When the smart chauffeur, Garrett, entered the cosy chambers of his Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, alias Charles Fotheringham, alias Henry Tremlett, in Dover Street, Piccadilly, he found him stretched lazily on the couch before the fire. He had exchanged his dinner jacket for an easy coat of brown velvet; between his lips was a Russian cigarette of his pet brand, and at his elbow a brandy and soda. "Ah! Garrett," he exclaimed as the chauffeur entered. "Come here, and sit down. Shut the door first. I want to talk to you." As chauffeur to the Prince and his ingenious companions, Garrett had met with many queer adventures and been in many a tight corner. To this day he wonders he was not "pinched" by the police a dozen times, and certainly would have been if it were not that the gay, good-looking, devil-may-care Prince Albert never left anything to chance. When a _coup_ was to be made he thought out every minute detail, and took precaution against every risk of detection. To his marvellous ingenuity and wonderful foresight Garrett, with his friends, owed his liberty. During the three years through which he had thrown in his lot with that select little circle of "crooks," he had really had a very interesting time, and had driven them thousands of miles, mostly on the Continent, in the big "Mercedes" or the "sixty" six-cylinder "Minerva." His Highness's share in the plunder had been very considerable. At his bankers he possessed quite a respectable balance, and he lived in easy affluence the life of a prince. In the drawing-rooms of London and Paris he was known as essentially a ladies' man; while in Italy he was usually Henry Tremlett, of London, and in France he was Charles Fotheringham, an Anglo-Frenchman and Chevalier of the Legion d'Honneur. "Look here, Garrett," he said, raising himself on his elbow and looking the man in the face as he tossed his cigarette in the grate. "To-day, let's see, is December 16. You must start in the car to-morrow for San Remo. We shall spend a week or two there." "To-morrow!" the chauffeur echoed. "The roads from Paris down to the Riviera are pretty bad just now. I saw in the paper yesterday that there's heavy snow around Valence." "Snow, or no snow, we must go," the Prince said decisively. "We have a little matter in hand down there--you understand?" he remarked, his dark eyes still fixed upon the chauffeur. The man wondered what was the nature of the _coup_ intended. "And now," he went on, "let me explain something else. There may be some funny proceedings down at San Remo. But just disregard everything you see, and don't trouble your head about the why, or wherefore. You're paid to be chauffeur, Garrett--and paid well, too, by your share of the profits--so nothing else concerns you. It isn't, sparklers we're after this time--it's something else."