you flying through Nice this morning with that yellow-faced chauffeur of yours, Jean."
"Were you up so early?" she asked carelessly.
"I wasn't dressed, I was looking out of the window--my room faces the Promenade d'Anglaise. I don't like that fellow."
"I shouldn't let him know," said Jean coolly. "He is very sensitive. There are so many fellows that you dislike, too."
"I don't think you ought to allow him so much freedom," Marcus Stepney went on. He was not in an amiable frame of mind, and the knowledge that he was annoying the girl encouraged him. "If you give these French chauffeurs an inch they'll take a kilometre."
"I suppose they would," said Jean thoughtfully. "How is your poor hand, Marcus?"
He growled something under his breath and thrust his hand deep into the pocket of his reefer coat.
"It is quite well," he snapped, and went back to Monaco and his solitary boat trip, flaming.
"One of these days ..." he muttered, as he tuned up the motor. He did not finish his sentence, but sent the nose of the _Jungle Queen_ at full speed for the open sea.
Jean's talk with Mordon that morning had not been wholly satisfactory. She had calmed his suspicions to an extent, but he still harped upon the letter, and she had promised to give it to him that evening.
"My dear," she said, "you are too impulsive--too Gallic. I had a terrible scene with father last night. He wants me to break off the engagement; told me what my friends in London would say, and how I should be a social outcast."
"And you--you, Jean?" he asked.
"I told him that such things did not trouble me," she said, and her lips drooped sadly. "I know I cannot be happy with anybody but you, Franois, and I am willing to face the sneers of London, even the hatred and scorn of my father, for your sake."
He would have seized her hand, though they were in the open road, but she drew away from him.
"Be careful, Franois," she warned him.
"Remember that you have a very little time to wait."
"I cannot believe my good fortune," he babbled, as he brought the car up the gentle incline into Monte Carlo. He dodged an early morning tram, missing an unsuspecting passenger, who had come round the back of the tram-car, by inches, and set the big Italia up the palm avenue into the town.
"It is incredible, and yet I always thought some great thing would happen to me, and, Jean, I have risked so much for you. I would have killed Madame in London if she had not been dragged out of the way by that old man, and did I not watch for you when the man Meredith----"
"Hush," she said in a low voice. "Let us talk about something else."
"Shall I see your father? I am sorry for what I did last night," he said when they were nearing the villa.
"Father has taken his motor-bicycle and gone for a trip into Italy," she said. "No, I do not think I should speak to him, even if he were here. He may come round in time, Franois. You can understand that it is terribly distressing; he hoped I would make a great marriage. You must allow for father's disappointment."
He nodded. He did not drive her to the house, but stopped outside the garage.
"Remember, at half-past ten you will take Madame Meredith to the Lovers' Chair--you know the place?"
"I know it very well," he said. "It is a difficult place to turn--I must take her almost into San Remo. Why does she want to go to the Lovers' Chair? I thought only the cheap people went there----"
"You must not tell her that," she said sharply. "Besides, I myself have been there."
"And who did you think of, Jean?" he asked suddenly.
She lowered her eyes.
"I will not tell you--now," she said, and ran into the house.
Franois stood gazing after her until she had disappeared, and then, like a man waking from a trance, he turned to the mundane business of filling his tank.
Chapter XXXV
Lydia was dressing for her journey when Mrs. Cole-Mortimer came into the saloon where Jean was writing.
"There's a telephone call from Monte Carlo," she said. "Somebody wants to speak to Lydia."
Jean jumped up.
"I'll answer it," she said.
The voice at the other end of the wire was harsh and unfamiliar to her.
"I want to speak to Mrs. Meredith."
"Who is it?" asked Jean.
"It is a friend of hers," said the voice. "Will you tell her? The business is rather urgent."
"I'm sorry," said Jean, "but she's just gone out."
She heard an exclamation of annoyance.
"Do you know where she's gone?" asked the voice.
"I think she's gone in to Monte Carlo," said Jean.
"If I miss her will you tell her not to go out again until I come to the house?"
"Certainly," said Jean politely, and hung up the telephone.
"Was that a call for me?"
It was Lydia's voice from the head of the stairs.
"Yes, dear. I think it was Marcus Stepney who wanted to speak to you. I told him you'd gone out," said Jean. "You didn't wish to speak to him?"
"Good heavens, no!" said Lydia. "You're sure you won't come with me?"
"I'd rather stay here," said Jean truthfully.
The car was at the door, and Mordon, looking unusually spruce in his white dust coat, stood by the open door.
"How long shall I be away?" asked Lydia.
"About two hours, dear, you'll be very hungry when you come back," said Jean, kissing her. "Now, mind you think of the right man," she warned her in mockery.
"I wonder if I shall," said Lydia quietly.
Jean watched the car out of sight, then went back to the saloon. She was hardly seated before the telephone rang again, and she anticipated Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, and answered it.
"Mrs. Meredith has not gone in to Monte Carlo," said the voice. "Her car has not been seen on the road."
"Is that Mr. Jaggs?" asked Jean sweetly.
