“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: