They passed out of the straggling town of Ventimiglia, but instead of turning up the valley by that long road which winds up over the Alps until it reaches the snow and then passes through the tunnel on the Col di Tenda and on to Cuneo and Turin, the mysterious driver kept on by the sea-road towards Bordighera.

Hugh realised that his guide’s intention was to go in the direction of Genoa.

About two miles out of Ospedaletti, on the road to San Remo, Henfrey rapped at the window, and the chauffeur, who was travelling at high speed, pulled up.

Hugh got out and said in French: 

“Well, so far we’ve been successful.  I admire your ingenuity and your pluck.”

The man laughed and thanked him.

“I have done what I was told to do,” he replied simply.  “Monsieur is, I understand, in a bit of a scrape, and it is for all of us to assist each other—­is it not?”

“Of course.  But who told you to do all this?” Hugh inquired, standing in the dark road beside the car.  The pair could not see each other’s faces, though the big head-lamps glared far ahead over the white road.

“Well—­a friend of yours, m’sieur.”

“What is his name?”

“Pardon, I am not allowed to say.”

“But all this is so very strange—­so utterly mysterious!” cried Hugh.  “I have not committed any crime, and yet I am hunted by the police!  They are anxious to arrest me for an offence of which I am entirely innocent.”

“I know that, m’sieur,” was the fellow’s reply.  “At the dogana, however, we had a narrow escape.  The man who looked at you was Morain, the chief inspector of the Surete of the Alpes-Maritimes, and he was at the outpost especially to stop you!”

“Again I admire your perfect nonchalance and ingenuity,” Hugh said.  “I owe my liberty entirely to you.”

“Not liberty, m’sieur.  We are not yet what you say in English ’out of the wood.’”

“Where are we going now?”

“To Genoa.  We ought to be there by early morning,” was the reply.  “Morain has, no doubt, telephoned to Mentone and discovered that my story is false.  So if later, on, they suspect the American invalid they will be looking out for him on the Col di Tenda, in Cuneo, and in Turin.”

“And what shall we do in Genoa?”

“Let us get there first—­and see.”

“But I wish you would tell me who you are—­and why you take such a keen interest in my welfare,” Hugh said.

The man gave vent to an irritating laugh.

“I am not permitted to disclose the identity of your friend,” he answered.  “All I know is that you are innocent.”

“Then perhaps you know the guilty person?” Hugh suggested.

“Ah!  Let us talk of something else, signore,” was the mysterious chauffeur’s reply.

“But I confess to you that I am bent upon solving the mystery of Mademoiselle’s assailant.  It means a very great deal to me.”