the sea over that steep and dangerous road along the rock coast, Hugh
Henfrey fell to wondering what the motive of it all could be. Why had
Yvonne been shot just at that critical moment? It was evident that she
had been closely watched by someone to whom her silence meant a very
great deal.
She had told him that his father had been a good man, and she was on
the point of disclosing to him the great secret when she had been struck
down.
What was the mystery of it all? Ay, what indeed?
He recalled every incident of that fateful night, her indignation at his
presence in her house, and her curious softening of manner towards him,
as though repentant and ready to make amends.
Then he wondered what Dorise would think when he failed to put in an
appearance to go with her to the ball at Nice. He pictured the car
waiting outside the hotel, Lady Ranscomb fidgeting and annoyed, the
count elegant and all smiles and graces, and Dorise, anxious and eager,
going to the telephone and speaking to the concierge at the Palmiers.
Then inquiry for Monsieur Henfrey, and the discovery that he had left
the hotel unseen.
So far Dorise knew nothing of Hugh’s part in the drama of the Villa
Amette, but suddenly he was horrified by the thought that the police,
finding he had escaped, would question her. They had been seen together
many times in Monte Carlo, and the eyes of the police of Monaco are
always very wide open. They know much, but are usually inactive. When
one recollects that all the _escrocs_ of Europe gather at the _tapis
vert_ in winter and spring, it is not surprising that they close their
eyes to such minor crimes as theft, blackmail and false pretences.
In his excited and unnerved state, he pictured Ogier calling upon Lady
Ranscomb and questioning her closely concerning her young English friend
who was so frequently seen with her daughter. That would, surely,
end their friendship! Lady Ranscomb would never allow her daughter to
associate further with a man accused of attempting to murder a notorious
woman after midnight!
The car presently descended the steep rocky road which wound up over the
promontory and back again down to the sea, until they passed through the
little frontier town of Ventimiglia.
It was late, and few people were about in the narrow, ill-lit streets.
Suddenly, a couple of Italian carabineers stopped the car.
Hugh’s heart beat quickly. Had they at the _dogana_ discovered the trick
and telephoned from the frontier?
Instantly the fugitive reassumed his role of invalid, and no sooner had
he settled himself than the second man in a cocked hat and heavy black
cloak opened the door and peered within.
Another lamp was flashed upon his face.
The carabineer asked in Italian:
“What is your name, signore?”
But Hugh, pretending that he did not understand the language, asked:
“Eh? What?”
“Here are our papers, signore,” interrupted the ever-ready chauffeur,
and he produced the papers for the officer’s inspection.
He looked at them, bending to read them by the light of the torch which
his companion held.
Then, after an officious gesture, he handed them back, saying:
“_Benissimo_! You may pass!”
Again Hugh was free! Yet he wondered if that examination had been
consequent upon the hue and cry set up now that he had escaped from
Monaco.
They passed out of the straggling town of Ventimiglia, but instead of
turning up the valley by that long road which winds up over the Alps
until it reaches the snow and then passes through the tunnel on the Col
di Tenda and on to Cuneo and Turin, the mysterious driver kept on by the
sea-road towards Bordighera.
Hugh realised that his guide’s intention was to go in the direction of
Genoa.
About two miles out of Ospedaletti, on the road to San Remo, Henfrey
rapped at the window, and the chauffeur, who was travelling at high
speed, pulled up.
Hugh got out and said in French:
“Well, so far we’ve been successful. I admire your ingenuity and your
pluck.”
The man laughed and thanked him.
“I have done what I was told to do,” he replied simply. “Monsieur is, I
understand, in a bit of a scrape, and it is for all of us to assist each
other--is it not?”
“Of course. But who told you to do all this?” Hugh inquired, standing in
the dark road beside the car. The pair could not see each other’s faces,
though the big head-lamps glared far ahead over the white road.
“Well--a friend of yours, m’sieur.”
“What is his name?”
“Pardon, I am not allowed to say.”
“But all this is so very strange--so utterly mysterious!” cried Hugh.
“I have not committed any crime, and yet I am hunted by the police!
They are anxious to arrest me for an offence of which I am entirely
innocent.”
“I know that, m’sieur,” was the fellow’s reply. “At the _dogana_,
however, we had a narrow escape. The man who looked at you was Morain,
the chief inspector of the Surete of the Alpes-Maritimes, and he was at
the outpost especially to stop you!”
“Again I admire your perfect nonchalance and ingenuity,” Hugh said. “I
owe my liberty entirely to you.”
“Not liberty, m’sieur. We are not yet what you say in English ‘out of
the wood.’”
“Where are we going now?”
“To Genoa. We ought to be there by early morning,” was the reply.
“Morain has, no doubt, telephoned to Mentone and discovered that my
story is false. So if later, on, they suspect the American invalid
they will be looking out for him on the Col di Tenda, in Cuneo, and in
Turin.”
“And what shall we do in Genoa?”
“Let us get there first--and see.”
“But I wish you would tell me who you are--and why you take such a keen
interest in my welfare,” Hugh said.
The man gave vent to an irritating laugh.
“I am not permitted to disclose the identity of your friend,” he
answered. “All I know is that you are innocent.”
“Then perhaps you know the guilty person?” Hugh suggested.
“Ah! Let us talk of something else, signore,” was the mysterious
chauffeur’s reply.
“But I confess to you that I am bent upon solving the mystery of
Mademoiselle’s assailant. It means a very great deal to me.”
“How?” asked the man.
Hugh hesitated.
“Well,” he replied. “If the culprit is found, then there would no longer
be any suspicion against myself.”
“Probably he never will be found,” the man said.
“But tell me, how did you know about the affair, and why are you risking
arrest by driving me to-night?”
“I have reasons,” was all he would say. “I obey the demands of those who
are your friends.”
“Who are they?”
“They desire to conceal their identity. There is a strong reason why
this should be done.”
“Why?”
“Are they not protecting one who is suspected of a serious crime? If
discovered they would be punished,” was the quiet response.
“Ah! There is some hidden motive behind all this!” declared the young
Englishman. “I rather regret that I did not remain and face the music.”
“It would have been far too dangerous, signore. Your enemies would have
contrived to convict you of the crime.”
“My enemies--but who are they?”
“Of that, signore, I am ignorant. Only I have been told that you have
enemies, and very bitter ones.”
“But I have committed no crime, and yet I am a fugitive from justice!”
Hugh cried.
“You escaped in the very nick of time,” the man replied. “But had we not
better be moving again? We must be in Genoa by daybreak.”
“But do, I beg of you, tell me more,” the young man implored. “To whom
do I owe my liberty?”
“As I have already told you, signore, you owe it to those who intend to
protect you from a false charge.”
“Yes. But there is a lady in the case,” Hugh said. “I fear that if she
hears that I am a fugitive she will misjudge me and believe me to be
guilty.”
“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?
EIGHTH CHAPTER
THE WHITE CAVALIER
While Hugh Henfrey was travelling along that winding road over high
headlands and down steep gradients to the sea which stretched the whole
length of the Italian Riviera, Dorise Ranscomb in a white silk domino
and black velvet mask was pretending to enjoy herself amid the mad
gaiety at the Casino in Nice.
The great _bal blanc_ is always one of the most important events of the
Nice season, and everyone of note wintering on the Riviera was there,
yet all carefully masked, both men and women.
“I wonder what prevented Hugh from coming with us, mother?” the girl
remarked as she sat with Lady Ranscomb watching the merriment and the
throwing of serpentines and confetti.
“I don’t know. He certainly ought to have let me know, and not have kept
me waiting nearly half an hour, as he did,” her mother snapped.
The girl did not reply. The truth was that while her mother and the
Count had been waiting for Hugh’s appearance, she had gone to the
telephone and inquired for Mr. Henfrey. Walter Brock had spoken to her.
“I’m awfully sorry, Miss Ranscomb,” he had replied. “But I don’t know
where Hugh can be. I’ve just been up to his room, but his fancy dress is
there, flung down as though he had suddenly discarded it and gone out.
Nobody noticed him leave. The page at the door is certain that he did
not go out. So he must have left by the staff entrance.”
“That’s very curious, isn’t it?” Dorise remarked.
“Very. I can’t understand it.”
“But he promised to go with us to the ball at Nice to-night!”
“Well, Miss Ranscomb, all I can think is that something--something very
important must have detained him somewhere.”
Walter knew that his friend was suspected by the police, but dared not
tell her the truth. Hugh’s disappearance had caused him considerable
anxiety because, for aught he knew, he might already be arrested.
So Dorise, much perplexed, but resolving not to say to her mother that
she had telephoned to the Palmiers, rejoined the Count in the hotel
lounge, where they waited a further ten minutes. Then they entered the
car and drove along to Nice.
There are few merrier gatherings in all Europe than the _bal blanc_. The
Municipal Casino, at all times the center of revelry, of mild gambling,
smart dresses and gay suppers, is on that night an amazing spectacle of
black and white. The carnival colours--the two shades of colour chosen
yearly by the International Fetes Committee--are abandoned, and only
white is worn.
When the trio entered the fun was already in full swing. The gay crowd
disguised by their masks and fancy costumes were revelling as happily
as school children. A party of girls dressed as clowns were playing
leap-frog. Another party were dancing in a great and ever-widening
ring. Girls armed with jesters’ bladders were being carried high on the
shoulders of their male acquaintances, and striking all and sundry as
they passed, staid, elderly folk were performing grotesque antics
for persons of their age. The very air of the Riviera seems to be
exhilarating to both old and young, and the constant church-goers
at home quickly become infected by the spirit of gaiety, and conduct
themselves on the Continental Sabbath in a manner which would horribly
disgust their particular vicar.
“Hugh must have been detained by something very unexpected, mother,”
Dorise said. “He never disappoints us.”
“Oh, yes, he does. One night we were going to the Embassy Club--don’t
you recollect it--and he never turned up.”
“Oh, well, mother. It was really excusable. His cousin arrived from New
York quite unexpectedly upon some family business. He phoned to you and
explained,” said the girl.
“Well, what about that night when I asked him to dinner at the Ritz to
meet the Courtenays and he rang up to say he was not well? Yet I saw him
hale and hearty next day at a matinee at the Comedy.”
“He may have been indisposed, mother,” Dorise said. “Really I think you
judge him just a little too harshly.”
“I don’t. I take people as I find them. Your father always said that,
and he was no fool, my dear. He made a fortune by his cleverness, and we
now enjoy it. Never associate with unsuccessful persons. It’s fatal!”
“That’s just what old Sir Dudley Ash, the steel millionaire, told me the
other day when we were over at Cannes, mother. Never associate with the
unlucky. Bad luck, he says, is a contagious malady.”
“And I believe it--I firmly believe it,” declared Lady Ranscomb. “Your
poor father pointed it out to me long ago, and I find that what he said
is too true.”
“But we can’t all be lucky, mother,” said the girl, watching the revelry
before her blankly as she reflected upon the mystery of Hugh’s absence.
“No. But we can, nevertheless, be rich, if we look always to the
main chance and make the best of our opportunities,” her mother said
meaningly.
At that moment the Count d’Autun approached them. He was dressed as a
pierrot, but being masked was only recognizable by the fine ruby ring
upon his finger.
“Will mademoiselle do me the honour?” he said in French, bowing
elegantly. “They are dancing in the theatre. Will you come, Mademoiselle
Dorise?”
“Delighted,” she said, with an inward sigh, for the dressed-up Parisian
always bored her. She rose quickly, and promising her mother to be back
soon, she linked her arm to that of the notorious gambler and passed
through the great palm-court into the theatre.
Then, a few moments later, she found herself carried around amid the
mad crowd of revellers, who laughed merrily as the coloured serpentines
thrown from the boxes fell upon them.
To lift one’s _loup_ was a breach of etiquette. Everyone was closely
masked. British members of Parliament, French senators, Italian members
of the Camera, Spanish grandees and Russian princes, all with their
womenfolk, hob-nobbed with cocottes, _escrocs_, and the most
notorious adventurers and adventuresses in all Europe. Truly, it was a
never-to-be-forgotten scene of cosmopolitan fun.
The Count, who was a bad dancer, collided with a slim, well-dressed
French girl, but did not apologize.
“Oh! la la!” cried the girl to her partner, a stout figure in
Mephistophelian garb. “An exquisitely polite gentleman that, mon cher
Alphonse! I believe he must really be the Pork King from Chicago--eh?”
The Count heard it, and was furious. Dorise, however, said nothing. She
was thinking of Hugh’s strange disappearance, and how he had broken his
word to her.
Meanwhile, Lady Ranscomb, secretly very glad that Hugh had been
prevented from accompanying them, and centring all her hopes upon her
daughter’s marriage with George Sherrard, sat chattering with a Mrs.
Down, the fat wife of a war-profiteer, whose acquaintance she had made
in Paris six months before.
Dorise made pretense of enjoying the dance though eager to get back
again to Monte Carlo in order to learn the reason of her lover’s
absence. She was devoted to Hugh. He was all in all to her.
She danced with several partners, having first made a rendezvous with
her mother at midnight at a certain spot under one of the great palms
in the promenade. At masked balls the chaperon is useless, and everyone,
being masked, looks so much alike that mistakes are easy.
About half-past one o’clock a big motor-car drew up in the Place before
the Casino, and a tall man in a white fancy dress of a cavalier, with
wide-brimmed hat and staggering plume, stepped from it and, presenting
his ticket, passed at once into the crowded ball-room. For a full ten
minutes he stood watching the crowd of revellers intently, eyeing each
of them keenly, though the expression on his countenance was hidden by
the strip of black velvet.
His eyes, shining through the slits in the mask, were, however, dark
and brilliant. In them could be seen alertness and eagerness, for it was
apparent that he had come there hot-foot in search of someone. In any
case he had a difficult task, for in the whirling, laughing, chattering
crowd each person resembled the other save for their feet and their
stature.
It was the feet of the dancers that the tall masked man was watching. He
stood in the crowd near the doorway with his hand upon his sword-hilt,
a striking figure remarked by many. His large eyes were fixed upon the
shoes of the dancers, until, of a sudden, he seemed to discover that
for which he was in search, and made his way quickly after a pair who,
having finished a dance, were walking in the direction of the great
hall.
The stranger never took his eyes off the pair. The man was slightly
taller than the woman, and the latter wore upon her white kid shoes a
pair of old paste buckles. It was for those buckles that he had been
searching.
“Yes,” he muttered in English beneath his breath. “That’s she--without a
doubt!”
He drew back to near where the pair had halted and were laughing
together. The girl with the glittering buckles upon her shoes was Dorise
Ranscomb. The man with her was the Count d’Autun.
The white cavalier pretended to take no interest in them, but was,
nevertheless, watching intently. At last he saw the girl’s partner bow,
and leaving her, he crossed to greet a stout Frenchwoman in a plain
domino. In a moment the cavalier was at the girl’s side.
“Please do not betray surprise, Miss Ranscomb,” he said in a low,
refined voice. “We may be watched. But I have a message for you.”
“For me?” she asked, peering through her mask at the man in the plumed
hat.
“Yes. But I cannot speak to you here. It is too public. Besides, your
mother yonder may notice us.”
“Who are you?” asked the girl, naturally curious.
“Do not let us talk here. See, right over yonder in the corner behind
where they are dancing in a ring--under the balcony. Let us meet there
at once. _Au revoir_.”
And he left her.
Three minutes later they met again out of sight of Lady Ranscomb, who
was still sitting at one of the little wicker tables talking to three
other women.
“Tell me, who are you?” Dorise inquired.
The white cavalier laughed.
“I’m Mr. X,” was his reply.
“Mr. X? Who’s that?”
“Myself. But my name matters nothing, Miss Ranscomb,” he said. “I have
come here to give you a confidential message.”
“Why confidential--and from whom?” she asked, standing against the wall
and surveying the mysterious masker.
“From a gentleman friend of yours--Mr. Henfrey.”
“From Hugh?” she gasped. “Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“I expected him to come with us to-night, but he has vanished from his
hotel.”
“I know. That is why I am here,” was the reply.
There was a note in the stranger’s voice which struck her as somehow
familiar, but she failed to recognize the individual. She was as quick
at remembering voices as she was at recollecting faces. Who could he be,
she wondered?
“You said you had a message for me,” she remarked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I am here to tell you that a serious contretemps has
occurred, and that Mr. Henfrey has escaped from France.”
“Escaped!” she echoed. “Why?”
“Because the police suspect him of a crime.”
“Crime! What crime? Surely he is innocent?” she cried.
“He certainly is. His friends know that. Therefore, Miss Ranscomb, I beg
of you to betray no undue anxiety even if you do not hear from him for
many weeks.”
“But will he write to me?” she asked in despair. “Surely he will not
keep me in suspense?”
“He will not if he can avoid it. But as soon as the French
police realize that he has got away a watch will be kept upon his
correspondence.” Then, lowering his voice, he urged her to move away,
as he thought that an idling masker was trying to overhear their
conversation.
“You see,” he went on a few moments later, “it might be dangerous if he
were to write to you.”
Dorise was thinking of what her mother would say when the truth reached
her ears. Hugh was a _fugitive_!
“Of what crime is he suspected?” asked the girl.
“I--well, I don’t exactly know,” was the stranger’s faltering response.
“I was told by a friend of his that it was a serious one, and that
he might find it extremely difficult to prove himself innocent. The
circumstantial evidence against him is very strong.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Not in the least. All I know is that he is safely across the frontier
into Italy,” was the reply of the tall white cavalier.
“I wish I could see your face,” declared Dorise frankly.
“And I might express a similar desire, Miss Ranscomb. But for the
present it is best as it is. I have sought you here to tell you the
truth in secret, and to urge you to remain calm and patient.”
“Is that a message from Hugh?”
“No--not exactly. It is a message from one who is his friend.”
“You are very mysterious,” she declared. “If you do not know where he is
at the moment, perhaps you know where we can find him later.”
“Yes. He is making his way to Brussels. A letter addressed to Mr.
Godfrey Brown, Poste Restante, Brussels, will eventually find him.
Recollect the name,” he added. “Disguise your handwriting on the
envelope, and when you post it see that you are not observed. Recollect
that his safety lies in your hands.”
“Trust me,” she said. “But do let me know your name,” she implored.
“Any old name is good enough for me,” he replied. “Call me Mr. X.”
“Don’t mystify me further, please.”
“Well, call me Smith, Jones, Robinson--whatever you like.”
“Then you refuse to satisfy my curiosity--eh?”
“I regret that I am compelled to do so--for certain reasons.”
“Are you a detective?” Dorise suddenly inquired.
The stranger laughed.
“If I were a police officer I should scarcely act as an intermediary
between Mr. Henfrey and yourself, Miss Ranscomb.”
“But you say he is innocent. Are you certain of that? May I set my mind
at rest that he never committed this crime of which the police suspect
him?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes. I repeat that he is entirely innocent,” was the earnest response.
“But I would advise you to affect ignorance. The police may question
you. If they do, you know nothing, remember--absolutely nothing. If you
write to Mr. Henfrey, take every precaution that nobody sees you post
the letter. Give him a secret address in London, or anywhere in England,
so that he can write to you there.”
“But how long will it be before I can see him again?”
“Ah! That I cannot tell. There is a mystery underlying it all that even
I cannot fathom, Miss Ranscomb.”
“What kind of mystery?”
The white cavalier shrugged his shoulders.
“You must ask Mr. Henfrey. Or perhaps his friend Brock knows. Yet if he
does, I do not suppose he would disclose anything his friend may have
told him in confidence.”
“I am bewildered!” the girl declared. “It is all so very
mysterious--Hugh a fugitive from justice! I--I really cannot believe it!
What can the mystery be?”
“Of that I have no means of ascertaining, Miss Ranscomb. I am here
merely to tell you what has happened and to give you in secret the name
and address to which to send a letter to him,” the masked man said
very politely. “And now I think we must part. Perhaps if ever we meet
again--which is scarcely probable--you will recognize my voice. And
always recollect that should you or Mr. Henfrey ever receive a message
from ‘Silverado’ it will be from myself.” And he spelt the name.
“Silverado. Yes, I shall not forget you, my mysterious friend.”
“_Au revoir_!” he said as, bowing gracefully, he turned and left her.