"Without a doubt, Excellency," the man replied.
"Then drive for the frontier," Falkenberg ordered. "We will stop you when we need a rest."
They left Paris in the semi-darkness. They were away in the country before the faintest gleam of daylight broke through the eastern clouds. Even then the way was still obscured. It was a stormy morning, and banks of murky clouds were piled up where the sun should have risen. The rain still fell. Soon they commenced to ascend a range of hills. At the summit Falkenberg pulled the check-string.
"Henri," he said, "come in behind here. I will drive for a time—it will amuse me."
The man descended. Falkenberg took his place at the wheel. Estermen, obeying his gesture, scrambled into the seat by his side.
"Go to the signpost," his master ordered the chauffeur. "Tell me exactly, how many miles to Rheims?"
The man clambered up the bank. The gray morning twilight was breaking now through a sea of clouds. From where they were the vineyards sloped down to the bank. A thin, curving line of silver marked the course of the river. Here and there a little gleam of sunlight fell upon the country below them. Estermen closed his eyes.
"It makes me giddy," he muttered. "I hope that you will drive slowly down the hill!"
Falkenberg glanced to the left—the chauffeur was still peering at the milestone. He slipped in the clutch and the car glided off, gathering speed as though by magic.
"You have left Henri!" Estermen cried. "He is running after us. Stop the car! Can't you stop it?"