On the Cote d'Azur the weather was stifling. Driving up the white, winding road of Castellar, we found the olives and aloes dry and dusty, and the land parched and brown. The Riviera is not gay in the dog-days. At last we arrived at the Villa, a great, recently built house of the flamboyant, new art style, its green shutters closed, and the whole place silent and deserted in the burning sun. Roses and geraniums ran riot everywhere, but the gardens were kept spick and span, as became the winter _pied-a-terre_ of a wealthy man. I posed as an Englishman who wished to view the Villa, with the object of becoming its tenant next winter, having heard from a friend of Monsieur Cauvin that he might wish to let it. Doris, I assured the old gardener, a white-bearded man in a big straw hat and blue apron, was my sister. He took the bait readily enough, and handed me over to the care of his wife, by whom we were conducted over the house. The house was most luxuriously furnished, and it was evident that popular rumours, for once, had not exaggerated Cauvin's wealth. Everything was in splendid taste and bore the unmistakable _cachet_ of a famous Paris firm of experts. Cauvin, evidently, was no fool; he had committed none of the absurdities of the average _nouveau riche_, but had wisely given experienced men _carte blanche_. The result was a mingling of luxury and good taste which certainly could not have been expected from the son of a village postman. CHAPTER FIVE. THE PERFUMED CARD. We passed from room to room, chatting freely with the old Frenchwoman, who garrulously told me everything I wanted to know, and showed not the least reluctance to discuss her master and his affairs. I had previously warned Doris to be on the look-out for anything of interest, and, pleased with the idea of helping me, she was keenly on the alert. I was soon to have good reason to bless the lucky inspiration which had led me to fetch her to Mentone at a time when most people prefer to give it a wide berth. After visiting a number of rooms, we came at last to the front entrance, and the aged housekeeper seemed to think we were leaving. But I had not yet caught sight of Cauvin's private room, and I knew that unless I saw that my journey would be fruitless. "It is a very nice house," I said to our guide, "and the gardens are beautiful. But I have much writing to do, and there does not seem to be any room which would serve well as a study." She hesitated obviously. "Well," she said slowly, "there is monsieur's private room, but it is locked. If monsieur desires it, I will fetch the key." "I might as well see it," I said, as carelessly as I could. "I must have some private den of my own," I went on.