And one day, by the merest chance, Leonard saw him in a side street, engaged in conversation with a shabby, rather furtive-looking foreigner. As they were too occupied to notice him, he soon removed himself from their neighbourhood. He had come across a few acquaintances at Nice, and Craig a great many. But this shabby furtive-looking foreigner was not the sort of companion suitable for the fastidious young diplomatist. Clearly there was some mystery going on, which his friend was carefully hiding from him. Probably it might be connected with his diplomatic business, but Lydon had an uncanny idea that a woman was at the bottom of it, whatever it was. Never did he forget that early morning of the day which they had fixed for their departure. In the evening, Craig had gone out to dinner for the third time during their stay. Lydon went to the masked ball at the Casino, and returned early in the morning. He concluded that Craig had come home and gone to bed, knowing that his friend would not leave the Casino till late. He was about to undress when he was called to the telephone by the police, who gave him alarming news. Would he go at once to the Villa des Cyclamens at Mont Boron, as his friend Mr. Craig was dangerously ill? He had felt a little nettled the last few days by what he considered Craig’s unfriendly reticence; but when he received this message, all his old affection for the staunch comrade of so many years returned in full force. As soon as possible he was at the Villa des Cyclamens of which he now heard for the first time. CHAPTER TWO Great was his astonishment at finding the pretty villa overlooking the moonlit Mediterranean in possession of the police, amongst whom he observed the shabby furtive-looking man whom he had seen talking to Hugh in the side street of Nice. The chief official approached him and addressed him in excellent English. “We sent you a rather guarded message, Mr. Lydon, as we felt we could break the news better to you when you came here. A very terrible tragedy has occurred.” Lydon held his breath. He knew now that the mystery about Hugh Craig’s frequent disappearance which had so puzzled him was about to be solved by this bland, courteous official. “A terrible tragedy?” he faltered. “In Heaven’s name what has happened?” The man proceeded to explain. “This house is tenanted by a Madame Makris, a widow. Her husband was a Greek merchant, she is an Englishwoman. She lived here with her daughter, Mademoiselle Elise Makris, the only child of the marriage. Mademoiselle and your friend, Mr. Hugh Craig, were very close friends; according to the mother’s statement, they were more than friends, very devoted lovers. It seems a few days ago they had a violent quarrel--I am still quoting Madame Makris--the cause of which was not divulged. To-night Mr. Craig dined here, and after dinner he and the young lady went and sat on the veranda, according to their usual custom on the occasions when he visited the house.”