Chapter 3

“Are you willing that I should try my luck again with your mother?” I had written. “If not, will you consent to a runaway marriage with a man who loves you better than his life?”

Next day came an answer through Mademoiselle de la Mole.

Monica begged that I would not speak to her mother. “She fancies that you have gone away,” the girl wrote. “If you came forward I think she would wire the Duke of Carmona, for she writes to him nearly every day as it is; and she would do everything she could to make me marry him at once. Don’t hate me for being a coward. I’m not, except with mother. I can’t help it with her. She’s different from everyone else. I heard the Duchess saying to her yesterday, that if I were to marry a grandee of Spain, I would be made a lady-in-waiting to the Queen instead of maid of honour; so I know what they’re thinking of always. But while mother hopes you have given me up, and that I’m quite good, they will perhaps let me alone.

“I wish I dared write to the Princess about you; only, you see, on account of your father and that horrid accident which happened, in Barcelona, she might misunderstand you, and things would be worse than before. But if I find that mother means actually to try and force me, then I _will_ go away with you. Otherwise, I would rather wait, for both our sakes.

“When I go back to England, there are some dear cousins of mine who might help us, but it’s no use writing. I would have to see and talk to them myself. Anyway, if I were there they’d manage not to let me be married to a foreigner I hate; and you and I could go on being true to each other for a little while, until everything could be arranged.

“The worst is, mother doesn’t mean to go back to England yet. That’s what I’m afraid of, and that she has some plan about which she doesn’t mean to talk till the last minute. But she hasn’t said anything lately about visiting the Duchess of Carmona in Spain, and I hope she’s giving it up. As soon as I hear anything definite I’ll somehow let you know. I think I can promise that, though it may be difficult, as mother will never let Angèle and me be alone together for a minute if she can help it. The day after the ball we are having a talk in my room when my mother came, and perhaps guessed I had been telling Angèle things. Since then I haven’t been allowed to go to Angèle’s; and though Angèle comes to see me, mother always makes some excuse for being with us.”

After this letter of Monica’s I had at least some idea of how matters stood; and in the circumstances there seemed nothing to do but to be near her, and to wait.

It was not until the latter part of March that the Duke of Carmona came back to his mother’s villa at Biarritz.

His arrival was not announced in the local paper, nevertheless I heard of it; and the day after, Mademoiselle de la Mole sent me another letter from Monica, only a few lines, evidently written in great haste.

They were to pay the visit to the Duchess of Carmona in Seville, and were to arrive there in time for the famous ceremonies of Holy Week; that was all she knew. The time of starting was either not decided, or else it was not considered best that she should know too long beforehand.

“I’m miserable about going,” wrote the girl; “but what can I do? I used to think it would be glorious to see Spain, but now I’m frightened. I have a horrible feeling that I shall never come back. I know it’s too much to ask, and I don’t see how you can do it if I do ask, since I can tell you nothing of our plans; but if only, _only_, you could keep near me, within call, I should be safe. I suppose it’s useless to hope for that? Anyway, whatever happens, I shall always love you.”

To this I wrote an answer, but Angèle feared she might fail in getting it to her friend. The lease of Lady Vale-Avon’s Biarritz villa had just expired, and the mother and daughter were moving to the Duchess of Carmona’s for a few days. For some reason, the Duchess had not once invited Angèle to come to her house since the ball. She might not be able to see Monica; and it would be very unsafe to trust to the post.

It was on the evening of the day on which I had this news that my chauffeur knocked at the door of our sitting-room at the hotel.

“I thought,” said he, “I’d better tell your lordship something which has just happened. It may be of importance; it may be of none.”

Now I may as well explain that Peter Ropes is no common chauffeur. He is the son of the old coachman who served my father for many years in England; was groom to my first pony; went abroad with me as handy man; was with me through most of my adventures; when I took up motoring, volunteered to go into a factory and thoroughly learn the gentle art of chauffeuring; and at this time understood an automobile, and loved it, as he understood and loved a horse; he is of my age almost to the day; and I suppose will be with me in some capacity or other till one of us dies. He has a brown face, which might have been carved from a piece of oak; the eyes of a soldier; and never utters a word more than he must.

“You said I could go to the _pelota_ this afternoon,” he continued. “When I came back I went to the garage, and found a strange chauffeur examining your Gloria. I stood at a distance, behind the King of England’s car, and watched what he would do. M. Levavasseur, the proprietor of the garage, came in just then, and I inquired in a low voice who the fellow was. He didn’t know; but the man had asked for Mr. Trevenna’s chauffeur, saying, when he heard I was out, that he was a friend of mine. I gave Levavasseur the hint to keep quiet, and got out of the way myself. Presently the chauffeur walked over to Levavasseur, and said, in French, that he wouldn’t wait any longer.”

“Well, what then, Ropes?” I asked.

“He went away, and I went after him. He didn’t see me, and I don’t believe he would have known me from Adam if he had. He stopped at another garage, and I thought best not to go in there. But I waited, and after a while a very dark, tall gentleman, who looked Spanish, walked into the garage. Five minutes later he and the chauffeur came out together. They parted at the entrance, and it was the gentleman I followed this time. He went to a large, handsome villa; and a person I met told me it was the Duchess of Carmona’s house. That is the reason I thought the thing important.”

“But why, exactly?” I persisted, guessing what Ropes would say.

“Because I think the gentleman was the Duke of Carmona.”

“And if he were?”

“I’ve heard gossip that he’s anxious to stand well with the King of Spain. It occurred to me he might have some political interest in trying to learn the real name of Mr. Trevenna, if you pardon my having such a thought. He might have sent his chauffeur to look at your car, and make a report; and if he did, whatever the reason was, it would mean no good to your lordship. I thought you ought to know, and be upon your guard, in case of anything happening.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re right to speak, and it may be you’ve done me an invaluable service.”

Ropes beamed; but having said all he had to say, another word would have been a waste of good material, which he was not the man to squander.

VI

PUZZLE: FIND THE CAR

“What do you think it means?” asked Dick, when the chauffeur had gone.

“It’s just struck me, it may mean that Carmona intends to slip away with his guests in his new automobile, and that he wanted to find out something about my car, what it was like, and so on, in case I got wind of the idea, and followed.”

“The identical thing struck me. He wouldn’t go spying himself, but sent his chauffeur, a new importation, probably, to have a look at the Gloria and describe it. I wonder how he heard you had one.”

“Easy enough to do that. Of course he’s found out somehow, perhaps through employing a detective, that Chris Trevenna and Casa Triana are one man. He can’t make much use of the knowledge to bother me on this side the frontier, but—”

“Yes; a big but.”

“It seems pretty certain that his own car must have come, or be coming here, and that he means to use it going into Spain, or he wouldn’t have developed this sudden interest in mine.”

“It looks like it. Now he knows, if a dark blue Gloria crosses his path, it’s the car of the pursuing lover, and—”

“I was just thinking that a dark blue Gloria will not cross his path.”

“You don’t mean—”

“I mean that it won’t be prudent for either Casa Triana’s or Chris Trevenna’s car to follow his, wherever he means to go.”

“What, you’ll give up—”

“Is it likely?”

“You’re getting beyond me.”

“What I want is to stay with you, in your car.”

“Wish I had one!” said Dick.

“You’re going to have the loan of one. Would a grey or a red car suit you best?”

“I see. Red, please. They say red paint dries quickest.”

We both laughed.

“Your red car must have new lamps,” I went on, “and a new number, and any other little things that can be put on in a hurry. And you’d better get a passport if you haven’t one. Gentlemen touring in foreign lands are sometimes subjected to cross-questionings which might be inconvenient unless they’ve plenty of red tape up their sleeves.”

“I’ll lay in a stock. How would you like me to be the accredited correspondent, for the Spanish wedding festivities, of a newspaper or two?”

“Rattling good idea. Could you work it?”

“Easy as falling off a log, or puncturing a tyre. I’ll arrange by telegraph, London and New York.”

“Grand old chap.”

“Thanks. Better wait till I’ve done something. What about your part in the show?”

“A humble friend, accompanying the important newspaper correspondent in his travels.”

“That’s all right. But the Trevenna business is played out.”

“A new travelling name’s as easy to fit as a travelling-coat.”

“Not quite, unless you can match it with a new travelling face.”

“Luckily Carmona knows Romeo’s face better than mine. And, anyhow, a motoring get-up can be next door to a disguise.”

“That’s true. Behind goggles Apollo hasn’t much advantage over Apollyon, and you can develop a moustache. Yes. I think we can work it as far as that goes. But one’s always heard that Spanish roads are impossible.”

“They’ll be no worse for us than for Carmona,” I argued. “Besides, most of the best known books about Spain are out of date. The King has made motoring fashionable lately, and there must have been some attempts to get the roads into passable condition.”

“I happened to hear an American who’s here with a sixty horse-power Panhard, wanting to go to Seville, say to another fellow that he’d been warned he couldn’t get beyond Madrid.”

“I’ve never bothered much about warnings in my life. I’ve generally gone ahead, and found out things for myself.”

“We’ll continue on the same lines. And, anyhow, wherever we go, we’re sure of a leader; our friend the enemy.”

It was next in order to find out whether the Duke really had brought an automobile to Biarritz; but try as we might, we could learn nothing. Inquiries were made at the railway stations, both at Bayonne and Biarritz, as to whether an automobile had lately been shipped through; but as it happened, no car of any description had arrived by rail in either direction during the last fortnight.

All the principal garages of Bayonne and Biarritz were visited also, in the hope of finding a mysterious car which might be the Duke of Carmona’s; but there was not one of which we could not trace the ownership. We then sent to Bordeaux, and even to St. Jean de Luz; but in both cases our errand was vain. If Carmona had an automobile in the South of France, it was well hidden.

As for the chauffeur who had inspected my car, and afterwards met Carmona at another garage, he had disappeared, apparently, into thin air.

Nevertheless, Dick and I formed a theory that the new automobile, of which we had heard so many rumours, was actually in Biarritz; that it had been driven into the town after dark, and was now being kept by some friend of Carmona’s in a private garage. And if we were right in our conjectures, we felt we might take it as a sure sign that the Duke was not only planning an important tour, but was not forgetting a detail of precaution which could prevent my learning his intentions.

As we could not set a watch upon the chauffeur, we set a watch upon the Duke; and it was Ropes who, with considerable relish, undertook the task. I did not wish to bring a stranger into the affair; and Ropes I could trust as I trusted myself. Therefore Ropes it was who unobtrusively dogged Carmona’s footsteps from the time the Duke went out in the morning, up to the time he went in again at night.

Meanwhile, Dick took steps to become correspondent for _The Daily Despatch_ of London, and _The New York Recorder_, the editors of which papers he knew personally. He spent a great deal of money in wiring long messages, but his reward was success, and, as he said, he was “proud of his job,” which he intended to carry out as faithfully as if writing impressions for newspapers were the business of his life.

Also, we got the car repainted; bought lamps of a different sort; ordered side baskets to be attached, of a red to match the new colour; had Dick Waring’s monogram, in execrable taste, put on the doors; while last and most important change of all, from being number A12,901, the automobile became, illegally but convincingly, M14,317. Cunningest device of all, Ropes changed the wheel-caps of my Gloria for those of a Frenzel, as like a Gloria as a Fiat is like a Mercédès; so that only an expert of much experience would know that the car was not a Frenzel.

A quick dryer was used, and in two days we were ready for anything. I still hoped for a letter from Monica, with some hints as to her mother’s plans, but nothing came; and when we had had a blank day, with no news of activity in the enemy’s camp, it was a relief to have Ropes arrive at the hotel in the morning just as I was dressed.

I knew the moment I saw his face that something exciting had happened.

“The Duke’s gone, my lord,” he reported; “gone in a dark grey, covered car; I couldn’t get near enough to make sure what it was, but it looks like a Lecomte. He’s this moment got off.”

“Not alone?”

“No, my lord. I’ll tell you exactly what took place. I was at the window in the little room I hired over a shop three days ago, in sight of the entrance gates of the Villa Isabella. It was just seven o’clock this morning when a smart, big grey car drove in, might be a forty horse, and of the Lecomte type. The chauffeur wore goggles, but his figure was like the fellow’s who came the other day to our garage. About half an hour later, out slipped the car again, the Duke driving, a lady sitting beside him, two other ladies in the tonneau, the chauffeur at the Duke’s feet, and a good deal of luggage on the roof. At the gate they turned as if to go to San Sebastian; and I came to let you know.”

“That’s right. Get ready at once for a start, and have the car here as soon as you can.”

“Car’s ready now, my lord, and so am I.”

“Good. But don’t ‘my lord’ me. Now that I’m Mr. George Smith that’s even more important to remember than in Trevenna days. And don’t forget that the car’s Mr. Waring’s car.”

“I won’t forget, sir.”

He was off to the garage, and I was knocking at Dick’s door.

Dick 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 Dick, 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 Dick. He is a good enough driver; and the car was his car now; I was but an insignificant passenger, 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 Dick, 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 mass 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 Dick’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 Dick 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 Dick 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 reassured 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 Dick questioned Carmona, and Carmona answered, I flashed out the wisp of lace and passed 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 passed unnoticed by the Duke; but Monica, taken completely by surprise, bent suddenly forward; then, remembering the need for caution, hurriedly leaned back against the cushions.

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 Dick the nature of his mishap.

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

Dick and I lifted our caps to the ladies and went our way; but it was not until we had passed 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 Dick.

“Let’s rush it,” said I.

“Too risky. You’d feel such a limp ass 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 Dick 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 Dick’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, passed on through little Béhobie; 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 passed 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 rushing, 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.