They turned to retrace their way to the hotel. At the harbour gates they were met by a postal official, who handed a telegram to the naval officer and stood patiently expecting a gratuity.
“Just like our Intelligence Department,” said the officer on reading the telegram. He handed it to Buckland, who read:— Nobleman notorious foreign spy: be on guard.
“The fruit of the inquiry set on foot by the Foreign Office three days ago,” said Maurice. “It’s very good of them. Now I wonder whether I could get a map of Albania in the town? I don’t know the country, except in a very general way, and I should like to be able to take my bearings.”
“The chances are a hundred to one against you,” said the officer; “but we’ll see.”
Inquiries at all the likely shops in the main street proved fruitless.
“We shall have to take our chance,” said Maurice. “Now I must return to my brother, and tell him what we have arranged. We must also have some petrol sent to the Margherita at once—as much as we can load onto our car; and a couple of tyres. We can’t expect to get through without punctures on the mountains yonder.”
“Let us hope only your tyres will be punctured,” said the officer grimly. “I don’t envy you your journey.”
Chapter VIII
A ROMAN ROAD
Meanwhile George had thoroughly overhauled the car.