“Probably so. That is, I admit, unfortunate—but, alas! it cannot be avoided. It was, however, better for you to get out of France.”
“But the French police, when they know that I have escaped, will probably ask the Italian police to arrest me, and then apply for my extradition.”
“If they did, I doubt whether you would be surrendered. The police of my country are not too fond of assisting those of other countries. Thus if an Italian commits murder in a foreign country and gets back to Italy, our Government will refuse to give him up. There have been many such cases, and the murderer goes scot free.”
“Then you think I am safe in Italy?”
“Oh, no, not by any means. You are not an Italian subject. No, you must not be very long in Italy.”
“But what am I to do when we get to Genoa?” Hugh asked.
“The signore had better wait until we arrive there,” was the driver’s enigmatical reply.
Then the supposed invalid re-entered the car and they continued on their way along the bleak, storm-swept road beside the sea towards that favourite resort of the English, San Remo.
The night had grown pitch dark, and rain had commenced to fall. Before the car the great head-lamps threw long beams of white light against which Hugh saw the silhouette of the muffled-up mysterious driver, with his keen eyes fixed straight before him, and driving at such a pace that it was apparent that he knew every inch of the dangerous road.
What could it all mean? What, indeed?