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.
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 passports.”
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.
