THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson

of man who would change his name as if it were a coat. I've kept mine, too, to 'maid' with. You 'shuv,' I 'maid.' It sounds like an exercise in a strange language."

      "That's precisely what it is," he answered. "A difficult language to learn at first, but I'm getting the 'hang' of it. I hope you won't need to pursue the study very thoroughly."

      "And you think you will?"

      "I think so," he said, his face hardening a little, and looking dogged. "I don't see any way out of it for the present."

      I was silent for almost a whole minute—which can seem a long time to a woman—half hoping that he meant to tell me something about himself; how it was that he'd decided to be a professional chauffeur, and so on. I was sure there must be a story, an interesting story—perhaps a romantic one—and if he confided in me, I would in him. Why not, when—on my part, at least—there's nothing to conceal, and we're bound to be companions of the Road for weal or woe? But if he felt any temptation to be expansive he resisted it, like a true Englishman; and to break a silence which grew almost embarrassing I was driven to ask him, quite brazenly, if he had no curiosity to know my name.

      "Not exactly curiosity," said he, smiling his pleasant smile again. "I'm never curious about people I—like, or feel that I'm going to like. It isn't my nature."

      "It's just the opposite with me."

      "We're of opposite sexes."

      "You believe that explains it? I don't know. Man may be a fellow creature, I suppose—though they didn't teach me that at the Convent. But tell me this: even if you have no curiosity, because you hope you can manage to endure me, do you think I look like an 'Elise'?"

      "Somehow, you don't. Names have different colours for me. Elise is bright pink. You ought to be silver, or pale blue."

      "Elise is my professional name; Lady Turnour is my sponsor. My real name's Lys—Lys d'Angely."

      "Good! Lys is silver."

      "I wish I could coin it. Let me see if I can guess what you ought to be? You look like—like—well, Jack would suit you. But that's too good to be true. I shall never meet a 'Jack' except in books and ballads."

      "My name is John Claud. But when I was a boy, I always fought any chap who called me 'Claud,' and tried to give him a black eye or a bloody nose. You may call me Jack, if you like."

      "Certainly not. I shall call you Mr. Dane."

      "Shuvvers are never mistered."

      "Not even by the females of their kind? I always supposed that manners were very toploftical in the servants' hall."

      "We may both soon know."

      "Elise, take that cup at once where you got it from, and come back to your place. We are ready to start."

      This from Lady Turnour. (Really, if she takes to interfering every time we others have got to the middle of an interesting conversation, I don't know what I shall do to her! Perhaps I'll put her transformation on side-wise. Or would that be blackmail?)

      Silently the chauffeur took the cup from my frightened fingers, and marched off with it into the hotel, without a "by your leave" or "with your leave."

      "My word, your chauffeur might have better manners!" grumbled Lady Turnour to Sir Samuel, as she climbed into the car; but there was no scolding when the rude young man came briskly back, looking supremely unconscious of having given offence.

      "Now we must make good time to Marseilles, if we're to get there for dinner," he said, when he had started the car, and taken his place. "We shall stop there to-night, or rather, just outside the town, in one of the nicest hotels on earth, as you will see."

      "Whose choice?" I asked.

      "Mine," he laughed, "but I don't think Sir Samuel knows that!"

      Down to Hyères we floated again, on the wings of the Aigle, I looking longingly across the valley where the old town climbed a citadeled hill, and lay down at the foot of a sturdy though crumbling castle. If this were really my own tour, as I am trying to play it is, I would have commanded a long stop at Costebelle, to make explorations of the region round about. I can imagine no greater joy than to be able to stay at beautiful places as long as one wished, and to keep on doing beautiful things till one tired of doing them.

      But life is a good deal like a big busybody of a policeman, continually telling us to get up and move on!

      Our world was a flower world again, ringed in like a secret fairyland, with distant mountains of extraordinarily graceful shapes—charming lady-mountains; and as far as we could see the road was cut through a carpet of pink, white, and golden blossoms destined by and by for the markets of Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna.

      Before I thought it could be so near, we dashed into Toulon, a very different Toulon from the Toulon of the railway station, where I remembered stopping a few mornings (which seemed like a few years) ago. Now, it looked a noble and impressive place, as well as a tremendously busy town; but my eye climbed to the towery heights above, wondering on which one Napoleon—a smart young officer of artillery—placed the batteries that shelled the British out of the harbour, and gained for him the first small laurel leaf of his imperial crown.

      I thought, too, of all the French novels I'd read, whose sailor heroes were stationed at Toulon, and there met romantic or sensational adventures. They were always handsome and dashing, those heroes, and as we threaded intricate fortifications, I found myself looking out for at least one or two of them.

      Yes, they were there, plenty of heroes, almost all handsome, with splendid dark eyes that searched flatteringly to penetrate the mystery of my talc triangle. They didn't know, poor dears, that there was nothing better than a lady's-maid behind it. What a waste of gorgeous glances!

      I laughed to myself at the fancy, and the chauffeur sitting beside me wanted to know why; but I wouldn't tell him. One really can't say everything to a man one has known only for a day. And yet, the curious part is, I feel as if we had been the best of friends for a long time. I never felt like that toward any man before, but I suppose it is because of the queer resemblance in our fates.

      Beyond Toulon we had to slow down for a long procession of gypsy caravans on their way to town; quaint, moving houses, with strings of huge pearls that were gleaming onions, festooned across their blue or green doors and windows; and out from those doors and windows wonderful eyes gazed at us—eyes full of secrets of the East, strange eyes, more fascinating in their passing glance than those of the gay young heroes at Toulon.

      So we flew on to the village of Ollioules, and into the dim mountain gorge of the same musical name. The car plunged boldly through the veil of deep blue shadow which hung, ghostlike, over the serpentine curves of the white road; and out of its twilight-mystery rose always the faint singing of a little river that ran beside us, under the steep gray wall of towering rock.

      At the top of the gorge a surprise of beauty waited for us as our way led along a sinuous road cut into the swelling mountain-side. Far off lay the sea, with an army of tremendous purple rocks hurling themselves headlong into the molten gold of the water, like a drove of mammoths. All the world was gold and royal purple. Hills and mountains stood up, darkly violet, out of a golden plain, against a sky of gold; and it was such a picture as only Heaven or Turner could have painted.

      Nor was there any break in the varied splendor of the scene and of the sun's setting until we came to the dull-looking town of Aubagne. After that, the Southern darkness swooped in haste, and while we wound tediously through the immense, never-ending traffic of Marseilles, it "made night." All the length and breadth of the Cannebière burst into brilliance of electric light, as if in our honor. The great street looked as gay as a Paris boulevard; and as we turned into it, we turned into an adventure.

      To begin with, nothing seemed less likely than an adventure. We drew up calmly before the door of a hotel whence a telephonic demand for rooms must be sent to La Reserve, under the same management. It was the chauffeur who had to go in and telephone, for the bridegroom is even