But even as she shouted, she knew that her voice would not be heard. The carriage was heavily padded and both the windows were closed. Agitatedly she jumped up and tried to open the one nearest to her, but she could not move it. She tried the other with the same result.

Breathless she sat down again and thought perhaps that it did not matter. It was a very short way to the Hôtel de Paris, and Aunt Emilie would easily get another carriage. It was annoying and an added expense, but that was all.

Mistral relaxed and wondered again what the Rajah’s friend could possibly have had to say to Aunt Emilie. Her Aunt’s expression had been startled by what he had whispered. What a lot of mysteries there were about everything! Mistral sighed. She wished everyone would be honest and straightforward, especially Aunt Emilie. It was so irritating to be surrounded by so much intrigue and to have no idea what it was all about.

She looked out of the window. They should be at the hotel by now. It was then that she realised that the horses were climbing uphill, climbing steadily and quickly up the wide road which led away from the Casino through the new town and towards Mont Agel. There was obviously some terrible mistake, Mistral thought.

Once again she tried both windows, finding it easier to exert her full strength now that the horses were trotting quite slowly, but nothing she could do would move them. She decided that the only thing to do was to try the door, but to her astonishment she found it had no handle inside the carriage.

She did not believe this at first, but groped for some time first on one side and then at the other, feeling sure she was mistaken. But at length she was convinced there were no handles and the doors were as securely closed as the windows. She began to get a little frightened. She shouted again,

‘Stop! Open the door !’

But there was no reply. The horses went on climbing uphill and there was no sound save the jingle of their harness and the rumble of wheels over the hard ground.

What could have happened? Had she taken someone’s private coach by mistake? Was she being driven to one of the grand Villas on the higher roads of the town? That, she thought, must be the explanation, in fact it was the only possible one.

Aunt Emilie would be angry when she found she was not at the Hôtel de Paris. But she could hardly be blamed for something which was not in the least her fault.

On and on the horses went and now at last Mistral, peering through the windows, could see that they were drawing up in front of a Villa.