The Broken Thread

by William Le Queux

The Count’s car pulled up in front of the door of the quaint little house in the side street, on the evening of the day when Fortune seemed to have snatched Gilda Tempest from the jaws of danger.

She had dressed with an assumed jauntiness, hoping to match the costume of the benign and buxom landlady, who had so generously extended the invitation.

Before the party were comfortably seated, a small basket containing light refreshment and some flasks of Chianti were placed aboard. Then the car started on its journey. Gilda, with a tact that came from the training of many emergencies, easily persuaded the chauffeur, who was already charmed by his fair passenger, to take the road up the Roya valley to the French frontier. Thence along the broad, straight military road with the snow-clad Alps, already lilac tinted, to the Col di Tenda. As they were gaily speeding, with merry laughter, a figure sprang from the roadside and waved to them. The road here was deserted, save for the Count’s car with its merry, human freight. The chauffeur applied brakes and rapidly stopped. Gilda shuddered and hid her face as well as possible, for the wayfarer, who had adopted this drastic means of attracting attention to his needs on the wayside, was none other than the ex-messenger of the Hôtel Royal at Nice. Here was that forbidding person, with the air of an Apache, and the costume of the Quartier Latin, the man who had acted as her uncle’s agent in the criminal plots that he was evolving during their stay there.

With the rapidity of thought and action that came to her of the hunted, haunted life, Gilda obscured her face and became engrossed in some quickly planned operation that kept her from the man’s view. He spoke Italian, but with a French accent. He first asked the way to the Col di Tenda. Then, as Gilda’s landlady smiled at him, he emboldened himself to ask for a lift. The cheery old landlord and landlady cried, “Yes! jump in.” Both were slightly flushed with the wine and contents of the basket they had brought with them. Gilda, as she realised that this horrible person was actually sitting in the tonneau of the car behind her, almost shrieked with fear. The landlord poured out more wine and the merriment soon bordered on excess, as the car bounded upward and swung around corners with a reckless, devilish swing. Gilda, trembling, yet with the well-feigned assumption of one of those mysterious ailments familiar to women who want to be left alone, waved aside the offers of wine; but the chauffeur appeared to enjoy it. With one hand on the wheel, he drank copiously as each glass was handed to him with a merry camaraderie. Now and then a lunge or jolt made even the merrymakers behind exclaim “Oh!” The chauffeur seemed to want the fair occupant of the seat next to him to admire his deeds of “derring-do” at the wheel.

With a muffled roar they entered the long tunnel through the mountain. All but Gilda sang merrily as they bounded through the cavernous depths of this giant undertaking. On they sped with a recklessness that fascinated Gilda and at last, alarmed the landlady. With a final plunge they were out again into the open, but Gilda’s mind was distracted in spite of the devilish excitement of this mad “joy-ride.” How could she get rid of that hated Apache man seated behind? He was so near to her. Had he recognised her yet? She hoped rather than felt that he had not. She was thankful for the reckless exploits of the now thoroughly excited chauffeur. It distracted attention from her, and they were rapidly approaching the goal she had aimed for. Here and there the groups of Italian and French guards had eyed, with indulgent smiles, the mad career of this strange family party. Even Gilda’s face was illumined with a wan smile, as she realised the incongruity of this scene. It was merry, in spite of the fact that it was fraught with such danger for her. A few more bends in the road on the steep side of the mountain, and they would be there, for good or evil, as destiny might decide.

“Oh! la-la!” cheerily shouted the landlord. “One more glass of the good wine.”

He poured it out. The chauffeur gazed in front of him with a bright yet glassy stare, as he realised the dangers of the precipitous road. The landlady passed him a glass, laying her hand on his shoulder. He turned to take the glass. There was a sharp skid of the wheels that sounded like a hiss. A moment of lull, an eternity of despair, a loud, shrill shriek from the landlady—the car and its occupants had mounted a steep bank and lay overturned on its side. All was now silence, and Gilda did not know how long the silence had lasted. It was quite quiet when, with difficulty, she extricated herself from the twisted mass of débris. The other merry occupants remained silent, and the quiet of it was appalling. She muttered to herself and stifled her sobs, which were half groans. With much labour and difficulty she mounted the fateful bank and clambered to the roadway. The sun had gone down, a golden ball of fire, set in a bank of purple cloud edged with a brilliant orange.

It was now dark and a sense of oppression seemed to pervade the place.

Gilda’s mind worked rapidly. The necessity for action was immediate. Where was that Apache man, and had he survived?

The zealously guarded frontier road was not to be left long without a passer-by, and soon the measured tread of feet announced the approach of a patrol.