“We will get one to-morrow. We must take our chance to-night. What is the speed-limit in Italy?”
“Forty kilometres in open country, Monsieur; twelve in town. At night, fifteen.”
“Thank you.” George was smiling. Maurice thanked the official profusely, and with mutual compliments the interview closed.
“Fifteen!” said George, as they set off again. “Fifteen be hanged! we’ll do forty at the least,” and at that speed he set the car spinning along the mountainous winding road that connects Modane with Turin. There was little but the coolness of the air to tell them that they were now crossing the Alps. It was too dark to see the form of Mont Cenis towering above them, and even George felt a little regretful that he could not get a glimpse of the mountains. They reached Turin soon after eleven, and at the Hotel Europa did full justice to the excellent repast with which they were provided at extraordinarily short notice.
Chapter VI
A NARROW MARGIN
The Bucklands spent very little time over their supper at the Hotel Europa. Not knowing how far behind the pursuers were, Maurice hid under his imperturbable mien a very real anxiety. George, for his part, was much concerned about the gyro-car. After so long a journey as he had just made, a railway engine would have a thorough overhauling; but there was no time for more than a rapid examination of his mechanism. He required petrol and oil; the hour was late, and no doubt all the establishments where these essentials could be procured had been closed long ago. It was just possible that they might be obtained in the garage of the hotel; so, after satisfying his hunger, he left Maurice to attend to the wants of his inanimate steed.
Maurice, as he sipped his coffee, found himself wishing that someone had invented a means of seeing in the dark, or of hearing at immense distances. If he had possessed either of those as yet hitherto unattained powers, he might have indulged in the sleep he needed, with a mind at ease.
A quarter of an hour after the gyro-car ran the plank at Melun, Count Slavianski (whose name in private life was Max Mumm) arrived on the scene with his so-called secretary, who was neither a major nor a Rostopchin, but a German ex-sergeant of cavalry, by name Ernst Böhmer. The Count—let him enjoy his brief ennoblement—was furious at the failure of his trap. As Maurice Buckland surmised, he had telephoned from Calais to his agents in Paris instructing them to watch the southern road, and to devise any plan that seemed good to them for stopping the gyro-car. The unusual shape of that unique vehicle made its identification easy, and the Paris agents laid their trap at the spot where the chance breaking of the road seemed to promise certain success. Perhaps the Count’s anger was the more intense because he had no reasonable ground for complaint. His instructions had been carried out, and if he had not wasted time by waiting for information from his emissaries at the bridges, he would almost certainly have reached Melun before the men he was pursuing.
His stratagem having failed, there was nothing to do but to continue the pursuit. Without doubt the gyro-car would keep to the main road, and in fact the Count had tidings of it at every place where his racing-car had to slow down in obedience to local regulations. When he caught sight of it for the first time a mile or two beyond Romenay he exulted. If he could only catch it before it reached Turin, he felt very pretty sure that at some lonely spot on the mountain road he and his three companions in the car would have the diplomat at his mercy.