To Bombaccio, the first intimation that something had gone wrong in the house party of Terragena was brought by Miss Puppy Clarges. He had been putting out the English papers on the hall table and touching and patting the inkpots and pens and blotting-pads on the writing-tables in the southern recess of the hall and meditating on the just position of the various waste-paper baskets, and blessing and confirming all such minor amenities, when she came in. He wore a diamond ring, not one with an exceptional diamond like Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan’s, but just a diamond ring, and as he did things he exercised himself in a rather nice attitude with the hand upheld, that Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan affected. It seemed to Bombaccio a desirable attitude. She came in from the terrace towards the sea while he was posed in this way. She gave his hand a passing unintelligent glance and spoke brusquely. “Bombaccio,” she said, “I have to clear out at once. I’ve had a telegram that my half-sister in Nice is very ill.”

“But,” said Bombaccio. “I did not know the Signorina had had a telegram.”

“Nor anyone else. Wonderful how it got to me; isn’t it? But it did — and don’t you forget it. Don’t you give way to any weakening on that point. I’ve had a telegram that my half-sister in Nice is very ill and now I’ve told you — you know I’ve had it.”

Bombaccio bowed with grave submission.

“Off I go to pack and down I come to go. What car, Bombaccio?”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Rylands.”

“Don’t. Just get me that old Fiat in the village and I’ll clatter down to the station at Mentone right away. As soon as poss. It’s a case of life and death.”

“The next train for Nice,” reflected Bombaccio, “does not depart ——”

“Don’t go into figures,” said Miss Clarges. “Telephone and get that auto now.”

She reflected, knuckle to lip. “Wait a moment,” she said. “I’ll write a note — two notes.”

She went to a writing-table, placed a sheet before her, chose a pen and meditated briefly. Bombaccio waited. Then her pen flew. One note she addressed to her hostess. It was a note of exceptional brevity and it was unsigned. ”Sorry,” wrote Miss Clarges. ”I’m gone and I won’t worry you again.“

“Sorry I got caught,” Miss Clarges remarked to herself, and licked the envelope. ”Fools we were.”

Then she directed a more elaborate epistle to Mr. Geoffry Rylands. ”Dear Geoff,” she scribbled. ”That Limitless Field Preacher has got on my nerves. Another meal of talk with him and Mr. Pantaloon Buchan and I shall scream. I’ve fled to the Superba at Dear Old Monty. Where my friends can find me, bless ’em. A rividerci, Puppy.“

That got its swift lick also and a whack to stick it down.

“Here’s the documents!” she said.

Bombaccio was left developing a series of bows and gestures to express that all things in the world would be as the Signorina wished, while Miss Puppy vanished upstairs. Then he went slowly and thoughtfully to the telephone.

But he did not telephone. He hated the man who owned the old Fiat and there were two cars in the garage. One of them was booked for Monte Carlo after lunch, but that was no reason why Signorina Clarges should not have the other. In the well-known Terragena car she’d go through the French douane like a bird; in the hired car she wouldn’t. He would consult Signora Rylands. Or Signor Rylands.

And on reflection it became more and more distinctly unusual that a guest should depart in this fashion without some intimation from either host or hostess. There was something wrong in that. The fact of Signorina Clarges’ swift passage upstairs, originally a bare fact, became encrusted with interrogations; the brow of Bombaccio was troubled. She was giving all the orders. What should a perfect major-domo do?

Signora Rylands, he believed, was still in bed and inaccessible. Signor Rylands? Signor Rylands? But ——? Consider ——? He had gone off with Signorina Clarges to swim. Yes. Something must have happened. Where was Mr. Rylands now? Why was he not ordering the car for the Signorina Clarges? Had he by any chance insulted her — and was she departing insulted?

But then, was it possible to insult the Signorina Clarges?

Perhaps the best thing would be to consult Frant, Mrs. Rylands’ maid, a stupid English person who mistook secretiveness for discretion, but still the only possible source of indications just at present. . . .

These questionings were abruptly interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan coming through the front hall, with the vague, prowling air of a guest who has found nothing to do with his morning. He was wearing a new suit of tussore silk and wasting much neatness upon solitude. The wave in his hair was in perfect condition.

He brightened at the sight of Bombaccio. ”Dove e tutto?“ he asked. He liked to address every man in his own language, as a good European should, and this was his way of saying “Where’s everybody?”

Bombaccio replied with the most carefully perfect English intonation, “Colonel Bullace, Saire, is at the tennis.”

“E l’altri?“

Bombaccio expressed extreme dispersal by an expansive gesture and disowned special knowledge by a deprecatory smile. “Others are at the tennis,” he said.

“Lady Catherine?” asked Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan, trying to be quite casual in his tone.

“She loves the garden!” said Bombaccio and began a respectful retreat.

Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan hovered vaguely for a moment and then turned his face towards the front entrance. Abruptly the retreat of Bombaccio was accelerated and Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan looking round for a cause, became aware of Miss Clarges, clothed now with unusual decorum, at the bend of the staircase.

“How about that car, Bombaccio?” cried Miss Clarges.

Bombaccio, not hearing with all his might, disappeared, and the door that led to the domestic mysteries clicked behind him. “Damn!” said Miss Clarges. “Hullo, Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan!”

Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan moved to show that he was hullo all right.

“I’ve got a half-sister dangerously ill — in Monaco, and I want a car. I’m all packed up and ready to go. Leastways I shall be in ten minutes.”

“Can I be of any assistance?” said Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan unhelpfully.

“Naturally,” said Miss Puppy. “I want some sort of car got and some of the minions to carry my bags up to the gates. Everyone seems to be out of the way.”

“Anything I can do,” said Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan, looking entirely ornamental.

“If you’d just warm Bombaccio’s ear a bit,” said Miss Clarges. “What’s wanted is movement. Getting a move on.”

Mr. Plantagenet-Buchan felt the reproach in her tone. “I will stir things up. I do hope your half-sister —&m............