Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo | Page 5

the will."
There was a silence of some moments, interrupted only by the pop-pop
of the pigeon-shots below.
Away across the white balustrade of the broad magnificent terrace the

calm sapphire sea was deepening as the winter afternoon drew in. An
engine whistled--that of the flower train which daily travels express
from Cannes to Boulogne faster than the passenger train-deluxe, and
bearing mimosa, carnations, and violets from the Cote d'Azur to Covent
Garden, and to the florists' shops in England.
"You've never told me the exact circumstances of your father's death,
Hugh," remarked Brock at last.
"Exact circumstances? Ah! That's what I want to know. Only that
woman knows the secret," answered the young man. "All I know is that
the poor old guv'-nor was called up to London by an urgent letter. We
had a shooting party at Woodthorpe and he left me in charge, saying
that he had some business in London and might return on the following
night --or he might be away a week. Days passed and he did not return.
Several letters came for him which I kept in the library. I was surprised
that he neither wrote nor returned, when, suddenly, ten days later, we
had a telegram from the London police informing me that my father
was lying in St. George's Hospital. I dashed up to town, but when I
arrived I found him dead. At the inquest, evidence was given to show
that at half-past two in the morning a constable going along Albemarle
Street found him in evening dress lying huddled up in a doorway.
Thinking him intoxicated, he tried to rouse him, but could not. A doctor
who was called pronounced that he was suffering from some sort of
poisoning. He was taken to St. George's Hospital in an ambulance, but
he never recovered. The post-mortem investigation showed a small
scratch on the palm of the hand. That scratch had been produced by a
pin or a needle which had been infected by one of the newly discovered
poisons which, administered secretly, give a post- mortem appearance
of death from heart disease."
"Then your father was murdered--eh?" exclaimed the elder man.
"Most certainly he was. And that woman is aware of the whole
circumstances and of the identity of the assassin."
"How do you know that?"

"By a letter I afterwards opened--one that had been addressed to him at
Woodthorpe in his absence. It was anonymous, written in bad English,
in an illiterate hand, warning him to 'beware of that woman you
know--Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo.' It bore the French stamp and the
postmark of Tours."
"I never knew all this," Brock said. "You are quite right, Hugh! The
whole affair is a tangled mystery. But the first point we must establish
before we commence to investigate is--who is Mademoiselle of Monte
Carlo?"

SECOND CHAPTER
CONCERNS A GUILTY SECRET
Just after seven o'clock that same evening young Henfrey and his friend
Brock met in the small lounge of the Hotel des Palmiers, a rather
obscure little establishment in the Avenue de la Costa, behind the
Gardens, much frequented by the habitues of the Rooms who know
Monte Carlo and prefer the little place to life at the Paris, the
Hermitage, and the Riviera Palace, or the Gallia, up at Beausoleil.
The Palmiers was a place where one met a merry cosmopolitan crowd,
but where the cocotte in her bright plumage was absent--an advantage
which only the male habitue of Monte Carlo can fully realize. The
eternal feminine is always so very much in evidence around the Casino,
and the most smartly dressed woman whom one might easily take for
the wife of an eminent politician or financier will deplore her bad luck
and beg for "a little loan."
"Well," said Hugh as his friend came down from his room to the lounge,
"I suppose we ought to be going--eh? Dorise said half-past seven, and
we'll just get across to the Metropole in time. Lady Ranscomb is always
awfully punctual at home, and I expect she carries out her time-table
here."
The two men put on light overcoats over their dinner-jackets and

strolled in the warm dusk across the Gardens and up the Galerie, with
its expensive little shops, past the original Ciro's to the Metropole.
In the big hall they were greeted by a well-preserved, grey-haired
Englishwoman, Lady Ranscomb, the widow of old Sir Richard
Ranscomb, who had been one of the greatest engineers and contractors
of modern times. He had begun life as a small jerry-builder at Golder's
Green, and had ended it a millionaire and a knight. Lady Ranscomb
was seated at a little wicker table with her daughter Dorise, a dainty,
fair- haired girl with intense blue eyes, who was wearing a rather daring
jazzing gown of pale-blue, the