All this was being watched with breathless anxiety by the supposed invalid reclining against the cushion with his crutches at his side.

Again the mysterious chauffeur reappeared, and with him the French police officer in plain clothes.

“We are keeping watch for a young Englishman from Monte Carlo who has shot a woman,” remarked the latter.

“Oh!  But they arrested him to-night in Mentone,” replied the driver.  “I heard it half an hour ago as I came through.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, they told me so at the Garage Grimaldi.  He shot a woman known as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo—­didn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s the man!  But they have not informed us yet.  I’ll telephone to Mentone.”  Then he added:  “As a formality I’ll just have a peep at your master.”

The chauffeur held his breath.

“He’s pretty bad, I think.  I hope we shall be in Turin early in the morning.”

Advancing to the car, the police officer opened the door and flashed his torch upon the occupant.

He saw a pale, elderly man, with a grey moustache, wearing a golf cape and reclining uneasily upon the pillow, with his leg propped up and wrapped with a heavy travelling-rug.  Upon the white countenance was an expression of pain as he turned wearily, his eyes dazzled by the sudden light.

“Where are we?” he asked faintly in English.

“At the Italian douane, m’sieur,” was the police officer’s reply, as for a few seconds he gazed upon the invalid’s face, seconds that seemed hours to Hugh.  He was, of course, unaware of the cock-and-bull story which his strange chauffeur had told, and feared that at any moment he might find himself under arrest.

While the door remained open there was danger.  At last, however, the man reclosed it.

Hugh’s heart gave a great bound.  The chauffeur had restarted the engine, and mounting to the wheel shouted a merry: 

“Buona notte, signori!”

Then the car moved away along the winding road and Hugh knew that he was on Italian soil—­that he had happily escaped from France.

But why had he escaped, he reflected?  He was innocent.  Would not his flight lend colour to the theory that Yvonne Ferad had been shot by his hand?

Again, who was his unknown friend who had warned him of his peril and made those elaborate arrangements for his escape?  Besides, where was Walter?

His brain was awhirl.  As they tore along in the darkness ever beside the sea over that steep and dangerous road along the rock coast, Hugh Henfrey fell to wondering what the motive of it all could be.  Why had Yvonne been shot just at that critical moment?  It was evident that she had been closely watched by someone to whom her silence meant a very great deal.

She had told him that his father had been a good man, and she was on the point of disclosing to him the great secret when she had been struck down.