It was a little past twelve o’clock when George came in sight of a large town, which he guessed was Dijon. He nudged Maurice, exclaiming:
“Here we are! I’m desperately hungry, and now’s the time for you to air your French.”
“Surely we’re not at Dijon already! It’s—let me see”—he turned over the pages of his Guide—“it’s over three hundred kilometres from Paris—a hundred and eighty miles. You must have been tearing along at a terrific pace.”
“Not fast enough to wake you. You don’t snore very loud, old man; but I haven’t had to use my hooter.”
Maurice ignored his brother’s impudence.
“This Guide is all very well,” he said, “but it doesn’t name any hotels. I shall have to inquire.”
“Well, there are plenty of people about, staring at us with all their eyes. Ask that dear old Sister of Mercy there: did you ever see such a happy-looking old lady!”
But here a red-trousered gendarme came up and requested Monsieur to show his certificat de capacité. George was producing his motor-bicycle licence, and a corner of it was visible, when Maurice slipped a franc into the man’s hand and asked him to direct him to an hotel.
“Ah! Monsieur is English!” said the gendarme. “There is a good hotel in the Place Darcy to Monsieur’s left. Merci bien, monsieur.”
“As you’ve driven so fast,” said Maurice, as they went in the direction indicated, “we ought to have plenty of time for a decent meal, even if the Count is still after us. I’m afraid there won’t be time for you to have a nap.”