"I hope so—why?"
"Because I could direct him. I could find my way about any of these suburbs with my eyes shut."
"Very well. See that he keeps on the right road. We are going towards Rouen." With that the abbé wrapped himself in his share of the ample rug and closed his eyes.
Fandor sat still as a mouse, with all the food for thought he required.
"Why Rouen? Why were they taking him there?... What is this mysterious package which must remain out of sight at the bottom of the car?"
Fandor tried to follow its outline with the toe of his boot. It was protected by a thick wrapping of straw.
"Then who was this abbé?" His speech showed he was French. He wore his cassock with the ease of long habit: he was young. His hand was the delicate hand of a Churchman—not coarsened by manual labour. Fandor, plunged in reflections, lost all sense of time.
The car sped on its way, devouring the miles fleetly. No sooner out of Paris than Saint-Germain was cleared—Mantes left behind! As they were approaching Bonniéres, Fandor, whose eyes had been fixed on the interminable route, as though at some turn of the road he might catch sight of their real destination, now felt that the abbé was watching the landscape through half-closed eyes.
"You are awake, then, Monsieur l'Abbé?" observed Fandor-Vinson.
"I was wondering where we were."