As she was about to pass through the small swing gate, she heard a voice which she recognized exclaim: 

“Miss Ranscomb!  I have to apologize!” And from the dark shadow a rather tall man emerged and barred her path.

“I daresay you will think this all very mysterious,” he went on, laughing lightly.  “But I do hope I have not inconvenienced you.  If so, pray accept my deepest apologies.  Will you?”

“Not at all,” the girl replied, though somewhat taken aback by the suddenness of the encounter.  The man spoke slowly and with evident refinement.  His voice was the same she had heard at Nice on that memorable night of gaiety.  She recognized it instantly.

As he stood before her, his countenance became revealed in the moonlight, and she saw a well-moulded, strongly-marked face, with a pair of dark, penetrating eyes, set a little too close perhaps, but denoting strong will and keen intelligence.

“Yes,” he laughed.  “Look at me well, Miss Ranscomb.  I am the white cavalier whom you last saw disguised by a black velvet mask.  Look at me again, because perhaps you may wish to recognize me later on.”

“And you are still Mr. X—­eh?” asked the girl, who had halted, and was gazing upon his rather striking face.

“Still the same,” he said, smiling.  “Or you may call me Brown, Jones, or Robinson—­or any of the other saints’ names if you prefer.”

“You have been very kind to me.  Surely I may know your real name?”

“No, Miss Ranscomb.  For certain very important reasons I do not wish to disclose it.  Pardon me—­will you not?  I ask that favour of you.”

“But will you not satisfy my curiosity?”

“At my personal risk?  No.  I do not think you would wish me to do that—­eh?” he asked in a tone of mild reproof.

Then he went on: 

“I’m awfully sorry I could not approach you openly.  In London I found out that you were up here, so I thought it best to see you in secret.  You know why I have come to you, Miss Ranscomb—­eh?”

“On behalf of Mr. Henfrey.”

“Yes.  He is still in hiding.  It has been impossible—­through force of circumstances—­for him to send you further messages.”

“Where is he?  I want to see him.”

“Have patience, Miss Ranscomb, and I will arrange a meeting between you.”

“But why do the police still search for him?”

“Because of an unfortunate fact.  The lady, Mademoiselle Ferad, is now confined to a private asylum at Cannes, but all the time she raves furiously about Monsieur Henfrey.  Hence the French police are convinced that he shot her—­and they are determined upon his arrest.”

“But do you think he is guilty?”

“I know he is not.  Yet by force of adverse circumstances, he is compelled to conceal himself until such time that we can prove his innocence.”

“Ah!  But shall we ever be in a position to prove that?”