Publisher's Synopsis
Jack Barrington was cutting corners at forty miles an hour on the Grand Corniche road, when he caught sight of that white landaulette in front of him. There was no mistaking this particular car, its white body picked out with black. Jack Barrington had been haunted by it for the last month, a mystery car that always travelled at a high speed, often with the blinds pulled down over the windows. Once he had seen it draw up outside a costumier's at Monte Carlo, and he had purposely loitered to see who would get out. His curiosity had not brought him any romantic satisfaction, for a swarthy old lady had emerged showing a very solid foot and ankle, and a harsh, equine face, decorated with a big brown mole over the right eyebrow. Jack Barrington had loitered on, with a critical glance at the exquisite lines of the white car and the luxurious refinement of its fittings. He had caught a glimpse of a bouquet of red carnations in a silver vase, of a whole row of bijou books bound in red morocco, of silver-topped scent bottles and a little mirror that hinted at legitimate and picturesque vanities. And in the exuberance of his vitality he had refused to believe that all these provoking details were wasted on the swarthy old lady with the brown mole and the stodgy ankles. He had even made enquiries, and hunted up the registered lettering and numbering of the car. The latter had referred him to a big motor concern in Paris. Even the gossips and the habitues were dumb. They were not interested in the white landaulette; it did not appear to have haunted them as it had haunted Jack Barrington. All he had learnt was that it belonged to a hypothetical Countess Glika. But that night Jack Barrington gave chase. He was an irresponsible youngster of eight-and-twenty, and being one of the richest commoners in England he could be as irresponsible as he pleased. There had been a splendid and rather restless virility in all his activities. He had climbed the Rockies, hunted his way through Central Africa, and nearly got himself shot in Persia. He had driven a car in the Grand Prix, and his latest achievement had been to fly to Corsica and back in a new 80 h.p. monoplane.