sn't it, signori? Just visa my papers, and we'll get
along. It looks as though we're to have a bad thunderstorm, and, if so,
we shall catch it up on the Col di Tenda!"

Thus impelled, the quartette went back to the well-lit little building,
where the beetle-browed driver again chaffed the police-agents, while
the Customs officer placed his rubber stamp upon the paper, scribbled
his initials and charged three-lire-twenty as fee.

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