"The sea," replied Farrar. "That's our trump card. Provided we strike the coast at a reasonable distance from Trieste, Fiume, or Pola there's not much risk of being snapped up by the Austrian patrol boats. Our monitors and the Italian destroyers are top-dog in the Adriatic, you'll find."
"But we can't swim across to Italy," objected the Moke. "Even Leander wouldn't have taken on that contract—not for a dozen Heros."
"There's bound to be a fishing-boat we can collar," continued the now optimistic sub. "You pilot me to the coast, Moke, and I'll pilot you across the ditch."
"All right," agreed Sylvester. "Let's make a move."
Just as they were about to leave the farmhouse Sylvester suddenly had an idea. He went upstairs and knocked on the door of the room in which the old woman was under lock and key.
"I have decided not to report your son's desertion, or your complicity," he announced. "For reasons best known to myself I have formed this decision. If you mention a word of the matter to any one the consequences will be extremely serious to all parties concerned. You will therefore deny all knowledge of any person or persons visiting this house to-night."
With copious blessings and thanks the Austrian mother faithfully promised to carry out Herr Offizier's instructions, and the Moke departed with the firm conviction that he had covered his tracks in this direction. By the time Farrar's late escort had been released and had told their story, he reflected, the men would be so thoroughly bewildered that it was a question whether they would remember where they had been, much less recognise the house, while they knew nothing of the deserter's flight.
Satisfied on that score Sylvester rejoined his companion and, steering a course by the stars, walked briskly towards the still distant coast, the two taking turns at carrying the Baron's portmanteau. Knowing the valuable nature of its contents the Moke was reluctant to abandon the trophy.
Avoiding the villages and keeping at a distance from the indifferent roads the fugitives "carried on" for the best part of two days, until just as the sun was on the point of setting they reached the summit of a long, rugged range of hills. Beyond they could see what appeared to be a bank of mist, tinted crimson in the declining rays. To the Moke it was a fog bank and nothing else; but to the sub the sight meant something far different.
"Thalassa!" he exclaimed joyously.