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?"

"I hope so. We must have patience--and still more patience," urged the
mysterious man as he stood in the full light of the brilliant moon. "I
have here a letter for you which Mr. Henfrey wrote a week ago. It only
came into my hands yesterday." And he gave her an envelope.

"Tell me something about this woman, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo. Who is
she?" asked Dorise excitedly.

"Well--she is a person who was notorious at the Rooms, as you yourself
know. You have seen her."

"And tell me, why do you take such an interest in Hugh?" inquired the
girl, not without a note of suspicion in her voice.

"For reasons best known to myself, Miss Ranscomb. Reasons which are
personal."

"That's hardly a satisfactory reply."

"I fear I can give few satisfactory replies until we succeed in
ascertaining the truth of what occurred at the Villa Amette," he said.
"I must urge you, Miss Ranscomb, to remain patient, and--and not to lose
faith in the man who is wrongfully accused."

"But when can I see him?" asked Dorise eagerly.

"Soon. But you must be discreet--and you must ask no questions. Just
place yourself in my hands--that is, if you can trust me."

"I do, even though I am ignorant of your name."

"It is best that you remain in ignorance," was his reply. "Otherwise
perhaps you would hesitate to trust me."

"Why?"

But the tall, good-looking man only laughed, and then he said:

"My name really doesn't matter at present. Later, Miss Ranscomb, you
will no doubt know it. I am only acting in the interests of Henfrey."

Again she looked at him. His face was smiling, and yet was sphinx-like
in the moonlight. His voice was certainly that of the white cavalier
which she recollected so well, but his personality, so strongly marked,
was a little overbearing.

"I know you mistrust me," he went on. "If I were in your place I
certainly should do so. A thousand pities it is that I cannot tell you