The gossips redoubled their efforts to come up with an explanation for what to them was decidedly unexplainable. What if there were a germ of truth to her story and some manner of stones had been stolen? The idea of flighty Gisela rubbing herself with pretty rocks every night wasn’t altogether implausible. She did have her idiosyncrasies. But did these stones of hers have to be the Jupiter Stones? Of course not. They could have been simple quartz or paste.

And if Le Chat had snatched a bag of worthless rocks…how délicieux.

Enjoying their own fantasies, no one noticed Gisela’s growing despondency. The police didn’t believe her. Her friends were enthralled with the criminal who’d robbed her of her most precious possession. The gossips were having fun at her expense. All these years, she suddenly realized, people had simply been indulging her. Not a soul had believed she had ever had the Jupiter Stones, much less been robbed of them!

Humiliated and despairing of ever seeing her corundum gems again, Gisela had flung herself off a cliff into the Mediterranean.

And everyone suddenly cursed Le Chat and demanded his immediate capture.

Enter Annette Winston Reed, the woman who had led the police to the true identity of Le Chat.

Word had spread rapidly that Jean-Paul Gerard was the culprit, and there was a collective gasp, a suspension of anger and grief, as people realized that if Le Chat wasn’t Cary Grant, he was awfully close. The notion of the handsome, sexy Grand Prix driver amusing himself-he couldn’t need the money-by stealing jewels went a long, long way toward renewing the romance of Le Chat.

But the police had their evidence, and there was precious little romance in their souls. The search was on for their missing suspect.

If they had believed Gisela…

Jean-Paul felt the tears spill down his cheeks, and he watched Thomas Blackburn lay a pink rose on the coffin. If others wondered about his presence at Gisela’s funeral, Jean-Paul did not. “Thomas is a good man,” she would say. “A true friend.”