The ingenious theft of old Gregory's treasure created the greatest consternation amongst the police, though the truth was carefully concealed from the public.

Treeton pledged Mr. and Mrs. Dean and their servant to secrecy, therefore all that was known in Cromer was that there had been an attempted burglary at Beacon House.

Cromer is a quiet, law-abiding town, and burglars had not been known there for years. Therefore the inhabitants were naturally alarmed, and now carefully locked and bolted their doors at night.

I returned the shoe to the police-station, but made no mention of the result of my test.

From the first I had guessed that old Gregory would not leave his treasure behind. Yet, if he were not guilty of Craig's murder, why had he fled?

Lola had visited him, and Jeanjean had been in Cromer. Those two facts were, in themselves, sufficient to tell me that Gregory was an impostor and that Craig, whoever he might really have been, had fallen the victim of some deadly vengeance.

Would Lola return to see me?

In the days that followed – bright June days, with the North Sea lying calm and blue below the cliffs – I waited in patience, scarce leaving the hotel all day, in fear lest she might again seek me, and, paying me a visit, find me absent.

Rayner considered me inactive and grumbled in consequence.

He spent his time lolling upon one of the seats on the cliff-top outside the hotel, idly smoking Virginian cigarettes. He had openly expressed his dissatisfaction that I had not made any attempt to follow the mysterious Doctor Arendt and his Italian friend.

Truth to tell, I was utterly confounded.

To follow Jules Jeanjean, now that he had got clean away with Gregory's treasure, would, I felt, be an utterly futile task. He was too clever to leave any trace behind – a past-master in the art of evasion, and a man of a hundred clever disguises.

What would they say at the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I related to them the strange story of Jeanjean's exploits in England? Was it possible, I wondered, that the master-criminal, finding the Continent of Europe growing a trifle too hot for him, had come to England to follow his nefarious profession. If so, then he would certainly cause a great deal of trouble to the famous Council of Seven at the Criminal Investigation Department in London.

Thus days went on – warm, idle, summer days with holiday visitors daily arriving, houses being repainted, and Cromer putting on her best appearance for the coming "season." Seaside towns always blossom forth into fresh paint in the month of June, window-sashes in white and doors in green. But Cromer, with its golf and high-class music, is essentially a resort of the wealthy, a place where the tripper is unwanted and where there are no importunate long-shoremen suggesting that it is a "Nice day for a bowot, sir!"

Where was Lola? Would she ever return?

I idled about the hotel, impatient and angry with myself. Yes, Rayner was right after all! I ought to have made some effort to follow the three men. But now, it was quite impossible. They were, no doubt, far away, and probably old Gregory's treasure was by that time safe in his own hands.

The evidence of the shoe puzzled me. The wearer of that little shoe with the two pearl buttons had, without doubt, been near that seat on the East Cliff where Craig had been killed – present, in all probability, when he had been so mysteriously stricken down.

Was it possible that a woman – the same woman – had assisted in the burglary, and had inadvertently lost her shoe? Perhaps she had taken her shoes off in order to move noiselessly, and in trying to recover them could only regain one!

Lola, I remembered, possessed a very small foot. She was always extremely neat and dainty about the ankles and wore silk stockings and pretty shoes. Was it the print of her foot that I had found near that fatal seat? Was it her shoe that had been found at Beacon House?

Ah! If I could but see her? If she would only call upon me once again!

Day after day I waited, but, alas, she did not come.

That she was most anxious to see me was proved by the fact that she had dared to call at all after what had occurred. She had some strong motive in meeting me again, therefore I lived on in hope that she would return.

The Nightingale! Heavens! What strange memories that one word brought back to me as I sat in the window of my high-up room, gazing over the summer sea.

It was now July, and Cromer was rapidly filling with better-class folk. Now and then I went to London, but only for the day, fearing lest Lola should send me a telegram to meet her. In my absence Rayner always remained on duty.

I had written to her address in the Avenue Pereire, in Paris, but had received no reply. Then I had sent a line to the concierge of the house wherein the flat was situated. To this I had received an ill-scribbled few lines in French, expressing a regret that Mademoiselle had vacated the place some weeks previously and that her present address was unknown.

Unknown! Well, that, after all, scarcely surprised me. Lola's address generally was unknown. Only her most intimate friends ever knew it; and for obvious reasons. She existed always in a deadly fear.

Perhaps it was that very fear which even now kept her from me!

Several times I had advertised in the personal column of the Matin in the hope that she might see it and communicate with me, but all to no avail.

In Cromer the sensation caused by the mysterious crime had quite died down.

Frayne, in Norwich, had ceased to make further inquiry, and Treeton now regarded the problem as one that would never be solved. So, with the daily arrival of visitors, Cromer and its tradespeople and landladies forgot the curious affair which had afforded them such a "nine days' wonder."

The month of July passed, and, with the London season over, every one rushed to the seaside. Cromer was filled to overflowing. The narrow streets were crowded with well-dressed folk, and large cars passed one at every turn. Stifled town-dwellers were there to enjoy the strong, healthy breezes from the North Sea, and to indulge in the bathing and the golf.

Yet, though August came, I still kept on my room at the Paris, hoping against hope that Lola might yet return.

Quite suddenly, one day, I recollected that curious letter in Italian, signed "Egisto," and addressed to his "Illustrious Master," found at Beacon House.

It had referred to something which had appeared in the Paris Matin of March 17. Consequently I sent to Paris for a copy of the paper, and, one morning, the pale yellow sheet arrived.

"The business we have been so long arranging, was successfully concluded last night," the writer of the letter had said, adding that a report of it appeared in the Matin on the day of this letter.

Eagerly I searched the paper, which was, as usual, full of sensational reports, for the French newspaper reader dearly loves a tragedy.

The "feature" of the paper is always placed in the right-hand corner near the bottom, and, as I searched, my eyes fell upon the words, in bold capitals: "Motor Bandits: Dastardly Outrage near Fontainebleau."

What followed, roughly translated into English, read —

"By telephone from Fontainebleau. Early this morning we have received information of a dastardly outrage in which two lives have been sacrificed. It appears that, just after midnight, Monsieur Charles Benoy, the well-known jeweller of the Rue de la Paix, was travelling from Paris to his château near Maret-sur-Loire, on the other side of the Forest of Fontainebleau. He was accompanied by his son Pierre, aged twenty-four, and driven by the chauffeur, named Petit. With him, in the car, M. Benoy had in their leather cases four diamond collars of great value, and two pearl necklaces, which he intended to show next day to a certain American gentleman who has recently purchased the ancient Château de Provins, and who was one of the jeweller's customers.

"M. Benoy's intention was to take the jewels over to Provins in his car on the following morning. Apparently all went well on the journey. They passed through Melun, entered the Forest, and at a high speed passed through the little hamlet of Chantoïseau, where they were seen by two gendarmes.

"According to the story of the chauffeur, when about four kilometres beyond Chantoïseau, at a lonely point of the forest, he saw two red lights being waved in the roadway, and reduced his speed on this sign of danger.

"As he did so, however, three men sprang out from the undergrowth. They called upon him to stop, and a revolver was fired point-blank at him. Next moment the bandits fired, without further ado, upon the occupants of the car, but the chauffeur, severely wounded, then fainted, and knew no more until he recovered consciousness in the barracks of the Gendarmerie in Moret.

"What happened, apparently, was that the three assassins, after shooting all three of the occupants of the car, threw the bodies into the roadway, seized the automobile, and drove off with the jewels. M. Benoy and his son were dead when found, the father having two bullet-wounds in his head, while the son had been struck in the region of the heart. The chauffeur, Petit, lies in a critical condition, and only with great difficulty has been able to give an account of the murderous attack.

"Inquiries at M. Benoy's shop, in the Rue de la Paix, have revealed the fact that the jewellery is worth about four hundred thousand francs.

"The car was seen returning through Melun, being driven at a furious pace by the bandits, but, unfortunately, all traces of it, and of the three men, have been lost.

"According to the chauffeur's description of one of the men, who wore motor-goggles as a disguise, the police believe the outrage to be the work of the notorious Jules Jeanjean, the ingenious criminal of whom the police have been so long in search.

"The occupants of the car were treated with inhuman brutality. The bodies of both father and son, together with the number-plates of the car, were thrown unceremoniously into the undergrowth; that of Petit was allowed to lie across the footpath, but for what reason cannot be guessed at.

"From the fact that the number-plates of the car have been found, it would appear that before the bandits moved off they replaced the correct numbers by false ones. No doubt, also, a rapid attempt was made to alter the appearance of the body of the car, because, close by, there were found two pails containing grey paint, and large brushes with the paint still wet in them.

"From this it is seen that the intention of the bandits was to make a long run, perhaps all through the following day, to reach some distant point of safety.

"It will be remembered that Jules Jeanjean was the prime mover in the terrible outrage near Lyons, where three motorists were shot dead and two wounded. Two men named Dubois, and Leblon, were arrested, and before their condemnation confessed that Jeanjean, a dangerous anarchist, had instigated the plot.

"Readers of the Matin will not need to be reminded of the many desperate crimes of which this atrocious scoundrel has been the author; of his amazing daring and marvellous cunning; and of the almost uncanny ease with which he, time after time, defies every effort of the police to trace and capture him.

"M. Hamard, Chef de la Sûreté, and several inspectors have left Paris, and are upon the scene of the outrage, while descriptions of the missing jewellery have already been circulated."

CHAPTER XII
LOLA

Several times I re-read the account of the dastardly outrage.

Too well I knew how dangerous and desperate a man was Jules Jeanjean, the studious, and apparently harmless, Belgian doctor, who had lodged in the Overstrand Road, and had strolled about the pier and promenade of Cromer. His name, during the last three years or so, had become well known from end to end of Europe as an Anarchist who defied all the powers of law and order; a man who moved from place to place with marvellous swiftness, and who passed from frontier to frontier under the very noses of the commissaries of police stationed there.

His narrowest escape of capture had been one day in Charleroi, where, while sitting before the Café des XXV, he had been recognized by an inspector of the French Sûreté, who was in Belgium upon another matter. The inspector called a local agent of police, who suddenly pounced upon him, but in an instant Jeanjean had drawn a revolver, with which he shot the unfortunate policeman dead, and, in the confusion, escaped.

He then wrote an impudent letter to the Prefecture of Police in Paris, telling them that his intention was to serve any other police agent the same who might attempt to arrest him.

I took from my dispatch-box the copy I had made of the letter in Italian, found at Beacon House. In the light of that newspaper report it proved curious and interesting reading.

Who was the writer, Egisto? Evidently one of the conspirators. It was a report to his "Illustrious Master," of what had been done. Who was his Master? Surely not Jules Jeanjean, because one sentence read, "J. arrives back in Algiers to-morrow."

Was it possible that the "Illustrious Master" – the man who actually plotted and directed those dramatic coups – was none other than old Gregory himself!

The letter was certainly a report to the head of an association of dangerous malefactors. Who "H." was, who had "left as arranged," I knew not, but "J." evidently indicated Jules Jeanjean, and the fact that he would arrive back in Algiers on the morrow, showed first, that his hiding-place was on the other side of the Mediterranean; and, secondly, that after the crime a dash had been made to the south to join the mail-boat at Marseilles. The writer, Egisto, had left the other, travelling via Brindisi, to Port Said, so leaving the Paris police to again search for them in vain.

"Does H. know anything, do you think?" was the question Egisto had asked in his letter.

Did "H." indicate Monsieur Hamard, the Chef de la Sûreté?

My own theory was that "H." did indicate that well-known official, whom the gang had so often defied.

The writer, too, declared that "The Nightingale" still sang on blithely.

I knew the singer, the pretty, refined, fair-haired girl, so neat and dainty, with the sweet, clear contralto voice. It was Lola – Lola Sorel!

On the morning of August 24, I was standing with Mr. Day on the well-kept lawn outside the coast-guard station, watching the life-boat being launched for the benefit of the visitors, and in order to collect funds for the Life-boat Institution. The morning was perfect, with bright sunshine, a clear sky and glassy sea. Below us, the promenade and beach were thronged with summer visitors in light clothes, and the scene was one of brightness and merriment.

Amid the cheers of the waiting crowd the life-boat, guided by its gallant crew of North Sea fishermen, wearing their cork belts, went slowly down to the water's edge. The instant it was launched, Mr. Day, who held a huge pistol in his hand, fired a green rocket high into the air – the signal to the Haisboro' Lightship that aid was on its way.

Just as he had done so, a telegraph-boy handed me a message.

I tore it open and read the words —

"Can you meet me at the Maid's Head Hotel, Norwich, this afternoon at four? Urgent. Reply, King's Head Hotel, Beccles – Lola."

My heart gave a great bound.

From the messenger I obtained a telegraph-form, and at once replied in the affirmative.

Just before four o'clock I entered the covered courtyard of the old Maid's Head Hotel, in Norwich, one of the most famous and popular hostelries in Norfolk. John Peston mentioned it in 1472, when its sign was The Murtel or Molde Fish, and to-day, remodelled with taste, and its ancient features jealously preserved, it is well known to every motorist who visits the capital of Norfolk, the metropolis of Eastern England.

I engaged a small private sitting-room on the first-floor, a pretty, old-fashioned apartment with bright chintzes, and a bowl of fresh roses upon the polished table in the centre. Telling the waiter I expected a lady, I stood at the window to await my visitor.

As I stood there, all-impatient, the Cathedral chimes close by told the hour of four, and shortly afterwards I heard the noise of a car turning from the street into the courtyard.

Was it Lola?

From the room in which I was I could not see either roadway or courtyard, therefore I waited, my ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps upon the stairs.

Suddenly I heard some one ascending. The handle of the door was turned, and next second I found myself face to face with the slim, fair-haired girl whose coming I had so long awaited.

She came forward smiling, her white-gloved hand outstretched, her pretty countenance slightly flushed, exclaiming in French —

"Ah! M'sieu' Vidal! After all this time!"

"It is not my fault, Mademoiselle, that we are such strangers," I replied with a smile, bowing over her hand as the waiter closed the door.

She was a charming little person, sweet and dainty from head to foot. Dressed in a black coat and skirt, the former relieved with a collar of turquoise silk, and the latter cut short, so that her silk-encased ankles and small shoes were revealed. She wore a tiny close-fitting felt hat, and a boa of grey ostrich feathers around her neck.

Her countenance was pale with well-moulded features of soft sympathetic beauty, a finely-poised head with pretty dimpled chin, and a straight nose, well-defined eyebrows, and a pair of eyes of that clear blue that always seemed to me unfathomable.

I drew forward a chair, and she sank into it, stretching forth her small feet and displaying her neat black silk stockings from beneath the hem of her short skirt, which, adorned with big ball buttons, was discreetly opened at the side to allow freedom in walking.

"Well, and why did you not call again upon me in Cromer?" I asked in English, for I knew that she spoke our language always perfectly.

"Because – well, because I was unable," was her reply.

"Why did you not write?" I asked. "I've been waiting weeks for you."

"I know. I heard so," she said with a smile. "I am ve-ry sorry, but I was prevented," she went on with a pretty, musical accent. "That same evening I called upon you, I had to leave Cromer ve-ry hurriedly."

A strange thought flashed across my mind. Had her sudden departure been due to the theft at Beacon House? Had she been present then and lost her shoe?

I glanced at the shoes she wore. They were very smart, of black patent leather, with a strip of white leather along the upper edge. Yes, the size looked to me just the same as that of the little shoe which so exactly fitted the imprint I had made in the sand.

"Why did you leave so quickly?" I asked, standing before her, and leaning against the table, as I looked into the wonderful eyes of the chic little Parisienne.

"I was compelled," was her brief response.

"You might have written to me."

"What was the use, M'sieu' Vidal? I went straight back to France. Then to Austria, Hungary, and Russia," she answered. "Only the day before yesterday I returned to London."

"From where?"

"From Algiers."

Algiers! The mention of that town recalled the fact that it was the hiding-place of the notorious Jules Jeanjean.

"Why have you been in Algiers – and in August, too?"

"Not for pleasure," she replied with a grim smile. "The place is a perfect oven just now – as you may well imagine. But I was forced to go."

"Forced against your will, Lola, eh?" I asked, bending towards her, and looking her full in the face very seriously.

"Yes," she admitted, her eyes cast down, "against my will. I had a message to deliver."

"To whom?"

"To my uncle."

"Not a message," I said, correcting her. "Something more valuable than mere words. Is not that so?"

The Nightingale nodded in the affirmative, her blue eyes still downcast in shame.

"Where was your starting-point?" I asked.

"In St. Petersburg, a fortnight ago. I was given the little box in the Hôtel de l'Europe, and that night I concealed its contents in the clothes I wore. Some of them I sewed into the hem of my travelling-coat, and, and – "

"Stones they were, I suppose?" I said, interrupting.

"Yes, from Lobenski's, the jeweller's in the Nevski," she replied. "Well, that night I left Petersburg and travelled to Vienna, thence to Trieste, where I found my uncle's yacht awaiting me, and we went down the Adriatic and along the Mediterranean to Algiers. My uncle was already at home. The coup was a large one, I believe. Have you seen reports of it in the English papers?" she asked.

"Certainly," I replied. For a fortnight before I had read in several of the newspapers of the daring robbery committed at the shop of Lobenski, the Russian Court Jeweller, and of the theft of a large quantity of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The safe, believed to be impregnable, had been fused by an oxygen acetylene jet, and the whole of its contents stolen. From what Lola had revealed, it seemed that Jeanjean had had no actual hand in the theft, for he had been in Algiers awaiting the booty. But he always travelled swiftly after a coup.

"Did the papers say much about it?" asked Lola, with interest.

"Oh, just a sensational story," I replied. "But I never dreamt that you were in Russia, Lola – that you had carried the stones across Europe sewn in your dress!"

"Ah! It is not the first time, as you know, M'sieu' Vidal," she sighed. "There is always danger of some customs officer or agent of police recognizing me. But uncle says I am unsuspected, and hence the work is assigned always to me."

"And you have come to England to see me – eh? Why?" I asked, looking again into her clear blue eyes.

"I have come, M'sieu' Vidal, in order to ask a further favour of you – a request I almost fear to make after your great generosity towards me."

"Oh! Don't let us speak of that," I said. "It is all past and over. I only acted as any other man would have done in the circumstances, Lola!"

"You acted as a gentleman would act," she said. "But, alas! How few real gentlemen are met by a wretched girl like myself," she added bitterly. "Suppose you had acted as thousands would have done. Where should I be now? Spending my days in one of your female prisons here."

"Instead of which you are still the little Nightingale, who sings so blithely, and who is so inexpressibly dainty and charming," I said with a smile. "At the best hotels up and down Europe, Lola Sorel is a well-known figure, always ready to flirt with the idle youngsters, and to make herself pleasant to those of her own sex. Only they must be wealthy – eh?"

She made a quick movement as though to arrest the flow of my words.

"You are, alas! right, M'sieu' Vidal," she replied. "Ah, if you only knew how I hate it all – how day by day, hour by hour – I fear that I may blunder and consequently find myself in the hands of the police – if – "

"Never, if you follow your uncle, Jules Jeanjean," I interrupted. "And, I suppose, you are still doing so?"

She sighed heavily, and a hard expression crossed her pretty face.

"Alas! I am forced to. You know the bitter truth, M'sieu' Vidal – the tragedy of my life."

For a few moments I remained silent, my eyes upon her.

I knew full well the strange, romantic story of that pretty French girl seated before me – the sweet, refined little person – scarcely more than a child – whose present, and whose future, were so entirely in the hands of that notorious criminal.

Why had I not telegraphed to the Paris police on discovering Jeanjean's presence in Cromer? For one reason alone. Because his arrest would also mean hers. He had too vowed in my presence that if he were ever taken alive, he would betray his niece, because she had once, in a moment of despair and horror, at one of his cold-blooded crimes, threatened to give him away.

As she sat there, her face sweet and soft as a child's, her blue eyes so clear and innocent, one would never dream that she was the cat's-paw of the most ingenious and dangerous association of jewel thieves in the whole of Europe.

Truly her story was a strange one – one of the strangest of any girl in the world.

She noticed my thoughtfulness, and suddenly put out her little hand until it touched mine; then, looking into my eyes, she asked, in a low, intense voice —

"What are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking of you, Lola," I replied. "I am wondering what really happened in Cromer, back in the month of June. You are here to explain – eh? Will you tell me?"

Her brows contracted slightly, and she drew her hand back from mine.

"You know what happened," she said.

"I don't. Explain it all to me in confidence," I urged. "You surely know me well enough to rely upon my keeping the secret."

"Ah, no!" she cried, starting up suddenly, a strange light of fear in her eyes. "Never, M'sieu' Vidal! I – I can tell you nothing of that – nothing more than what you already know. Please don't ask me – never ask me again, for I – I can't tell you! It was all too dastardly, too terrible!"

And the girl, with a wild gesture, covered her pale face with her little hands as though to shut out from memory the grim recollection of a scene that was full of bitterness and horror.

"But you will tell me the truth, Lola. Do. I beg of you?" I urged, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

"No," she cried in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "No. Don't ask me. Please don't ask me."