pery or talk about
the mountains. And I'm no more than human, all said and done, and the
sight of the food she took out of the basket made me feel well-nigh
desperate. So I turned my back upon her, and she went off to the copse
to prepare breakfast as she had promised. Not five minutes afterwards
I heard the hum of another car in the distance, and, looking up from my
wheel, I saw a great red Mercedes coming down the hillside like a racer
at Brooklands.

I knew that we were in for it; instinct told me immediately that we had
been followed from Frejus or Nice, and that danger was aboard that
flyer, and would be up with us in less than two minutes. What to do,
whether to shout to Madame to run and hide herself--to do that or just
go on with my work as though nothing had happened was a problem to make
a man half silly. But in the end I held on tenaciously, and when the
big car drew up beside me, I merely looked up and nodded to the driver
as though to signal to him that all was well.

"Bon jour," says he.

"Morning," says I.

"Vous-etes en panne, mon ami?"

"Hit it first time," says I--for those words are understood by every
motor-man who's been in the Riviera--"in the pan and the grease
together. Where are you for?"

"Brignoles et Paris. Mais ou donc est Madame?"

I looked up, my heart beating fast, and took a peep into his tonneau.
The red-faced man was there right enough, but as fast asleep as a
parson over his empty port-wine glass. Could I persuade this bonny
Frenchman to get on with his job, we were half out of the wood sure and
certain. But could I? Lord, how my hands shook when I replied:

"Madame est alle dans le train--Paree--Calais--moi je suis seul"--which
was rather good, I thought, though that was not the time to say so.

Well, it seemed successful enough. The Frenchee took a look to the
right and a look to the left of him, opened his throttle as though to
let in his clutch and closed it again, took off his side brake, and
then, just when I was pluming myself that we were through, what do you
think the fool does? Why, turns deliberately round and wakes the
red-faced Baron.

What passed between them I don't pretend to say, for the French went to
and fro like lightning between summer clouds. But of this I am
certain: that there never was such a devilish smile as the old Baron
turned on me when he got down from the tonneau and took a swift survey
of the scene as though sure already of hi