“Ah! you think that?”

“I admit I’m unfair.  But first they quarrel with my sense of the normal by being too confoundedly picturesque, too rich and brilliant, too sharp and smart and glib, too—­well!—­theatrical; like characters from the cast of what your American theatre calls a crook melodrama.  And then, if their intentions were so blessed pure and praiseworthy, what right had they to make so many ambiguous gestures?”

“Leading the talk up to my jewels, you mean?”

“I mean every move they made:  all too suspiciously smooth, too well rehearsed in effect.  That stop to dine in Nant with the storm coming on, when they could easily have made Millau before it broke:  what else was that for but to stage a ‘break-down’ at your door at a time when it would be reasonable to beg the shelter and hospitality of your roof?  Then Madame la Comtesse de Lorgnes—­whoever she is—­must get her feet wet, an excellent excuse for asking to be introduced to your boudoir, so she may change her shoes and stockings and incidentally spy out the precise location of your safe.  And when their ear is hauled into the garage, Mr. Phinuit must go to help, which gives him a chance to stroll at leisure through the lower part of the house and note every easy way of breaking in.  Mr. Monk casually notes your likeness to the little girl he once met, he says, in your father’s office; something you tell me you don’t recall at all.  And that places you as the veritable owner of the Anstruther jewels, and no mistake.  Then—­Madame de Lorgnes guiding the conversation by secret signals which I intercept—­somebody recognises me as the Lone Wolf, in spite of the work of years and a new-grown beard; and you are obliquely warned that, if your jewels should happen to disappear it’s more than likely the Lone Wolf will prove to be the guilty party.  At any rate, they will be ever so much obliged if you’ll believe he is, it’ll save so much trouble all around.  Finally:  when your ex-chauffeur—­what’s his name—?” “Albert Dupont.”

“A name as unique in France as John Smith is in England ...  When Albert Dupont tries to take my life, as a simple and natural act of vendetta—­”

“You really think it was that?”

“I recognised the beast when he let off that pistol at my head.  I was in his way here, and he owed me one besides for my interference at Montpellier that night....  When Dupont half murders me and I’m laid up on your hands for nearly a month, our friends with designs on your jewels thoughtfully wait before they strike till I am able to be up and about, consequently in a position to be accused of a crime which no one would put past the Lone Wolf.  Oh, I think we can fairly count Mr. Monk and his friends in on this coup!”

“I am sure of it,” said Eve de Montalais.  “But Albert:  is he one of them, their employee or confrere?”

“Dupont?  I fancy not.  I may be wrong, but I believe he is entirely on his own—­quite independent of the Monk party.”