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

seemed to centre upon the affair between Mr. Herbert Stokes and the heiress sister of Madame la Marquise. There were even bets among the valets as to how it was to end, and Bertie's man, who looked as if he could speak volumes if he would, was a person of importance.

      All the men admired Miss Nelson extremely, but the women were divided in opinion. Her own maid, a bilious Frenchwoman, with a jealous eye, said that the American miss was une petite chatte, who was playing off Mr. Stokes against the Duc de Divonne, and it was a pity that the handsome young English monsieur could not be warned of her unworthiness. The duke was not handsome, and he was neither young nor rich, but—these Americans were out for titles, just as titles were out for American money. Why else had the marriage of Madame la Marquise, Miss Daisy's elder sister, made itself? Miss Daisy liked Mr. Stokes, but he could not give her a title. The duke could—if he would. But would he? She was rich, but there were others richer. People said that he was wary. Yet he admired Miss Daisy, it was true, and if by her flirtation with Mr. Stokes she could pique him into a proposal, she would have her triumph.

      This was only one of many dramas going on in the house, but it was the most interesting to me, as to others, and I determined to look with all my might at the duke and at pretty Miss Nelson, of whom I had only had a glimpse on arriving. If she were really nice, I did hope that Bertie wouldn't get her!

      My costume pressed as weightily on her ladyship's mind, as if I had been a favourite poodle about to be sent, all ribboned and clipped, to a dog show. She did not forget the slippers and stockings, and the chauffeur was ordered to take me into Clermont-Ferrand to buy them. Fortunately she didn't know how much I looked forward to the excursion!

      At precisely three o'clock I walked out to the castle garage, near the stables, and found Jack getting the car ready; but I did not find him alone. The garage is a big and splendid one, and not only were the three household dragons in their stalls, but four or five strange beasts, pets of visitors; and the finest of these (after our blue Aigle) was the white Majestic of the Duc de Divonne. That gentleman, whom I recognized easily from a description breathed into my ear by a countess's countess, at luncheon, was in the garage when I arrived, showing off his automobile to Miss Nelson. The ducal chauffeur lurked in the background, duster in hand, and Mr. Herbert Stokes occupied as large a space as possible in the foreground.

      Nobody deigned to take any open notice of me, though Bertie threw me a stealthy smile of recognition, carefully screened from Miss Nelson, but as the Aigle was swallowing a last refreshing draught of petrol, I had time to observe the actors in the little drama whose plot I had already heard.

      Yes, though Miss Daisy Nelson looked even prettier than I thought her last night, I could quite believe the bilious maid's statement that she was une petite chatte. Her green-gray eyes, very effective under thick masses of auburn hair, were turned up at the outer corners in a fascinating, sly little way; and her cupid-bow lips, which turned down at their corners, were a bit redder than Nature's formula ordains. Nevertheless I couldn't help liking her, just as one likes a lovely, playful Persian kitten which may rub its adorable nose against your hand, or scratch with its naughty claws. And she was enjoying herself so much, the pretty, expensive-looking creature! As Pamela would say, it was evident that she was "having the time of her life," revelling in the admiration and rivalry of the two men; delighted with her own power over them, and her importance as a beauty and an heiress, the only unmarried girl in the house party; amusing herself by making one man miserable and the other happy, sending them up and down on a mental sea-saw, by turns.

      As for the little Duc de Divonne, his profile is of the Roman Emperor order, and his eyes like the last coals in a dying fire. I said to myself that, if Miss Nelson should become a duchess, she would have to pay for some of her girlish antics in pre-duchess days. Still, I decided that if I had to choose, it would be the duke before Bertie.

      The girl kept both her men busy, and after the first glance Bertie ignored my existence: but the Duke, fired by a moment's neglect, flamed out with an inspiration. He "dared" Miss Nelson to take a lesson from him in driving his car, with no other chaperon than the chauffeur. "All right, I will," said she, "and I bet you I'll be an expert after one trial."

      "What do you bet?" asked the Duke.

      She smiled flirtatiously in answer and Bertie stood forlorn, his nice pink complexion turning an ugly salmon colour. In a minute the white car was off, Miss Nelson beside the duke, the chauffeur like a small nut in a large shell, lolling in the tonneau. Bertie turned to us, and having looked kindly at me, sharply demanded of Jack where he was going.

      "Mademoiselle has an errand."

      "Ah! then I'll drive Mademoiselle. Wish I had a tenner for every time I've driven an Aigle! You can sit inside, in case there's work to do."

      My eyes opened widely, but I said nothing. I glanced at Jack, and saw his face harden.

      "I have been told to drive the car, and it is my duty to drive it unless I receive different orders," said he.

      "I'm giving you different orders," said Bertie.

      "I take my orders only from the owner of the car."

      "You're beastly impertinent," snapped Bertie, "and I'll report you to Sir Samuel."

      "As you choose," returned Jack, turning the starting-handle.

      "Why don't you say 'sir' when you speak to me? You don't seem to have trained into chauffeur manners yet."

      "If I were your chauffeur, you would have the right to criticize. As I'm not, and never will be, you haven't. Mademoiselle, the car's ready. Will you get in?"

      I jumped into my usual place, beside the driver's seat.

      "Ah, you sit by the chauffeur, do you?" said Bertie. "I don't wonder he wants to keep his job."

      For an instant I was afraid that Jack would strike him.

      My blood rushed to my head, and I half rose from the seat, with a choked, warning whisper of "Jack!"

      It was the first time I'd called him that, except to myself, and I saw him give the faintest start. He looked at the other man, and then, though Bertie stepped quickly forward as if to open the car door and jump in, he sprang to his place, and we were off.

      "He means mischief," I said, when I felt able to speak.

      "So do I, if he does," answered Jack.

      "I wish you'd do me a favour," I went on. "Keep away from that awful ball to-night."

      "What! With you there? I know my business better."

      I couldn't help laughing. "Your present business, I believe," said I, "is that of a chauffeur."

      "With extra duty as watch-dog."

      "I can't bear to have you see me in the ridiculous get-up Lady Turnour is making me wear, that's the selfish part of my reason—and—and it will be so horrid for you, in every way."

      "I'm callous to anything they can do now, except one thing."

      "What?"

      "If you don't know already, I mean where you're concerned."

      "You're very kind to me."

      "Kind? Yes, I am very 'kind.' A man has to be abnormally 'kind' to want to look after a girl like you."

      "How bitterly you speak!" I exclaimed, hardly understanding him.

      "I feel bitter sometimes. Do you wonder? But for heaven's sake, don't let's talk of me. Let's talk of something pleasant. Would you care to do a little sight-seeing in Clermont-Ferrand, if your shopping doesn't take us too long?"

      I assured him that it would not take ten minutes; and it didn't take more. I saved a franc on the transaction, too, which would console her ladyship if I got back a few minutes late; and with that thought in my mind, I abandoned myself to the joy of the expedition. We went to the Petrifying Fountain, and inspected its strange menagerie of stone animals; we made a dash into the Cathedral where St. Louis was married, and looked at the beautiful thirteenth-century