“You have accepted the invitation, I take it?” I nodded. “And that, of course, lends color to the belief that m’sieur the millionaire is in love with you, for it is well known that although he has that magnificent yacht he never goes on a pleasure cruise.” “I can’t help what may be thought by gossips,” I said hastily. “Mr. Keppel is a friend of mine--nothing further.” “But this friendship has apparently caused certain apprehensions to arise in the minds of some persons of whom your mysterious companion was the mouthpiece--the people who threatened you with death should you disobey them.” “Who are those people, do you imagine?” I inquired, deeply in earnest, for the matter seemed to grow increasingly serious. “Ah!” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “If we knew that we should have no difficulty in arresting the assassin of M’sieur Thorne.” “Well, what do you consider my best course?” I asked, utterly bewildered by the mysterious events of the evening. “I should advise you to keep your own counsel and leave the inquiries to us,” was the detective’s rejoinder. “If this man again approaches you, make an appointment with him later and acquaint us with the time and place at once.” “But I don’t anticipate that I shall see him again.” Then, determined to render the police agents every assistance, even though they had been stupidly blind to allow the stranger to escape, I drew from my pocket the small packet which he had given me. “This,” I said, “he handed to me at the last instant, accompanied by a hope that I would not fail to keep the appointment in London.” “What is it?” “I don’t know.” “Will you permit us to open it?” he inquired, much interested. “Certainly,” I responded. “I am anxious to see what it contains.” The detective took it and cut the string with his pocket-knife; then, while his subordinate and the Director of the Casino craned their necks to investigate, he unwrapped paper after paper until he came to a square jewel-case covered in dark-crimson leather. “An ornament, I suppose?” exclaimed the detective. Then he opened the box, and from its velvet-lined depths something fell to the ground which caused us to utter a loud cry of surprise in chorus. The detective bent and picked it up. I stood dumfounded and aghast. In his hand was a bundle of folded French bank-notes--each for one thousand francs. They were the notes stolen from Reginald Thorne by his assassin. CHAPTER X MAKES ONE POINT PLAIN “Extraordinary!” ejaculated the detective, whose habitual coolness seemed utterly upset by the unexpected discovery. “This adds an entirely new feature to the case.” “What, I wonder, could have been the motive in giving the notes to mademoiselle?” queried his companion. “How can we tell?” said the other. “It at least proves one thing, namely, that the man in the owl’s dress is the individual we suspected.” “Do you then believe him to be the actual assassin?” I asked.