From a drawer in her dressing-table she took out a shabby hand-bag—Renata’s bag—and, after ascertaining that there was a small sum of money in it, she put it upon her arm, and finally examined herself in the glass.
She was an adept at disguising herself as Renata, and, after patting her hair and altering the angle of her neat bonnet, she switched off the light and left the room.
Boldly she passed along the corridor of the private apartments until she at length opened a door at the end, whereupon she passed a sentry unchallenged, and away into the servants’ quarters.
Across the courtyard, now only dimly lit, she passed, and then out by the servants’ entrance to the Via del Quirinale.
Having left the Palace she hurried through a number of dark side-streets until she reached a small garage in a narrow thoroughfare—almost a lane—called the Via della Muratte, beyond the Trevi fountain.
A sleepy, white-haired old man roused himself as she entered, while she gave him a cheery good evening, and then went up to her car, a powerful grey one of open type, and switched on the head-lamps. From a locker in the garage the old man brought her a big, fur-lined motor coat and a close-fitting hat, and these she quickly assumed. Then a few minutes later, seated at the wheel, she passed out of the garage exclaiming gaily:
“I shall be back before it is light, Paolo. Buona motte.”
Gaining the Corso, silent and dark at that hour, she drove rapidly away, out by the Popolo Gate, and with her cut-out roaring went straight along the Via Flaminia, the ancient way through the mountains to Civita Castellana and the wilds of Umbria.
The night was dark and bitterly cold, for a strong east wind was blowing from the snowcapped mountains causing Lola to draw up and take her big fur mitts from the inside pocket of the car. Then she turned up the wide fur collar of her coat, mounted to the wheel again, and was soon negotiating the winding road—the surface of which at that season was shockingly loose and bad.
After fifteen miles of continual ascent she approached the dead silent old town of Castelnuova, being challenged by the octroi guards who, finding a lady alone, allowed her to proceed without further word. Then through the narrow, ancient street, lit by oil lamps, she went slowly, and out again into a great plain for a further fifteen miles—a lonely drive, indeed, along a difficult and dangerous road. But she was an expert driver and negotiated all the difficult corners with tact and caution.