re 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 t