The French agent of police grunted suspiciously. Both the French and Italian police are very astute, but money always talks. It is the same at a far-remote frontier station as in any circle of society.
Here was a well-known American—the Customs officer had mentioned the name of Headon, which both police officers recognized—an invalid sent with all haste to the famous surgeon in Turin. It was not likely that he would be carrying contraband, or be an escaping criminal.
Besides, the chauffeur, in full view of the two police agents, slipped a second note into the hand of the Customs officer, and said:
“So all is well, isn’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?”