"Now, mademoiselle, we will wrap you up in M. Ricardo’s spare motor-coat and cover your knees with a rug and put you between us, and then you can go to sleep."
The car sped through the streets of Geneva. Celia Harland, with a little sigh of relief, nestled down between the two men.
"If I knew you better," she said to Hanaud, "I should tell you-what, of course, I do not tell you now-that I feel as if I had a big Newfoundland dog with me."
"Mlle. Celie," said Hanaud, and his voice told her that he was moved, "that is a very pretty thing which you have said to me."
The lights of the city fell away behind them. Now only a glow in the sky spoke of Geneva; now even that was gone and with a smooth continuous purr the car raced through the cool darkness. The great head lamps threw a bright circle of light before them and the road slipped away beneath the wheels like a running tide. Celia fell asleep. Even when the car stopped at the Pont de La Caille she did not waken. The door was opened, a search for contraband was made, the book was signed, still she did not wake. The car sped on.
"You see, coming into France is a different affair," said Hanaud.
"Yes," replied Ricardo.
"Still, I will own it, you caught me napping yesterday."
"I did?" exclaimed Ricardo joyfully.
"You did," returned Hanaud. "I had never heard of the Pont de La Caille. But you will not mention it? You will not ruin me?"