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After luncheon at the Trocadero I mounted into the car, a new forty six-cylinder "Napier" that we had purchased only a week before, to drive to Barnack, an old-world Northamptonshire village near Stamford, where I had to meet the audacious rascal Count Bindo. From Piccadilly Circus, I started forth upon my hundred-mile run with a light heart, in keen anticipation of a merry time.
The red light of a level-crossing gave warning, and I pulled up, and let out a long blast on the electric horn, until the gates swung open. "Her real name is, I believe, Pierrette Dumont, only daughter of that big jeweller in the Rue de la Paix." "What!" cried Bindo, in such a manner that I knew he was not joking. "Old Dumont's daughter? If that's so, we are in luck's way."
I should be so very delighted. Do you shoot?" "A little," Bindo answered. "My friend, Sir Charles Sinclair, is said to be one of the best shots in England. But I'm not much of a shot myself." "Then can't you persuade him to come with you?" "Well, I'll ask him," my employer replied. "He has very many engagements, however. He's so well known you see."
Late one night, on going to my room in the Paris, I found a welcome telegram from Bindo, dated from Milan, ordering me to meet him with the car at the Hotel Umberto, in Cuneo, on the following day. Now, Cuneo lay over the Italian frontier, in Piedmont, half-way between Monte Carlo and Turin.
The next day, the next, and three other succeeding days, I spent nearly wholly with Pierrette and Madame. A telegram I received from Bindo from the Maritime Station at Calais asked if Mademoiselle was still at Beaulieu, and to this I replied in the affirmative to Clifford Street.
But the main question was whether the dainty little Pierrette had told me the truth. At ten o'clock that same morning I saw Bindo off by the Paris rapide. Though he did not get to his room at the Hôtel de Paris till nearly six, he was about again at eight. He was a man full of activity when the occasion warranted, and yet, like many men of brains, he usually gave one the appearance of an idler.
He ordered a "Dubonnet," and then, finding that we were practically alone, with none to overhear, he asked "Why did you write to me? What do you want?" "To know the truth about Pierrette Dumont," I said. "Madame has been telling me about you. When did you arrive?" "The day before yesterday. Bindo sent me out." "What for?" "I can't tell. He never gives reasons.
Four days went by. Soon my rest would be at an end, and I should be travelling at a moment's notice with Blythe and Bindo to the farther end of Europe. One evening I was passing through the great hall of the Hotel Cecil to descend to the American bar, where I frequently had a cocktail, when a neatly-dressed figure in black rose and greeted me.
I only know that, as soon as they passed, she exclaimed, in annoyance "I can't think why Bindo sent you along here with me." "I regret, mademoiselle, that my companionship should be distasteful to you," I replied, mystified. "No, no, not that, m'sieur," she cried anxiously. "I do not mean that. You do not know how can you know what I mean?"
Now at this time Giorgio Vasari, having returned from Bologna, was executing for Messer Bindo Altoviti the altar-piece of his chapel in S. Apostolo at Florence, but he was not held in much consideration, although he had friendship with Tribolo and Tasso, because certain persons had formed a faction under the protection of the above-named Messer Pier Francesco Riccio, and whoever was not of that faction had no share in the favours of the Court, although he might be able and deserving.
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