After a brief consultation they both agreed that the most probable intention of the fugitive—if his suspicions had been aroused, as was most likely—would be to go north, join the railway on the main line to Florence, and probably get out of the country immediately, carrying with him the Princess’s letters.
The coup had failed, and Lola knowing him to be a spy, might reveal the truth. Flobecq was wary enough to foresee such an awkward eventuality. Hence his headlong flight, which had, no doubt, been cunningly arranged, as were all his rapid journeys.
Hubert was just about to mount into the car and continue northward along the straight, well-made road which ran first to Acquapendente and then to Radicofani—a village of bad repute on the top of a conical hill, where every car was stoned as it passed, the King’s included—when his quick ears caught a sound.
A motor cyclist was coming rapidly along the road leading westward.
As he approached Pucci hailed him, and he pulled up.
“Have you met a big, open, grey car half an hour or so ago?” the detective inquired of the young man, who seemed surprised at being thus stopped.
“Yes. It passed me just as I came out of Pitigliano village. At least I suppose it must have been the car you mention. The lights were out, and it was travelling very swiftly.”
“Going towards Orbetello—eh?”
“Yes. That is the only place it can reach. The road runs quite straight down the valley, and there are no branches until you get to the sea at Albegna.”
“He’s gone to Orbetello, no doubt,” Hubert exclaimed. “He will catch the express for Turin from there. We must make all haste possible.”