Walter Brock was awakened at four o'clock that morning by Hugh touching him upon the shoulder.
He started up in bed and staring at his friend's pale, haggard face exclaimed: "Good Heavens!--why, what's the matter?"
"Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo has been shot!" the other replied in a hard voice.
"Shot!" gasped Brock, startled. "What do you mean?"
Briefly Hugh who had only just entered the hotel, explained the curious circumstances--how, just at the moment she had been about to reveal the secret of his father's death she was shot.
"Most extraordinary!" declared his friend. "Surely, we have not been followed here by someone who is determined to prevent you from knowing the truth!"
"It seems much like it, Walter," replied the younger man very seriously. "There must be some strong motive or no person would dare to shoot her right before my eyes."
"Agreed. Somebody who is concerned in your father's death has adopted this desperate measure in order to prevent Mademoiselle from telling you the truth."
"That's exactly my opinion, my dear Walter. If it was a crime for gain, or through motives of either jealousy or revenge, Mademoiselle would certainly have been attacked on her way home. The road is quite deserted towards the crest of the hill."
"What do the police say?"
"They do not appear to trouble to track Mademoiselle's assailant. They say they will wait until daylight before searching for footprints on the gravel outside."
"Ah! They are not very fond of making arrests within the Principality. It's such a bad advertisement for the Rooms. The Administration like to show a clean sheet as regards serious crime. Our friends here leave it to the French or Italian police to deal with the criminals so that the Principality shall prove itself the most honest State in Europe," Brock said.
"The police, I believe, suspect me of shooting her," said Hugh bluntly.
"That's very awkward. Why?"
"Well--they don't know the true reason I went to see her, or they would never believe me to be guilty of a crime so much against my own interests."
Brock, who was still sitting up in bed in his pale blue silk pyjamas, reflected a few moments.
"Well, Hugh," he said at last, "after all it is only natural that they should believe that you had a hand in the matter. Even though she told you the truth, it is quite within reason that you should have suddenly become incensed against her for the part she must have played in your father's mysterious death, and in a frenzy of anger you shot her."
Hugh drew a long breath, and his eyebrows narrowed.