Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo | Page 9

may be under their own austere skies. For the last time, then--to
Monte Carlo! To Monte Carlo, dear mademoiselle!--messieurs!"
[Illustration: "For the last time, then--to Monte Carlo!"]
They drank the toast and a few minutes later Hunterleys slipped away.
The two men looked after him. The smile seemed gradually to leave
Selingman's lips, his face was large and impressive.
"Run and fetch your cloak, dear," he said to the girl.
She obeyed at once. Selingman leaned across the table towards his
companion.
"What does Hunterleys do here?" he asked.
Draconmeyer shook his head.
"Who knows?" he answered. "Perhaps he has come to look after his
wife. He has been to Bordighera and San Remo."

"Is that all he told you of his movements?"
"That is all," Draconmeyer admitted. "He was suspicious. I made no
progress."
"Bordighera and San Remo!" Selingman muttered under his breath.
"For a day, perhaps, or two."
"What do you know about him?" Draconmeyer asked, his eyes
suddenly bright beneath his spectacles. "I have been suspicious ever
since I met him, an hour ago. He left England on December first."
"It is true," Selingman assented. "He crossed to Paris, and--mark the
cunning of it--he returned to England. That same night he travelled to
Germany. We lost him in Vienna and found him again in Sofia. What
does it mean, I wonder? What does it mean?"
"I have been talking to him for twenty minutes in here before you
came," Draconmeyer said. "I tried to gain his confidence. He told me
nothing. He never even mentioned that journey of his."
Selingman was sitting drumming upon the table with his broad
fingertips.
"Sofia!" he murmured. "And now--here! Draconmeyer, there is work
before us. I know men, I tell you. I know Hunterleys. I watched him, I
listened to him in Berlin six years ago. He was with his master then but
he had nothing to learn from him. He is of the stuff diplomats are
fashioned of. He has it in his blood. There is work before us,
Draconmeyer."
"If monsieur is ready!" mademoiselle interposed, a little petulantly,
letting the tip of her boa play for a moment on his cheek.
Selingman finished his wine and rose to his feet. Once more the smile
encompassed his face. Of what account, after all, were the wanderings
of this melancholy Englishman! There was mademoiselle's bracelet to
be bought, and perhaps a few flowers. Selingman pulled down his

waistcoat and accepted his grey Homburg hat from the vestiaire. He
held mademoiselle's fingers as they descended the stairs. He looked
like a school-boy of enormous proportions on his way to a feast.
"We drank to Monte Carlo in champagne," he declared, as they turned
on to the terrace and descended the stone steps, "but, dear Estelle, we
drink to it from our hearts with every breath we draw of this wonderful
air, every time our feet touch the buoyant ground. Believe me, little one,
the other things are of no account. The true philosophy of life and
living is here in Monte Carlo. You and I will solve it."
CHAPTER III
A WARNING
Hunterleys dined alone at a small round table, set in a remote corner of
the great restaurant attached to the Hotel de Paris. The scene around
him was full of colour and interest. A scarlet-coated band made
wonderful music. The toilettes of the women who kept passing
backwards and forwards, on their way to the various tables, were
marvellous; in their way unique. The lights and flowers of the room, its
appointments and adornments, all represented the last word in luxury.
Everywhere was colour, everywhere an almost strained attempt to
impress upon the passerby the fact that this was no ordinary holiday
resort but the giant pleasure-ground of all in the world who had money
to throw away and the capacity for enjoyment. Only once a more
somber note seemed struck when Mrs. Draconmeyer, leaning on her
husband's arm and accompanied by a nurse and Lady Hunterleys,
passed to their table. Hunterleys' eyes followed the little party until they
had reached their destination and taken their places. His wife was
wearing black and she had discarded the pearls which had hung around
her neck during the afternoon. She wore only a collar of diamonds, his
gift. Her hair was far less elaborately coiffured and her toilette less
magnificent than the toilettes of the women by whom she was
surrounded. Yet as he looked from his corner across the room at her,
Hunterleys realised as he had realised instantly twelve years ago when
he had first met her, that she was incomparable. There was no other

woman in the whole of that great restaurant with her air of quiet
elegance; no other woman so faultless in the smaller details of her
toilette and person.