William Le Queux

... Not often did the Majestic, so freely patronised by the stockbroker and the newly-rich, hold as guest any person equalling the Prince in social distinction, yet at the same time so modest and retiring. The blatant persons overcrowding the hotel that August Sunday, those pompous, red-faced men in summer clothes and white boots, and those over-dressed women in cream silk blouses and golden chatelaines, mostly denizens of Kensington or Regent's Park, had been surprised when an hour ago he had walked along the hall and gone outside to speak with his chauffeur. He was so very good-looking, such a sportsman, and so very English they whispered. And half of those City men's wives were instantly dying for an opportunity of speaking with him, so that they could return to their suburban friends and tell of their acquaintance with the cousin of his Imperial Majesty the Kaiser. But Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was thinking of other things. He had no use for that over-fed Sunday crowd, with their slang chatter, their motor-cars and their gossip of "bithneth," through which he had just passed. He drew half a dozen times at his yellow Russian cigarette, tossed it away, and lit another. He was thinking of his visitor who had just left, and-well, there remained a nasty taste in his mouth. The man had told him something-something that was not exactly pleasant...

It all starts with the mysterious disappearance of Sir Digby Kemsley and a murdered woman. Or was it really Sir Digby who disappeared? His friend, Mr. Royle, starts to investigate and the more he does the more he fears the involvement of his betrothed.

Le Queux (1864-1927) was an Anglo-French journalist and writer, best-known for his anti-German invasion fantasy The Invasion of 1910 (1906). In addition to his books warning of Britain's vulnerability to European invasion prior to WWI, he wrote around 150 novels dealing with international intrigue. This title was first published in 1900.

..". He greeted me pleasantly, standing with his hands thrust into the pockets of his shabby black overcoat, while, returning his salutation, I straightened myself, wondering what had brought him there, and whether he wished to hire a car. I had known him by sight for a couple of years or more as he passed up and down before my house, but we had not often spoken. Truth to tell, his movements seemed rather erratic and his shabbiness very marked, yet at times he appeared quite spruce and smart, and his absences were so frequent that my wife and I had grown to regard him with considerable suspicion. In the suburbs of London one doesn't mix easily with one's neighbours. "Can I speak to you privately, Mr Holford?" he asked, with a slight hesitancy and a glance at my chauffeur Dick, who at that moment had his hand in the gear-box..."

" ... Her breast rose and fell. As we walked together, I held her small, well-gloved hand in mine, breathing into her ear the tender passion that had overwhelmed me. I scarce know what words I uttered, but she heard me patiently in pensive silence until I had concluded. Then, withdrawing her hand slowly but firmly, she replied in a voice that betrayed emotion- "No, no. Our relationship can never be closer than that of friends. Our lives lie so very, very far apart." "Ah, I know " I cried in disappointment, stopping and gazing straight into her great liquid eyes. "If I were wealthy, I might dare to ask for your hand. As it is, Doroteita-as it is, may I not entertain hope?"..."

"Not in the least, Marigold," he replied, halting and looking straight into her clear, almost child-like eyes. "Please do not misunderstand me. But what you have said is so extraordinary that-well, it seems all so weird and amazing " "That's just it. The affair is extraordinary, and, as I've said, I hope auntie will leave the place. She has a very good post as housekeeper to Mr. Boyne. Her affliction is against her, I know, but there is something in progress at Bridge Place that is too mysterious for my liking." "Then let us watch and try to discover what it really is," said Gerald Durrant determinedly. "Will you really help me?" she asked eagerly. "Of course. Rely upon me. If I can be of any assistance to you where your aunt is concerned, Marigold, I shall only be too delighted. Surely you know that " he added, looking again into her eyes with an expression of unspoken admiration and affection.

The faithful Francesco, whose English had mostly been acquired from sea-faring men, and was not the choicest vocabulary, nodded, and, true Tuscan that he was, placed his finger upon his closed lips, indicative of silence. "Sounds curious," I remarked. "Since the Consul went away on leave things seem to have been humming-two stabbing affrays, eight drunken seamen locked up, a mutiny on a tramp steamer, and now a yacht being cast away-a fairly decent list And yet some stay-at-home people complain that British consuls are only paid to be ornamental They should spend a week here, at Leghorn, and they'd soon alter their opinion." "Yes, they would, signore," responded the thin-faced old fellow with a grin, as he twisted his fierce gray mustache. Francesco Carducci was a well-known character in Leghorn; interpreter to the Consulate, and keeper of a sailor's home, an honest, good-hearted, easy-going fellow, who for twenty years had occupied the same position under half a dozen different Consuls. At that moment, however, there came from the outer office a long-drawn moan.

First published in1921, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo is a thrilling novel set in the glamorous Europe in the 1920s. The story centers around young English heir Hugh Henfrey who is unknowingly the target of a complex criminal conspiracy. Assistance appears to come his way from an unlikely source, a gentlemanly crook leading a double life known as "The Sparrow". As schemes and counter-schemes develop, who is friend and who is enemy? Exceptionally well-plotted and entertaining, the narrative of this novel is gripping to the end.