“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.
[pg 045] “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.