The Count's Chauffeur. Le Queux William

we do, as a matter of fact,” I replied.

      Then he went to the door, and looking over the panes of frosted glass, asked what horse-power it was, and a number of other questions with which non-motorists always plague the chauffeur.

      Then, returning to me, he remarked what a very nice gentleman his lordship was, adding that he had been a customer on several occasions.

      “Have you been long in his service?” he inquired.

      “Oh yes,” I replied, determined not to be thought a new hand. “Quite a long time. As you say, he is a very charming man.”

      “He’s very wealthy, according to report. I read something about him in the papers the other day – a gift of some thousands to the Hospital Fund.”

      This rather surprised me. I never remembered having seen the name of Count Bindo di Ferraris in the papers.

      Presently I got up, and wandering about the shop, inspected some of the beautiful jewels in the fine show-cases, many of them ornaments of enormous value. The manager, a pleasant, elderly man, took me round and showed me some of the most beautiful jewellery I had ever seen. Then, excusing himself, he retired to the office beyond the shop, and left me to chat with one of the assistants.

      I looked at the clock, and saw that nearly half an hour had elapsed since the Count had left. A constable had looked in and inquired about the car, but I had assured him that in a few minutes we should be off, and begged, as a favour, that it might be allowed to remain until my master’s return.

      Another quarter of an hour elapsed, when the door opened, and there entered two respectably dressed men in dark overcoats, one wearing a soft brown felt hat and the other a “bowler.”

      They asked to see the manager, and the assistant who had been chatting to me conducted them through the shop to the office beyond. Both men were of middle age and well set up, and as they entered, I saw that a third man, much younger, was with them. He, however, did not come in, but stood in the doorway, idly glancing up and down Bond Street.

      Within the office I distinctly heard the manager utter an exclamation of surprise, and then one of the men, in a deep, low voice, seemed to enter into a long explanation.

      The elder of the two strangers walked along the shop to the door, and going outside, spoke some words to the man who had accompanied them. On re-entering, he passed me, giving me a sharp glance, and then disappeared again into the office, where, for five minutes or so, he remained closeted with the manager.

      Presently the last-named came out, and as he approached me I noticed an entire change in his manner. He was pale, almost to the lips.

      “Will you step into my office for one moment?” he asked. “There’s – well, a little matter upon which I want to speak to you.”

      This surprised me. What could he mean?

      Nevertheless, I consented, and in a few moments found myself in a large, well-lit office with the manager and the two strangers.

      The man in the brown felt hat was the first to speak.

      “We want to ask you a question or two,” he said. “Do you recognise this?” and he produced a small square photograph of a man upon whose coat was a white ticket bearing a bold number. I started when my eyes fell upon it.

      “My master!” I ejaculated.

      The portrait was a police photograph! The men were detectives!

      The inspector, for such he was, turned to the jeweller’s manager, and regarded him with a significant look.

      “It’s a good job we’ve arrested him with the stuff on him,” he remarked, “otherwise you’d never have seen the colour of it again. He’s worked the same dodge in Rome and Berlin, and both times got clear away. I suppose he became a small customer, in order to inspire confidence – eh?”

      “Well, he came in this morning, saying that he wished to give his wife a tiara for the anniversary of her wedding, and asked that he might have two on approval, as he was undecided which to choose, and wished her to pick for herself. He left his car and chauffeur here till his return, and took away two worth five thousand pounds each. I, of course, had not the slightest suspicion. Lord Ixwell – the name by which we know him – is reputed everywhere to be one of the richest peers in the kingdom.”

      “Yes. But, you see, Detective-Sergeant Rodwell here, chanced to see him come out of the shop, and, recognising him as the jewel-thief we’ve wanted for months past, followed his cab down to Charing Cross Station, and there arrested him and took him to Bow Street.”

      I stood utterly dumbfounded at this sudden ending of what I had believed would be an ideal engagement.

      “What’s your name?” inquired the inspector.

      “George Ewart,” was my answer. “I only entered the Count’s service yesterday.”

      “And yet you told me you had been his chauffeur for a long time!” exclaimed the jeweller’s manager.

      “Well,” said the elder of the detectives, “we shall arrest you, at any rate. You must come round to Bow Street, and I warn you that any statement you may make will be taken down and used as evidence against you.”

      “Arrest me!” I cried. “Why, I haven’t done anything! I’m perfectly innocent. I had no idea that – ”

      “Well, you have more than an idea now, haven’t you?” laughed the detective. “But come along; we have no time to lose,” and he asked the manager to order a four-wheeled cab.

      I remonstrated in indignation, but to no avail.

      “What about the car?” I asked anxiously, as we went outside together and stepped into the cab, the third police-officer, who had been on guard outside, holding open the door, while the constable who had been worrying me about the car stood looking on.

      “Diplock, you can drive a motor-car,” exclaimed the inspector, turning to the detective at the cab door. “Just bring that round to Bow Street as quick as you can.”

      The constable took in the situation at a glance. He saw that I had been arrested, and asked the detectives if they needed any assistance. But the reply was negative, and with the inspector at my side and the sergeant opposite, we moved off towards Piccadilly, the jeweller’s manager having been requested to attend at Bow Street Police Station in an hour, in order to identify the stolen property. By that time the charge would be made out, and we should, the inspector said, be up before the magistrate for a remand before the Court rose.

      As we drove along Piccadilly, my heart fell within me. All my dreams of those splendid, well-kept roads in the sunny South, of touring to all the gayest places on the Continent, and seeing all that was to be seen, had been shattered at a single blow. And what a blow!

      I had awakened to find myself under arrest as the accomplice of one of the most expert jewel-thieves in Europe!

      My companions were not communicative. Why should they have been?

      Suddenly I became aware of the fact that we had driven a considerable distance. In my agitated state of mind I had taken no notice of our route, and my captors had, it seemed, endeavoured to take my attention off the direction we had taken.

      Collecting my scattered senses, however, I recollected that we had crossed one of the bridges over the Thames, and looking out of the window, I found that we were in a long, open road of private houses, each with a short strip of railed-off garden in front – a South London thoroughfare evidently.

      “This isn’t the way to Bow Street!” I exclaimed in wonder.

      “Well, not exactly the straight way,” grinned the inspector. “A roundabout route, let’s call it.”

      I was puzzled. The more so when I recognised a few minutes later that we had come down the Camberwell New Road, and were passing Camberwell Green.

      We continued up Denmark Hill until, at the corner where Champion Hill branches off, the inspector called to the cabman to stop, and we all descended, the detective-sergeant paying