priest pointed to a superb motor-car drawn up
alongside the pavement. A superior-looking chauffeur was seated at
the wheel.

"Shall we get in? We have a fairly long way to go, and it is important
that we arrive punctually."

Fandor could do nothing but agree. They seated themselves. The abbe
shared a heavy travelling rug.

"We will wrap ourselves up well," said he. "It is far from warm, and
there is no need to catch cold--it is not part of our programme!...
You can start now, chauffeur! We are ready."

Once in motion, the abbe pointed to a voluminous package which
prevented Fandor from stretching his legs.

"We can change places from time to time, for you cannot be comfortable
with this package encumbering the floor of the car like this."

"Oh," replied Fandor-Vinson, "one takes things as they come!... But we
should be much more comfortable if we fastened this rather clumsy
piece of baggage to the front seat, beside the chauffeur, who can keep
an eye on it!"

"Corporal! You cannot be thinking of what you are saying!" The
priest's reply was delivered in a dry authoritative voice.

"I have put my foot in it," thought Fandor. "I should just like to
know how!" He was about to speak: the abbe cut in:

"I am very tired, Corporal, so excuse me if I doze a little! In an
hour or so, I shall be quite refreshed. There will be ample time for a
talk after that."

Fandor could but agree.

The car was speeding up the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. They were
leaving Paris--for what destination?

"Does your chauffeur know the route, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"I hope so--why?"

"Because I could direct him. I could find my way about any of these
suburbs with my eyes shut."

"Very well. See that he keeps on the right road. We are going towards
Rouen." With that the abbe wrapped himself in his share of the ample
rug and closed his eyes.

Fandor sat still as a mouse, with all the food for thought he
required.

"Why Rouen? Why were they taking him there?... What is this mysterious
package which must remain out of sight at the bottom of the car?"

Fandor tried to follow its outline with the toe of his boot. It was
protected by a thick wrapping of straw.

"Then who was this abbe?" His speech showed he was French. He wore his
cassock with the ease of long habit: he was young. His hand was the
delicate hand of a Churchman--not coarsened by manual labour. Fandor,
plunged in reflections, lost all sense of time.

The car sped on it