminal foresight, and of amazing elusiveness.  Louise, young and unsuspicious, looked upon her as a mother.  Benton she called “Uncle,” and was always grateful to him for all he did for her.  She understood that they were cousins, and that Benton advised Mrs. Maxwell in her disastrous matrimonial affairs.

Yet the life she had led ever since leaving school had been a truly adventurous one.  She had been in half the watering places of Europe, and in most of its capitals, leading, with the woman who now called herself Mrs. Bond, a most extravagant life at hotels of the first order.

The car at last ran into the station yard at Guildford, and at the bookstall Louise exchanged her books with the courteous manager.

She was passing through the booking-office back to the car, when a voice behind her called: 

“Hallo, Louise!”

Turning, she found her “uncle,” Charles Benton, who, wearing a light overcoat and grey velour hat, grasped her hand.

“Well, dear,” he exclaimed.  “This is fortunate.  Mead is here, I suppose?”

“Yes, uncle,” replied the girl, much gratified at meeting him.

“I was about to engage a taxi to take me up to the Manor, but now you can take me there,” said the rather handsome man.  “How is Mrs. Bond?” he asked, calling her by her new name.

“Quite well.  She’s expecting you to lunch.  But she has some impossible people there to-day—­the Brailsfords, father, mother, and son.  He made his money in motor-cars during the war.  They live over at Dorking in a house with forty-nine bedrooms, and only fifteen years ago Mrs. Brailsford used to do the housework herself.  Now they’re rolling in money, but can’t keep servants.”

“Ah, my dear, it’s the same everywhere,” said Benton as he entered the car after her.  “I’ve just got back from Madrid.  It is the same there.  The world is changing.  Crooks prosper while white men starve.  Honesty spells ruin in these days.”