"Instantly you receive this get into a travelling-suit and put what money and valuables you have into your pockets. Then go to a dark-green car which will await you by the reservoir in the Boulevard du Midi.

Trust the driver. You must get over the frontier into Italy at the earliest moment. Every second's delay is dangerous to you. Do not trouble to find out who sends you this warning! _Bon voyage!_"

Hugh Henfrey read it and re-read it. The truth was plain. The police of Monaco suspected him, and intended that he should be arrested on suspicion of having committed the crime.

But who was his unknown friend?

He stood at the window reflecting. If he did not keep his appointment with Dorise she would reproach him for breaking his word to her. On the other hand, if he motored to Nice he would no doubt be arrested on the French frontier a few miles along the Corniche road.

Inspector Ogier suspected him, hence discretion was the better part of valour. So, after brief consideration, he threw off his dress clothes and a.s.sumed a suit of dark tweed. He put his money and a few articles of jewellry in his pockets, and getting into his overcoat he slipped out of the hotel by the back entrance used by the staff.

Outside, he walked in the darkness along the Boulevard du Nord, past the Turbie station, until he came to the long blank wall behind which lay the reservoir.

At the kerb he saw the dim red rear-light of a car, and almost at the same moment a rough-looking Italian chauffeur approached him.

"Quick, signore!" he whispered excitedly. "Every moment is full of danger. There is a warrant out for your arrest! The police know that you intended to go to Nice and they are watching for you on the Corniche road. But we will try to get into Italy. You are an invalid, remember!

You'll find in the car a few things with which you can make up to look the part. You are an American subject and a cripple, who cannot leave the car when the customs officers search it. Now, signore, let's be off and trust to our good fortune in getting away. I will tell the officers of the _dogana_ at Ventimiglia a good story--trust me! I haven't been smuggling backwards and forwards for ten years without knowing the ropes!"

"But where are we going?" asked Hugh bewildered.

"You, signore, are going to prison if we fail on this venture, I fear,"

was the rough-looking driver's reply.

So urged by him Hugh got into the car, and then they drove swiftly along the sea-road of the littoral towards the rugged Italian frontier.

Hugh Henfrey was going forth to face the unknown.

SEVENTH CHAPTER

FROM DARK TO DAWN

In the darkness the car went swiftly through Mentone and along the steep winding road which leads around the rugged coast close to the sea--the road over the yellow rocks which Napoleon made into Italy.

Presently they began to ascend a hill, a lonely, wind-swept highway with the sea plashing deep below, when, after a sudden bend, some lights came into view. It was the wayside Italian Customs House.

They had arrived at the frontier.

Hugh, by the aid of a flash-lamp, had put on a grey moustache and changed his clothes, putting his own into the suit case wherein he had found the suit already prepared for him. He had wrapped himself up in a heavy travelling-rug, and by his side reposed a pair of crutches, so that when they drew up before the little roadside office of the Italian _dogana_ he was reclining upon a cushion presenting quite a pathetic figure.

But who had made all these preparations for his flight?

He held his breath as the chauffeur sounded his horn to announce his arrival. Then the door opened, shedding a long ray of light across the white dusty road.

"_Buona sera, signore_!" cried the chauffeur merrily, as a Customs officer in uniform came forward. "Here's my driving licence and papers for the car. And our two pa.s.sports."

The man took them, examined them by the light of his electric torch, and told the chauffeur to go into the office for the visas.

"Have you anything to declare?" he added in Italian.

"Half a dozen very bad cigarettes," replied the other, laughing.

"They're French! And also I've got a very bad cold! No duty on that, I suppose?"

The officer laughed, and then turned his attention to the petrol tank, into which he put his measuring iron to see how much it contained, while the facetious chauffeur stood by.

During this operation two other men came out of the building, one an Italian carabineer in epaulettes and c.o.c.ked hat, while the other, tall and shrewd-faced, was in mufti. The latter was the agent of French police who inspects all travellers leaving France by road.

The chauffeur realized that the moment was a critical one.

He was rolling a cigarette unconcernedly, but bending to the Customs officer, he said in a low voice:

"My _padrone_ is an _Americano_. An invalid, and a bit eccentric. Lots of money. A long time ago he injured his spine and can hardly move.

He fell down a few days ago, and now I've got to take him to Professor Landrini, in Turin. He's pretty bad. We've come from Hyeres. His doctor ordered me to take him to Turin at once. We don't want any delay. He told me to give you this," and he slipped a note for a hundred lire into the man's hand.

The officer expressed surprise, but the merry chauffeur of the rich American exclaimed:

"Don't worry. The _Americano_ is very rich; I only wish there were more of his sort about. He's the great Headon, the meat-canner of Chicago.

You see his name on the tins."

The man recognized the name, and at once desisted in his examination.

Then to the two police officers who came to his side, he explained:

"The American gentleman inside is an invalid, going to Turin to Professor Landrini. He wants to get off at once, for he has a long journey over the Alps."

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?"

"Well, they told me so at the Garage Grimaldi. He shot a woman known as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo--didn't he?"