"Berlin ... Berne ... Paris ... Cerbère ... Barcelona ... Madrid."
Here was one of the post-roads by which Germany reached the outer world. Others there were beyond doubt. Sweden and Rotterdam, Mexico and South America—but here was one, and to-morrow, nay, to-day, the communication would be cut, and Germany so much the poorer.
The train steamed into Cerbère at one o'clock of the afternoon.
"Every one must descend here, monsieur, for the examination of luggage and passports," said the attendant.
"But I am leaving France!" cried Hillyard. "I go on into Spain. Why should France, then, examine my luggage?"
"It is the war, monsieur."
Hillyard lifted up his hands in indignation too deep for words. He gathered together his bag and his coat and stick, handed them to a porter and descended. He passed into the waiting-room, and was directed by a soldier with a fixed bayonet to take his place in the queue of passengers. But he said quietly to the soldier:
"I would like to see M. de Cassaud, the Commissaire of Police."
Hillyard was led apart; his card was taken from him; he was ushered instantly into an office where an elderly French officer sat in mufti before a table. He shook Hillyard cordially by the hand.
"You pass through? I myself hope to visit Barcelona again very soon. Jean, wait outside with monsieur's baggage," this to the porter who had pushed in behind Hillyard. M. de Cassaud rose and closed the door. He had looked at Hillyard's face and acted quickly.