After all it was a very lame one.  He would not fully admit the reason of his visit.

“But tell me, m’sieur,” exclaimed the police officer.  “It seems extraordinary that any person should creep along this veranda.”  And he walked out and looked about in the moonlight.  “If the culprit wished to shoot Mademoiselle in secret, then he would surely not have done so in your presence.  He might easily have shot her as she was on her way home.  The road is lonely up here.”

“I agree, monsieur,” replied the Englishman.  “The whole affair is, to me, a complete mystery.  I saw nobody.  But it was plain to me that when I called Mademoiselle was seated out upon the veranda.  Look at her chair—­and the cushions!  It was very hot and close in the Rooms to-night, and probably she was enjoying the moonlight before retiring to bed.”

“Quite possibly,” he agreed.  “But that does not alter the fact that the assassin ran considerable risk in coming along the veranda in the full moonlight and firing through the open door.  Are you quite certain that Mademoiselle’s assailant was outside—­and not inside?” he asked, with a queer expression upon his aquiline face.

Hugh saw that he was hinting at his suspicion that he himself had shot her!

“Quite certain,” he assured him.  “Why do you ask?”

“I have my own reasons,” replied the police officer with a hard laugh.  “Now, tell me what do you know about Mademoiselle Ferad?”

“Practically nothing.”

“Then why did you call upon her?”

“I have told you.  I desired some information, and she was about to give it to me when the weapon was fired by an unknown hand.”

“Unknown—­eh?”

“Yes.  Unknown to me.  It might be known to Mademoiselle.”

“And what was this information you so urgently desired?”

“Some important information.  I travelled from London to Monte Carlo in order to obtain it.”

“Ah!  Then you had a motive in coming here—­some strong motive, I take it?”

“Yes.  A very strong motive.  I wanted her to clear up certain mysterious happenings in England.”

Ogier was instantly alert.

“What happenings?” he asked, for he recollected the big dossier and the suspicions extending over four or five years concerning the real identity and mode of life of the handsome, sphinx-like woman Yvonne Ferad.

Hugh Henfrey was silent for a few moments.  Then he said: 

“Happenings in London that—­well, that I do not wish to recall.”

Ogier again looked him straight in the face.

“I suggest, M’sieur Henfrey”—­for Hugh had given him his name—­“I suggest that you have been attracted by Mademoiselle as so many other men have been.  She seems to exercise a fatal influence upon some people.”

“I know,” Hugh said.  “I have heard lots of things about her.  Her success at the tables is constant and uncanny.  Even the Administration are interested in her winnings, and are often filled with wonder.”