The Car of Destiny Part 8

He was off to the garage, and I was knocking at d.i.c.k's door.

d.i.c.k was tying his necktie. "Ready to start in five minutes," said he.

"How did you guess what was up?"

"Your face, d'Artagnan."

"Why d'Artagnan? Haven't I a large enough variety of names already?"

"I've selected one suitable for the situation. D'Artagnan took upon himself a mission. So have you; and you'll have as many difficulties to overcome before you fulfil it, if you do, as he had."

"Nonsense. We're starting out to keep in touch with another party of motorists."

"In a country forbidden to one of us."

"That one can look out for himself. If a lady in another motor should need someone to stand by her, we're to be on the spot to stand by, that's all."

"Yes; that's all," said d.i.c.k, laughing. "And all that d'Artagnan had to do was to get hold of a few diamond studs which a lady wanted to wear at a ball. Sounds simple, eh? But d'Artagnan had some fun on the way, and I'd bet the last dollar in my pile we will. Hang this necktie! There; I'm ready. Have we time for coffee and a crust?"

VII

THE IMPUDENCE OF SHOWING A HANDKERCHIEF

Fifteen minutes later we were off.

I love driving my car, as I love the breath of life, and I'm conceited enough to fancy that no one else, not even Ropes, can get out of her what I can. Still, this was not destined to be precisely a pleasure trip, and prudence bade me give the helm to d.i.c.k. He is a good enough driver; and the car was his car now; I was but an insignificant pa.s.senger, with a case of visiting cards in his pocket, newly engraved with the name of Mr.

George Smith. I sat on the front seat beside d.i.c.k, however, silently criticising his every move; Ropes was in the tonneau; such luggage as we had, on top.

It was scarcely eight o'clock, and there was so little traffic in the town that we did not need to trouble about a legal limit. We slipped swiftly along the rough white road to the railway station, past large villas and green lawns, and took the sharp turn to the right that leads out from the pleasant land of France straight to romantic Spain, the country of my dreams. We sped past houses that looked from their deep sheltering woods upon a silver lake, and away in the distance we caught glimpses of the sea. Before us were graceful, piled mountains, the crenelated ma.s.s of Les Trois Couronnes glittering with wintry diamonds. Against the morning sky, stood up, clear and cold, the cone of far La Rune.

Looking ahead, in my ears sang the song of my blood, sweet with hope, as the name of the girl I love and the land I love, mingled together in music.

Gaining the first outskirts of straggling St. Jean de Luz my eyes and d.i.c.k's fell at the same time upon something before us; a big grey automobile, its roof piled with luggage, stationary by the roadside, a chauffeur busy jacking up the driving wheels, a tall man standing to watch the work, his hands in the pockets of his fur coat. Instantly d.i.c.k slowed down our car, to lean out as we came within speaking distance, while I sat still, secure from recognition behind elaborately hideous goggles.

"Is there anything we can do?" asked d.i.c.k with the generosity of an automobilist in full tide of fortune to another in ill fortune. I noticed as he spoke, that he made his American accent as marked as possible; so marked, that it was almost like hoisting the stars and stripes over the transformed and repainted Gloria.

"No, thank you," said Carmona; for it was he who stood in the road looking on while his chauffeur worked. He had glanced up with anxiety and vexation on his ungoggled, dark face, at the first sound of an approaching car, and I knew well what thought sprang into his head. But a red car, with an American driving, was not what he had half expected to see. He was visibly relieved; nevertheless, he was slow enough in answering to bring us to a standstill, while he peered at our wheel-caps.

The deceitful name, glittering up to his eyes, so evidently rea.s.sured him that a temptation seized me, and I yielded without a struggle.

I had come prepared for a quick signal to Monica whenever an opportunity should arise, and, as I was anxious to let her know that she was not unprotected, it seemed to me that the first chance of doing so was better than the second.

In an inner breast pocket of my coat I had the lace handkerchief which I had stolen on the night of the ball. As d.i.c.k questioned Carmona, and Carmona answered, I flashed out the wisp of lace and pa.s.sed it across my lips, not turning to look full at the slim, grey-coated figure on the front seat, yet conscious by a side glance that a veiled face regarded us.

What I did was done so quickly, that I think it would have pa.s.sed unnoticed by the Duke; but Monica, taken completely by surprise, bent suddenly forward; then, remembering the need for caution, hurriedly leaned back against the cus.h.i.+ons.

Carmona caught her nervous movement, saw how self-consciously, almost rigidly, she sat when she had recovered herself, and, suspicion instantly alert, turned a searchlight gaze on us.

The lace handkerchief had vanished. I was sitting indifferently, with arms folded, my interest concentrated upon the busy chauffeur. Still I felt there was no detail of my figure and motoring clothes that Carmona was not noting as he explained to d.i.c.k the nature of his mishap.

"A simple puncture," he said. "And we have all necessary means to mend it, thank you."

d.i.c.k and I lifted our caps to the ladies and went our way; but it was not until we had pa.s.sed the charming Renaissance house where Louis Quatorze was born, that Waring made any comment on the incident.

"If that Moor-faced chap isn't on to the game, he's getting mighty 'warm,'

as the children say," he remarked dryly.

"He can't possibly be certain," said I. "Even if he saw my face, he couldn't swear to identifying it, as the only sight he ever had of me was in that asinine, yellow Romeo wig. Besides, Romeo had no moustache, and, thanks to your advice, I have. It's the one thing that's conspicuous under the goggles."

"A sort of 'coming event casting its shadow before.' I didn't say he _knew_. I said he guessed. See here, while he's waiting for his tyre, could we wire from this town to the frontier in time to have you stopped?"

"We ought to get there before any telegram he could send," said I, hopefully. "However, there'll be a lot of formalities at the custom-house.

They might catch us before we finished. But, uncertain as he must be, it would hardly be worth his while-"

"I wouldn't bet much on that," said d.i.c.k.

"Let's rush it," said I.

"Too risky. You'd feel such a limp a.s.s to be detained by a fat policeman at the door of Spain, while Carmona and Lady Monica went through, and disappeared."

"I'd shoot the fat policeman first."

"There you are, being Spanish again, just when you ought to develop a little horse-sense."

This put me on my mettle, and in two minutes I had thought out a plan, while d.i.c.k whistled and reflected.

It was rather an odd plan, and could only be carried out by the aid of another. But that other had never failed me yet, when loyalty or devotion were needed; and I had not got out half the suggestion when he understood all, and begged to do what I had hardly liked to ask.

We took exactly eight minutes, by d.i.c.k's watch, in making arrangements to meet an emergency which I hoped might not arise if our speed were good and our luck held.

Already Hendaye, the last French town, was but just beyond our sight. We ran through it at high speed, pa.s.sed on through little Behobie; and next moment our tyres were rolling through a brown mixture of French and Spanish mud on the international bridge that crosses the swirling Bidasoa.

We had pa.s.sed from Gaul to Iberia. At the central iron lamp-post, carrying on one side the "R.F." of France, on the other the Royal Arms of Spain, I lifted my cap in salutation to my native land, just where, had I been an Englishman, I should have lifted it to memories of grand old Wellington.

The broad river was rus.h.i.+ng, green and swift, down to Fuenterrabia and the sea, eddying past the little Ile des Faisans, where so much history has been made; where Cardinals treated for royal marriages; where Francis the First, a prisoner, was exchanged for his two sons. We were across the dividing water now, in Irun, and on Spanish soil. High-collared Spanish soldiers lounging by their sentry boxes, looked keenly at us, but made no move, little guessing that the accused bomb-thrower of Barcelona was driving past them through this romantic gate to Spain. We turned abruptly to the right, and, hoping still to escape trouble, pulled up at the custom-house.

To hurry a Spanish official, I had often heard my father say, in old days, is a thing impossible, and we avoided an air of anxiety. The three men in the big red car appeared to desire nothing better than to linger in the society of the _douaniers_. Nevertheless, the chauffeur was as brisk in his movements as he dared to be.

He it was who jumped from the tonneau, and in pa.s.sable Spanish asked our inquisitor which, if any, of our suit-cases he wished to open. At the same instant a propitiatory cigarette was offered and accepted.

Carefully the overcoated man selected with his eye a piece of luggage on the car roof. Luck was with us. It was the one easiest to unlock.

In the twinkling of an eye (an American, not a Spanish eye), the thing was down and in the office. The _douanier_ was about to inspect, in his leisured way, when a peasant entered with some bags to be weighed.