The two men walked through the palm-lined garden, bright with flowers, back to their hotel, wondering whether news of the tragedy had yet got abroad.  But they heard nothing of it, and it seemed true, as Walter Brock had declared, that the police make haste to suppress any tragic happenings in the Principality.

Though they were unconscious of it, a middle-aged, well-dressed Frenchman had, during their absence from the hotel, been making diligent inquiries regarding them of the night concierge and some of the staff.

The concierge had recognized the visitor as Armand Buisson, of the police bureau at Nice.  It seemed as though the French police were unduly inquisitive concerning the well-conducted young Englishman and his companion.

Now, as a matter of fact, half an hour after Hugh had left the Villa Amette, Ogier had telegraphed to Buisson in Nice, and the latter had come along the Corniche road in a fast car to make his own inquiries and observations upon the pair of Englishmen.  Ogier strongly suspected Henfrey of firing the shot, but was, nevertheless, determined to remain inactive and leave the matter to the Prefecture of the Department of Alpes Maritimes.  Hence the reason that the well-dressed Frenchman lounged in the hall of the hotel pretending to read the “Phare du Littoral.”

Just before noon Hugh went to the telephone in the hotel and inquired of Cataldi the progress of his mistress.

“She is just the same, m’sieur,” came the voice in broken English. “Santa Madonna! How terrible it all is!  Doctor Leneveu has left, and Doctor Duponteil is now here.”

“Have the police been again?”

“No, m’sieur.  Nobody has been,” was the reply.

So Hugh rang off and crossed the hall, little dreaming that the well-dressed Frenchman had been highly interested in his questions.

Half an hour later he went along to the Metropole, where he had an engagement to lunch with Dorise and her mother.

When they met, however, Lady Ranscomb exclaimed: 

“Why, Hugh, you look very pale.  What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” he laughed forcedly.  “I’m not very bright to-day.  I think it was the sirocco of yesterday that has upset me a little, that’s all.”

Then, while they were seated at table, Dorise suddenly exclaimed: 

“Oh! do you know, mother, that young French lady over yonder, Madame Jacomet, has just told me something.  There’s a whisper that the mysterious woman, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, was shot during the night by a discarded lover!”

“Shot!” exclaimed Lady Ranscomb.  “Dear me!  How very dreadful.  What really happened?”

“I don’t know.  Madame Jacomet was told by her husband, who heard it in Ciro’s this morning.”

“How terrible!” remarked Hugh, striving to remain calm.

“Yes.  But women of her class invariably come to a bad end,” remarked the widow.  “How pleased I am, Dorise, that you never spoke to her.  She’s a most dreadful person, they say.”