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Title: The Cruise of the Gyro-Car

Author: Herbert Strang

Illustrator: A. C. Michael

Release date: March 17, 2022 [eBook #67642]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Henry Frowde

Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE GYRO-CAR ***

THE CRUISE OF

THE GYRO-CAR

HERBERT STRANG’S ROMANCES

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

KING OF THE AIR: or, To Morocco on an Airship

“Much the best book of its kind now in existence.”—Manchester Guardian.

“The flights of the airship and final rescue of the imprisoned diplomat are brilliantly told.”—Journal of Education.

“The story goes with a fine zest and gusto, and few writers have known as well as Herbert Strang the exact proportions to allow of amusement and information.”—Bookman.

LORD OF THE SEAS: the Story of a Submarine

“Mr. Herbert Strang has struck a new vein with remarkable success, and has narrated a series of exciting adventures in the South Seas in an effective and admirably sustained tone of humour.”—Notts Guardian.

“A rattling good story, full of life and go.”—Record.

SWIFT AND SURE: the Story of a Hydroplane

“A grand yarn about a hydroplane, in which Mr. Strang shows that he is a new Jules Verne.”—Hearth and Home.

“The excitement increases from chapter to chapter.”—Literary World.

JACK HARDY: a Story of the Smuggling Days

“A story about a gallant young middy.... The characters are drawn with originality and humour.”—Bookman.

“Herbert Strang is second to none in graphic power and veracity.”—Athenæum.

Price 2/6 each.

HENRY FROWDE AND HODDER & STOUGHTON

THE NEW AND THE OLD

THE CRUISE OF

THE GYRO-CAR

BY HERBERT STRANG

ILLUSTRATED BY A. C. MICHAEL

LONDON

HENRY FROWDE

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

1911

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS

LONDON AND TONBRIDGE

PREFACE

Albania, once a Roman highway to the East, has been for many centuries the wildest and most inhospitable of European countries. The mountains that had echoed to the tramp of Roman legions, and had witnessed the culmination of the struggle between Cæsar and Pompey, became some fifteen centuries later the scene of one of the most glorious struggles for liberty of which we have record. For nearly a quarter of a century Scanderbeg, the national hero of Albania, with a few thousands of his mountaineers, stemmed the advancing tide of Turkish conquest. When at length the gallant Prince and his people were borne down by sheer weight of numbers, and Albania became a Turkish province, this mountain land, which had been a principal bulwark of Christendom against Islam, served to buttress the unstable empire of her new masters. It has been the settled policy of the Turk to keep the Albanian in a condition of semi-independence and complete barbarism, as a kind of savage watchdog at the gate. From time to time the dog has turned upon his master, and in many a fierce struggle the mountaineer has shown that he has not lost the fine qualities of courage and love of liberty that inspired Scanderbeg and his followers.

To the few Europeans, including J. G. von Hahn, Edward Lear, H. A. Brown, and E. F. Knight, who at no little personal risk have made a study of this romantic land and people, I am indebted for many interesting particulars, and especially to Miss M. E. Durham for the stories of “The Man and the Ass,” and the “Dismembered Cow.” The opening up of the country under the new régime in Turkey may soon render the visit of a motor- or gyro-car not more perilous there than in other parts of Europe, at present of better repute. But it will be long before the Via Egnatia, once the eastward continuation of the Appian Way, becomes as good a highway for motor or other traffic as it was two thousand years ago.

My young friend, George Buckland, is at present the sole possessor of a gyro-car, and he looks forward somewhat ruefully to the day when his scamper across Europe will no longer have the charm of novelty.

HERBERT STRANG.

CONTENTS

PAGE

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES THE GYRO-CAR

11

CHAPTER II

UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS

26

CHAPTER III

THE YELLOW CAR

45

CHAPTER IV

RUNNING THE PLANK

63

CHAPTER V

ACROSS THE ALPS

76

CHAPTER VI

A NARROW MARGIN

91

CHAPTER VII

AN ACT OF WAR

103

CHAPTER VIII

A ROMAN ROAD

115

CHAPTER IX

THE HONOUR OF AN ALBANIAN

129

CHAPTER X

SOME RIDDLES AND A NURSERY RHYME

142

CHAPTER XI

IN THE SMALL HOURS

154

CHAPTER XII

THE SWAMP

164

CHAPTER XIII

A LANDSLIP IN THE HILLS

177

CHAPTER XIV

A RUSH THROUGH THE RAPIDS

188

CHAPTER XV

THE END OF THE CRUISE

207

CHAPTER XVI

RECONCILIATION AND REWARDS

231

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

THE NEW AND THE OLD (frontispiece):

see page

14

A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT

73

A TENSE MOMENT

156

THE RAPIDS OF THE BLACK DRIN

199

MAP OF THE ROUTE OF THE GYRO-CAR,

to face page

11

THE ROUTE OF THE GYRO-CAR

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES THE GYRO-CAR

Among the passengers who alighted from the train at the terminus of Shepperton, the little village near the Thames, one evening in early summer, was a young man differing noticeably, but in a way not easy to define, from all the rest. He was tall, but so were many; dark, but most men are dark; bronzed, but the young men who spent idle hours in sculling or punting on the river were as suntanned as he. Nor was it anything in his attire that marked him out from his fellow-men, unless, perhaps, that he was a trifle “smarter” than they. Yet many eyes had been attracted to him as he walked down the platform at Waterloo, and many followed him, at Shepperton station, as he stepped out of the compartment and doffed his soft hat to a young girl, who stood evidently awaiting him, and whose face lit up at his approach.

“Hullo, kid!” he said, in the young Briton’s casual manner of greeting. “Where’s George?”

“He’ll be here in a minute or two,” replied the girl. “I am glad to see you, Maurice.”

“Thanks. How’s Aunt?”

“The same as ever,” said the girl with a smile. “Have you brought your luggage?”

“Just a valise. The porter has it. Take it to that fly, will you?” he added, as the man came up.

“Oh! Wait a minute,” said his sister, laying a hand on his arm. “George will be here in a minute.”

“That means ten, unless George has reformed. Well, well, children must be humoured.”

Brother and sister stood side by side chatting. The porter set the valise down by the fence. We may take advantage of the delay to explain that Maurice Buckland was one of the secretaries of the British agency at Sofia, and had come home on short leave. It was nearly two years since he was last in England. Affairs in the Balkans had been in a very ticklish condition, the focus of interest to all the chancelleries of Europe. A grave crisis had just been settled peaceably after a long diplomatic game of Puss in the Corner, and Buckland was at last free to take his well-earned holiday.

He showed an impatience far from diplomatic as the minutes flew by, and his younger brother George did not appear.

“Really, Sheila——” he began after five minutes.

“Please, a little longer,” interrupted his sister. “George has a surprise for you.”

“Has he, indeed! The greatest surprise would have been to find him punctual. What is he cracking his wits on now?”

“I mustn’t tell you. I wish he would come.”

They stood at the gate. A hungry flyman touched his hat. The porter was distracted between keeping one eye on the valise, the other on an old lady who seemed determined to enter the train before it had shunted to the up-platform.

Five more minutes passed.

“His surprise can keep,” said Maurice. “Porter!”

The man shouldered the valise and carried it to the waiting fly. Buckland and his sister entered the vehicle, the driver shut the door, touched his hat, clambered to his seat, and drove off. He knew the address; for the past year The Acacias, on the Chertsey Road, had been occupied by the Hon. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene, a middle-aged widow who kept house for her orphan nephew and niece. The fly rattled along through the village.

About half a mile from the station, as every one knows, the road sweeps round in a sharp curve to the right. To the left, at right-angles with it, stands the Anchor Hotel, with the vicarage adjacent and the old ivy-clad church beyond. Just as the fly reached the curve, there was a warning hoot from the opposite direction, and Buckland, glancing past the driver, saw a motor-car of unusual shape rushing towards them at the speed of an express train. With great presence of mind, and a violent execration, the flyman whipped up his horse and pulled it sharply to the near side towards the little post-office. Quick as he was, he could not prevent an accident. The motor-car, indeed, did not cut the horse and vehicle in two, as had seemed imminent, but merely grazed the off hind-wheel. Its occupant let forth a shout; the flyman had much ado to prevent his horse from bolting; and the motor-car, swerving from the shock, and wrenched round by its driver, dashed across the road, into the brick wall that bounds the curve, and fell with a crash.

“Oh! He’s killed!” cried Sheila, rising to spring from the fly.

“Sit still,” said her brother sternly, holding her down. “Pull up, driver.”

“Easier said nor done,” growled the man, “with the hoss scared out of its wits.”

But in a few seconds he had the horse in hand, and pulled up a few yards down the road. Buckland then helped his sister out, and rushed to see what had become of his unfortunate brother. The landlord, ostler, and boots of the Anchor were already on the spot; the proprietor of the Old King’s Head opposite was running to join his rival; and as Buckland came up, the vicar hastened out of his gate in his shirt-sleeves.

The late occupant of the car, a young fellow of eighteen or thereabouts, turned from contemplating his battered machine to greet his brother.

“Hullo, old man!” he said. “Here’s a pretty mess!”

“H’m! No bones broken, then. Is this your surprise?” said the elder brother in his best ironical manner.

“More or less,” replied George with a rueful grin. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“It appears that by not doing so I narrowly escaped extinction.”

“She’s a beauty, really, you know—or was,” said George.

“I notice a beautiful hole in the wall. But come, we are being stared at by the whole population. What are you going to do with this beautiful machine of yours?”

“I shall have to put her into garage for to-night, and get her to my workshop for repairs to-morrow. The front wheel is buckled; it’s a wonder the whole thing isn’t smashed. If you had only waited, instead of taking a wretched old fly, we should have been safe home by this time.”

“Meanwhile the fly is waiting. I will leave you to make your arrangements, and may I beg you to be expeditious.”

Maurice Buckland affected at times a formal mode of speech that his brother, fresh from Winchester, found very galling.

Maurice returned to the fly with his sister, ignoring the crowd which had by this time gathered about the car. Having seen this wheeled by a score of helpers into the garage attached to the Old King’s Head, George rejoined the others, and the homeward journey was resumed.

“Just my luck!” said George. “I was going to drive you home in fine style. That’s my new gyro-car.”

“Indeed!”

“It goes like winking.”

“So I saw,” said Maurice dryly.

“Yes; my own idea, you know—that is, it’s an adaptation of Louis Brennan’s mono-rail car. You saw it has four wheels tandem; it’s like a motor bicycle. You’ve heard of the gyroscope, of course?”

“I am not aware that I have.”

“Goodness! Is Sofia such a dead-alive place as that? I’ll show you how it works to-morrow.”

“Spare me! I have seen how it plays the dickens with time-honoured means of locomotion.”

“But, you know, it’s a splendid——”

“So are you, dear boy, but if you’ll allow me to say so, it was quite time I came home. As your guardian, I must really exercise a little restraint upon your exuberance. Your allowance is clearly far too big, if you are squandering it in devising means for the slaughter of your innocent fellow creatures.”

George felt somewhat resentful of his brother’s superior attitude, and held his peace for a minute or two. But his enthusiasm soon got the better of him, and he began again.

“It’s perfectly stunning, Maurice, the way she goes: isn’t it, Sheila?”

“Yes; it really is, Maurice,” said the girl eagerly. “We have had some splendid rides.”

“Do I understand that you are so dead to all decency of feeling as to endanger your only sister’s life as well as your own?” said Maurice severely.

“There’s no risk at all,” replied George; “that is, no more than in an ordinary motor. It was simply a piece of rotten bad luck. The gyroscopes are all right, but there’s a terrific amount of side thrust in turning a corner, and they’ve watered the road recently, so that in making allowance for the possibility of skidding——”

“Pray don’t treat me to a lecture on mechanics. The accident, as I conceive it, was the fault of your making an ass of yourself.”

“Here we are,” said Sheila, before George could answer, as the fly drew up at the gate of a large house. “We’ve got a lovely lawn, Maurice; I hope you’ve brought your tennis racquet.”

“My dear child, we have left the dark ages behind,” replied her brother acidly, and the two others, as they followed him into the house, felt that Maurice was even more insufferable than when he first put on high collars.

This impression was deepened at the dinner-table. The Honourable Mrs. Courtenay-Greene was a dowager of severe and wintry aspect, who wore pince-nez and had the habit of “looking down her nose,” as George irreverently put it. During dinner she and Maurice exchanged notes about common acquaintances, ignoring George until a chance mention of the gyro-car drew upon him a battery of satire, reproof, and condemnation.

“I shudder for our reputation,” said the lady. “We are already, I am sure, the talk of the neighbourhood.”

“Judging by what I have seen,” said Maurice, “we shall be lucky if we are not more than the talk. It will be manslaughter, at the least.”

“And our name will be in the papers!” said Mrs. Courtenay-Greene. “I live in a constant state of nervous terror. A motor accident on the road is disgraceful enough, but George is actually talking of running his ridiculous machine on the river.”

“Well, Aunt,” began George, but the lady closed her eyes and waved her hands as though warding off something ineffably contaminating.

“I will not listen to your plausible impertinences,” she said. “Maurice, shall we go and hear Tetrazzini to-morrow?”

George looked daggers at his aunt, and stole away as soon as dinner was finished, to talk over his grievances with Sheila.

Next day, he went early into the village, and returned in an hour or two, sitting on a lorry next to the driver, the damaged car behind him. It was taken to his workshop at the foot of the garden. Maurice was walking on the lawn, smoking a cigarette. He did not so much as lift his eyes as the vehicle passed, and George turned his head aside: the brothers might have been strangers.

For several days George was hardly to be seen. He had ordered a new front wheel and fork from the maker, and until they arrived forbore to speak of the gyro-car, and occupied himself in repairing the wind-screen in front, and in working at various mechanical models with which he was experimenting. He was going up to Cambridge in October, and the science master at his school foretold that he would take a first-class in the engineering tripos, if he would only concentrate himself and not dabble in things outside the curriculum.

The new parts arrived. On the next day Maurice was strolling past the workshop, which he had never yet deigned to enter, when his attention was arrested by the sight of his brother’s car standing by itself on the path. A faint humming proceeded from its interior. George was not to be seen. In spite of himself, Maurice found himself gazing at the machine with interest, for, though it had four wheels tandem, and was not supported on either side, it stood perfectly upright. He glanced round furtively to make sure that his brother was not watching, and then walked round the car, stooping at every few paces to look beneath it and assure himself that he was not mistaken. There were no supports; the machine was actually balancing itself on its four wheels.

“Rummy!” he murmured. “How’s it done?”

He was peeping over the side of the car, when George’s voice hailed him heartily.

“Hallo, Maurice! Isn’t she a beauty?”

Instantly he moved away, and began to stroll down the path as if nothing could be less worthy of his attention.

“Swank!” said George to himself.

He turned the starting-handle, mounted into the car, depressed the clutch-pedal, and having advanced the speed-lever a little, ran up the path, out at the front gate, and disappeared.

Maurice flung his cigarette away, looking a trifle disconcerted. He went to his room opening on to the road, and remained at the window until he heard the hum of the car returning. Then he slipped into the garden, and was sauntering up and down, when George ran the machine down the path to its garage.

“I’ve had a jolly spin,” said George. “Nearly ran into a foreign fellow in the village: there appears to be a little colony of foreigners there: come to try boating, I suppose.”

He sprang out of the car, causing it to set up a slight rocking motion, and went into his workshop. Maurice stood at a distance of a few yards, contemplating what was to him an embodied mystery.

The machine was several feet longer than an ordinary motor-car, but about half as wide, and shaped like a boat. Indeed, its general appearance was that of a motor-cycle which had broken through the bottom of a rowing boat. Abaft amidships there was a seat for two persons, arranged pannier fashion, and sunk somewhat below the top of the framework on which it rested. A little to the rear of the seat was a glass chamber, in which were two top-like things, connected by a bar. It was, apparently, from these that the humming proceeded, but they were not visibly rotating, though they swayed slightly. In front was the casing, presumably covering the motor; behind was a similar object, but smaller.

George came out of the workshop.

“Hallo!” he said, as if recognising his brother for the first time. “Taking a squint?”

“What are those things?” asked Maurice, nodding towards the glass case.

“Those? Oh, they’re the gyroscopes.”

He got into the car, and let down, one on each side, two supports, each with a small wheel at the end. Then he moved a lever to stop the spinning of the gyroscopes, got out again, lifted the cover of the motor, and proceeded to oil the engine. For some time not a word was spoken. Then Maurice broke the silence.

“Er! H’m! What, may I ask, is a gyroscope?”

“A top.”

“H’m! Do you think you could manage to speak in words of more than one syllable?”

“Well, gyroscope has three.”

“Undoubtedly. I am still a little doubtful as to the accuracy of your definition, or perhaps I should say, of the perfectness of my apprehension. Will you condescend to be lucid?”

“Oh, you want to be treated to a lecture in mechanics, do you? Are you sure it won’t hurt you? Aren’t you afraid of your name getting into the papers?”

Maurice opened his cigarette-case and offered it to his brother.

“Thanks, old man,” said George, contritely. “Got a light?”

Maurice struck a match, replaced the box in his pocket with deliberation, and said:

“George, old boy, what is a gyroscope?”

“Well, old man, it’s a sort of top, as you see. They’re stopping: it takes some time when they’re going at 5,000 a minute. You can see ’m spinning now. They’re in a vacuum, to get rid of air resistance and skin friction, and so you get a high velocity with a minimum of power.”

“That is not beyond my intelligence. Proceed with your lecture, and, if I may make a suggestion, begin with the use of this—gyroscope, I think you said.”

“It’s to keep the machine steady—balance it, you know.”

“I saw that it remained upright when stationary. That is very remarkable.”

“But that’s not all. Having two, I can take the sharpest corners with the greatest ease. I set them spinning in opposite directions, and they are so linked that as one sways to one side, the other sways to the other, so that the car doesn’t topple in turning a corner.”

“The machine apparently goes like a bicycle, with this difference, that you can stop dead without tumbling?”

“Yes, but it’s better than a bicycle. A cyclist has to keep his machine upright: the gyroscopes do that, and you can give your whole attention to steering. The wheels being tandem, too, I can use ball-bearings. I’ve got a petrol motor that actuates a dynamo, and so avoid the necessity of altering the gear going up-hill, and the noise it makes.”

In his enthusiasm he had forgotten his brother’s former aloofness, and was now bent on instructing him. He proceeded with a piece of stick to draw a diagram on the gravel in illustration of the scientific details he gave.

Maurice listened and looked patiently, but at the end of five minutes’ technical explanation he yawned and said:

“Ah! Very interesting, but quite beyond me. In other respects the thing is an ordinary motor-car?”

“Yes, but as much faster as a bicycle is faster than a tricycle. I can go faster than a four-wheeled motor of double the horsepower.”

“A doubtful advantage. The temptation to exceed the speed limit must be rather distressing.”

“Besides, being so much narrower, it can go where a motor cannot.”

“That would certainly be an advantage in a tight place, but I presume they don’t allow you to run on the pavement? By the bye,” continued Maurice, “I see that your gyro-car, as you call it, has no doors, and you have to vault over the side in getting in and out. That strikes me as being somewhat of an inconvenience, and an unnecessary one, to boot.”

“Not a bit of it. The car is built so low that it doesn’t matter. Besides, it’s an amphibious animal, old man; any sort of opening in the sides would hardly tend to increase its sea-worthiness.”

“You don’t mean to say that the thing goes in the water too?” said Maurice, genuinely surprised.

“Aha! I thought I’d surprise you. I tell you what, Maurice, we’ll go for a spin this afternoon, and I’ll show you how it goes, both on land and water: that is, if you’re not afraid to trust your precious skin to me.”

“My dear boy, I have made my will. Let us wait and see the condition of my pulse after luncheon.”

CHAPTER II

UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS

The gyro-car ran that afternoon with such easy speed that Maurice Buckland was stirred out of his carefully cultivated indifference. Before it had gone a quarter of a mile he had ejaculated “By George!” three times in a crescendo of admiration, and gave a hearty assent to George’s assertion that “she” was a spanker. Nor was he perturbed when she narrowly shaved a foreign-looking man hanging about at the corner of the road that led to the Weybridge Ferry. After half an hour’s spin George suggested that they should try her on the water, but then Maurice relapsed into his former sceptical manner, and declared that he had had enough for one day.

On the way back they again passed the foreigner, who stood aside and watched the strange car as it flashed by.

“Did you notice the greedy look on that fellow’s face?” said George.

“I am not in the least interested in him,” replied Maurice coldly.

“I suppose not. You see foreign Johnnies every day. He looked as if he wished the car were his. Will you come on the river to-morrow?”

“No. I am going to Town.”

“You’ll let me drive you to the station?”

“By all means, if you’ll promise to go carefully round the corner.”

“Rather! Those old flies are dangerous, and ought to be abolished.”

Next afternoon George had the pleasure of driving his brother to the station. As they passed the Anchor they noticed a large motor-car with a yellow body standing at the door of the little hotel. Several foreigners were lounging on the garden seat in front of the coffee-room. They broke off their conversation as the gyro-car ran by, looking after it with curiosity. A minute after it arrived at the station the motor-car dashed up. Two men alighted from it, and went into the booking-office, where Maurice had just taken his ticket. George did not leave the gyro-car or wait to see the train off, but called a good-bye to Maurice over the fence, and promised to meet him on his return.

Maurice came back by the train arranged. The gyro-car was awaiting him. Behind it stood the yellow motor-car, and Maurice was followed out of the gate by the two foreigners who had travelled by the up train.

“One of those fellows is a Count something or other,” said George as they drove back. “A general too. The village is quite excited about him.”

“British snobbishness!” said Maurice. “They came down in my compartment: don’t know our ways, I suppose.”

“How do you mean?”

“There was another smoker two compartments off, quite empty, but they came in with me: don’t know we prefer to travel alone when we can.”

“British standoffishness!” said George with a smile. “Did they speak to you?”

“Yes. It was rather amusing. They spoke in French about all sorts of subjects, and by and by got on to ‘le cricket,’ as they called it—with the deliberate purpose of attracting my attention, I believe. They talked the most fearful tosh. By-and-by one of them turned to me. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, in excellent English, ‘but I see that Kent has beaten Yorkshire by three wickets. Will you have the goodness to explain precisely what that means?’”

“What did you say?” asked George.

“Oh! I explained to them that the wickets were three stumps stuck in the ground, and without waiting for any more, the man turned to his companion and said, ‘Eh bien! Je l’ai bien dit. Les vainqueurs rossent les vaincus avec les stomps.’”

“Construe, construe, old man: they didn’t speak French like that at school.”

“More’s the pity. What he said was: ‘I told you so. The winners whack the losers with the stumps.’”

“By gum!” said George with a laugh. “That stumped ’em. What happened next?”

“Oh! I buried myself behind my paper. I dislike extremely being disturbed in that way.”

“There are about half a dozen altogether,” said George. “The Count and another are at the Anchor: the rest, servants, I suppose, have overflowed into the Old King’s Head. Rather hard on the boating-men, isn’t it? Several couldn’t get rooms to-day.”

“Really, George, I hope you are not becoming a Paul Pry.”

“Of course not. Sheila went into the post-office to get some stamps, and had it all thrown at her by the girl there. Foreign counts are a rarity in Shepperton. What in the world brought them here? They don’t appear to go in for boating.”

“My dear fellow, does it matter?”

“Well no, but it’s funny, that’s all.”

Mrs. Courtenay-Greene agreed with her elder nephew that it was undesirable to pay any attention to the strangers, even though one of them was a count and a general.

“It is perfectly shocking,” she said, “the way we are being eaten up by aliens.”

To Maurice Buckland’s great annoyance, however, it proved impossible to avoid the foreigners. If he walked to the village, he was bound to meet some of them. Whenever he went to Town, it appeared that one or more of the party had business there too. Sometimes they returned by the same train, and then, no matter how many empty compartments there might be, his privacy was sure to be invaded. Once, when the train was full, the man whom he supposed to be the count entered the compartment at the last moment, and stood between Maurice and the passenger opposite, courteously apologising for the inconvenience he caused. Room was made for him when some of the passengers got out at Clapham Junction, and he seated himself next to Maurice, and remarked on the immensity of the station. His manner was so polite and conciliatory that it was impossible to snub him outright, but Maurice took refuge in a cold reserve that discouraged further advances.

One day George persuaded his brother to attempt a spin on the river. They ran the gyro-car down on to the ferryboat, and George having made the necessary adjustments, took the water and proceeded up stream in the direction of the lock. Only a minute or two afterwards the yellow motor-car came dashing down the road. Three of the foreigners dismounted from it, hired a boat, and followed in the wake of the gyro-car, which had by this time entered the lock. The gates were still open; the lock-keeper thought it hardly worth while to fill and empty for the sake of one toll. Consequently, as the gyro-car lay against the side, waiting, the Bucklands saw the foreigners’ boat coming in at the lower gates, and zigzagging in a manner that proved its occupants to be inexperienced watermen.

George smiled as he watched the men’s clumsy movements. The boat entered the lock, the gates were shut, and the lock-keeper ran along the side to let in water at the upper end. When the vessels lay opposite to each other, with only a narrow space between them, it was natural enough that a word or two should be exchanged between their occupants; and George, who was free from any taint of standoffishness, responded readily to the distinguished-looking stranger in the stern of the boat when he said:

“This is a very remarkable car of yours, sir. I have seen it once or twice, and always with great admiration.”

At the same time he made a courteous salute to Maurice, who acknowledged it freezingly.

“Yes, it is rather useful,” said George, flattered by the stranger’s attentions. A conversation ensued between them, in which George described his mechanism with some minuteness. The gyro-car was simply a hobby; he had no idea of making a secret of it; and the stranger’s interest was so genuine, and yet so devoid of inquisitiveness, that George was soon on friendly terms with him.

While they were talking, the upper sluices were opened, and the water poured with rush and whirl into the lock. The mechanism formed another topic of conversation, which lasted until the lock was filled, the keeper had collected the toll, and there was free access to the higher reach.

“I am very much interested,” said the stranger. “Permit me, sir.” He handed George a card. “I am staying with my secretary at the Anchor Hotel, and I shall be charmed if you will do me the honour to call on me there. And you also, I need not say, sir,” he added, bowing to Maurice.

“Thanks awfully,” said George.

“I am exceedingly obliged,” said Maurice.

Salutations were exchanged; the gyro-car ran smoothly out of the lock, and the boat followed slowly, watched with a quizzical eye by the keeper.

“General Count Slavianski,” read George from the card. “Russian, Maurice?”

“Or Polish. You will not call on the man?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Oh, well, do as you please, but don’t drag me with you. I am fed up with continentals.”

George called next day on Count Slavianski at the hotel, and was charmed with his new acquaintance, and also with Major Rostopchin, his secretary. He would have liked to return their hospitality, but Mrs. Courtenay-Greene refused to have anything to do with them, so that the budding friendship did not develop. One of the Count’s servants scraped acquaintance with the under-gardener at the Acacias, who told his fellow-servants that the foreigner was a decent chap, and a dab at billiards, as he had discovered at the Old King’s Head.

Three weeks went by. One Monday morning Maurice received a letter from the Foreign Office requesting him to call that afternoon on important business. He took the 2.10 train to Waterloo, carrying a black official bag in which he had a few unimportant papers that he intended to leave at the office. Just as the train was on the point of starting, two of the Count Slavianski’s servants rushed through the gate and sprang into the nearest third-class compartment. Maurice congratulated himself that they were not the Count himself and his secretary; he was a little tired of the too-frequent company of those gentlemen.

At Waterloo he entered a taxi-cab, which landed him within a few minutes at the door of the Foreign Office in Whitehall. He was somewhat surprised when he learnt that his interview was to be, not with one of the principal clerks, but with the Foreign Secretary himself, and still more surprised at the communication which that great man made to him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Buckland,” he said. “I am sorry to cut short your leave, but you must return to Sofia at once. I have a despatch of the highest importance for your chief, and you must start to-morrow. I wanted to see you myself, for this reason: it will be better for you to go by some route that does not pass through Austrian or German territory. That is unfortunate on the score of time, for the quickest way is undoubtedly by Vienna; but you will remember that during the last crisis a Montenegrin Minister was stopped and searched by the Austrians—a flagrant violation of the etiquette of civilised nations, but one that Montenegro was not strong enough to resent.”

“I understand, sir,” said Buckland.

“I need not enter into particulars with you,” pursued the Secretary. “It is enough to say that things are once more looking exceedingly black in the Balkans—so black that I do not care to trust to the telegraph. The despatch will be written to-night, and you will call for it to-morrow in time to catch the day train for Paris. Probably your best course will be to go straight to Brindisi, where I will arrange for a torpedo-boat to meet you and convey you to Constantinople. From Constantinople you will go by train to Sofia. The Paris train leaves Charing Cross at 2.20, as you know; you will find the despatch ready for you by 11.”

The Secretary was a man of few words. He had given his instructions, and had nothing more to say. Buckland withdrew, left his papers with one of the clerks, and, looking at his watch, saw that he had plenty of time to catch the 5 o’clock train from Waterloo.

When he left the Foreign Office, the news-boys were crying the evening papers, and on one of the bills Buckland read, in large block letters, the words BALKAN CRISIS. It was clear that the foreign correspondents had already got hold of something. He wished that the Secretary had been more communicative; it was tantalising to carry an important despatch of whose contents he knew nothing. No doubt it was an instruction as to the policy of the British Government. He bought two or three papers to see what the rumours were, then turned into the National Club to wait until it was time to return to Waterloo. Just as he entered the door he saw one of Count Slavianski’s men, who had come up by the same train from Shepperton, walking along from the direction of Trafalgar Square. The man gave him a salute and passed on.

The few men in the club smoking-room were talking about the news from the Balkans. Buckland, an infrequent visitor, was unknown to them, and they went on with their conversation, while he sat by the window reading his papers. He smiled as he caught an oracular remark occasionally, in a keen discussion as to what the British policy would be. As to that he knew no more than they, but his knowledge of the general situation enabled him to listen to their random shots with amusement.

What he knew was as follows.

Austria, having absorbed the Bosnian provinces some years before, and digested them with more or less satisfaction to herself, was now hungry for another meal. The raids of a number of Servian bands into the discontented portion of the annexed territories had given her a cause of complaint against Servia. The Serbs of Montenegro had been implicated in these raids, and it was common knowledge that Austria had long fixed a covetous eye on the little mountain principality which had lately become a kingdom. The papers now announced that three army corps were mobilising on the south-eastern frontier of the empire, threatening Belgrade and Cettinje. It was not announced, but all well-informed people knew, that behind Austria in these movements, as in the earlier annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, was the second member of the Triple Alliance—Germany.

The question that interested journalists, clubmen, and the Services was, what attitude would Britain take up in face of this menacing action? She had not shown up very well when Bosnia and Herzegovina were absorbed; would she do anything now to protect the tiny kingdom of Montenegro against her powerful neighbour? Buckland suspected that these questions would be answered in the despatch which he was to receive for conveyance to his chief. He hoped and believed that the answers would satisfy all who cherished the prestige of Britain. The British Cabinet would probably make a firm stand. Russia was now much more able to stiffen her back than she had been during the previous crisis, when she was only beginning to recover from the strain of the war with Japan. Turkey, too, was in a better position to resist the southward movement by which Austria was creeping to her ultimate goal—Constantinople. An improved government, and a general overhauling of the army and navy, had made her a power to be reckoned with. The third member of the Triple Alliance—Italy—certainly had no interest in seeing an Austro-German Empire extend from the Balkans to the Bosphorus, perhaps, indeed, to the Euphrates. Britain might therefore expect support from the Powers which had formerly been helpless.

One unfortunate element in the situation was the probability that Austria would have assistance from the mountaineers of Albania. These had always looked with suspicion on the reforms in Turkey, and their distrust had of late been carefully fomented by Austrian agents.

This being the general situation, the attitude of Bulgaria was of the highest importance in the calculations of each of the Powers concerned. It was rumoured that Austria was tempting Bulgaria with promises of large territorial gains when the projected dismemberment of Turkey became an accomplished fact. Bulgaria had an excellently appointed army; her support would be of great value to Montenegro; and the diplomacy of the interested Powers was therefore keenly engaged in the attempt to sway the counsels of the Government at Sofia. Buckland’s despatch would without doubt convey the advice of the British Cabinet, through their representative.

Such were the facts, and such the speculations, discussed in the papers on that July afternoon. Buckland had a cup of tea in the club, and at 4.40 hailed a taxicab to drive him to Waterloo. The 5 o’clock train was not crowded. Many of its usual passengers were holiday-making; it was too early for the rush of men returning from business. Buckland settled himself in the near corner of an empty first-class compartment, placing his official bag on the seat next to him. A few moments before 5, Count Slavianski and his secretary strolled down the platform, smoking very fat cigars, and entered the compartment in which Buckland was seated.

“A beautiful day, is it not?” said the Count genially, as he stepped past Buckland.

“Rather hot in town,” replied Buckland, burying his face in his newspaper. Really, these intrusive Russians were very annoying.

The two foreigners occupied the far corners of the compartment, and chatted to each other on subjects in which Buckland took no interest. The train crawled down the line; it takes forty-seven minutes to perform its short journey of nineteen miles; and Buckland felt rather sleepy. At Sunbury, just as the guard’s whistle sounded, the two foreigners suddenly jumped up, the Count saying to his secretary in French,“We must get out here.” There was a moment of hurry-scurry; the train was already in motion when the two men sprang on to the platform. The Count waved his hand to Buckland, with a hurried “Bon soir, monsieur!” and Buckland wondered for a brief moment why they had alighted a station short of Shepperton. But he was so little interested in them that before he reached his own station he had forgotten them.

When the train drew up, he rose and took up the black bag from the seat. An unaccustomed something in the feel of the handle caused him to look at it. It was exactly similar to his own bag, but it was not his.

“I suppose I took up the wrong bag at the Foreign Office,” he said to himself; “though I didn’t notice anything in the feel of it before.”

The bag was not locked, and he opened it There was nothing in it but a morning newspaper.

The household at the Acacias was variously sorry when Buckland announced his immediate departure. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene was regretful at losing the company of a man of the world; Sheila was fond of her brother when he allowed his natural self to appear; and George had found him a very pleasant companion since he had become interested in the gyro-car.

“How rotten!” said the boy on hearing the news. “Why can’t they let you enjoy your holiday in peace?”

“My dear George,” replied Maurice, “our little private concerns are as dust swept by a broom when world-forces are at work. You’ll learn that some day.”

George merely snorted.

Before dinner Maurice made all his preparations for leaving by the 10 o’clock train in the morning. After coffee and a game of billiards he scribbled a note to an old college friend with whom he had arranged to spend a few days in the following week, and went out with George to post it at the little post-office opposite the Anchor Hotel. When they reached their gate they saw a man walking slowly up the road, and at the second glance recognised him by the light of a gas-lamp as one of the servants of Count Slavianski. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, but immediately faced about and went on more quickly towards the village.

Maurice Buckland was not by nature a suspicious man, but the sight of the foreigner brought to his recollection the incidents of the day and of the past fortnight, and for the first time he wondered whether he was being dogged. The arrival of the foreigners in the village a few days after his own; their apparent want of occupation; their frequent visits to town, going and returning by the same trains as himself; their persistent endeavours to improve their acquaintance with him: all these incidents, which appeared to have no special significance when they happened, seemed now, in the light of the European situation, to gain importance. He recalled the strange matter of the bag, and, thinking backward, fancied he remembered that the Count’s secretary had a black bag when he entered the carriage at Waterloo. If in the hurry of their departure at Sunbury they had taken his bag by mistake, surely it would have been returned by this time; his name was in it. Short though his experience in the diplomatic world had been, he was alive to the dangers of espionage; was it possible that Count Slavianski and his subordinates were agents of one of the Powers?

“A penny for your thoughts,” said George suddenly.

Maurice slackened his pace.

“What would you say to your friend the Count being a spy?” he replied in a low tone.

“I say, do you mean it?” said George. “What a lark! Who is he spying on?”

“Speak low, and I’ll tell you what I suspect.”

He told George some of the essential facts of the situation, winding up with the incident of the bag.

“It’s rummy, certainly,” said George, considerably excited. “But do you think it’s likely? Why should half a dozen foreigners spy on you? What reason have they to suppose that you would have any information of importance to them?”

“Only this; that I am the only member of our agency at present in London. These foreigners do things very thoroughly; it is not at all unlikely that they would keep me under observation. The Count did not travel up with me to-day, but two of his men did. I wonder whether you could find out discreetly, in the village, when the Count went up?”

“Oh! I can tell you that. I went down to the village this afternoon to arrange for some petrol to be sent up. I was standing near the door of the King’s Head, when I saw a telegraph boy go into the Anchor with a telegram, and a minute afterwards the Count and his secretary came out, got into the motor, and rushed off full pelt to the station, just in time for the 4 o’clock.”

“Sharp work!” said Maurice. “Those fellows must have handed in a telegram directly we got to Waterloo. No doubt they heard me tell the taxi-driver to drive to the Foreign Office, and the Count hurried up to see what he could get. He couldn’t have reached Waterloo more than five minutes before the down train started. He must have arranged for the car to meet him at Sunbury, so that there would be no inquiries about the exchange of bags here. My bag was empty; it’s lucky the Secretary hadn’t his despatch ready.”

By this time they had reached the post-office. Maurice slipped his letter into the aperture, and threw a look round. The man who had preceded them along the road had disappeared. There were lights in the Anchor, but no one was in sight.

“I say, Maurice,” said George as they returned, “would a nobleman descend to such dirty work as spying?”

“If he’s a spy, he’s no more a count than I am,” Maurice replied. “He’s probably some clever rascal with a turn for languages; certainly his appearance and manner would pass muster anywhere. Of course I may be utterly mistaken; but seeing this is an important business, it will be just as well to take a few precautions to cover my departure to-morrow. We’ll suppose they are actually spying on me. Well, if I leave the house with baggage they’ll know I’m off on a journey, and will dog me. I’ll go up by the 10 o’clock without my valise, and one or more of those fellows will come too, you may be sure. They won’t watch you in my absence; you can bring up my valise by your gyro-car, and meet me in the lounge of the Grand Hotel at Charing Cross after I’ve left the Foreign Office. You can leave the car in the garage. Don’t go through the village, and they won’t be any the wiser.”

“I say, this is jolly. It will be no end of a lark to do them. But look here, old boy, if they are spies, they must keep watch night and day.”

“I daresay they do. We’ll find that out.”

About midnight the brothers, wearing overcoats and slippers, left the house by the backdoor, stole along the shrubbery that bounded it on one side, and so came to the hedge dividing the garden from the road. George crawled through the hedge at the bottom where the foliage was thinnest, and peered up the road towards the village. Nobody was in sight. But as they went up to their bedrooms they glanced out of a window on the staircase, overlooking the field on the other side of the road. A full moon threw its light from behind the house. Just beyond the hedge of the field opposite they caught sight of a man smoking a cigar.

“There’s our proof,” said Maurice quietly.

“By gum! we’ll dish them,” cried his brother.

CHAPTER III

THE YELLOW CAR

Next morning Maurice left the house at half-past nine, and walked through the village to the station, carrying his black bag. Seeing Count Slavianski and his secretary on the bench in front of the hotel, he saluted them with a shade less coolness than usual, fully expecting to hear the motor-car behind him before he was half-way to the station. To his surprise, however, none of the foreigners arrived in time for the train, and he supposed that he was to be allowed for once to make the journey to London unshadowed. This idea was dispelled as soon as he reached Sunbury. When the train drew up, he saw the Count and his secretary on the platform. They entered a compartment some little distance away.

At Waterloo he stood at the bookstall for a few moments, looking out for the Russians with sidelong glances. He saw nothing of them. Hailing a taxi-cab, he was driven to the Foreign Office, which he reached at a quarter-past eleven. On entering, he was taken this time to the Under-Secretary’s room.

“Good morning, Mr. Buckland,” said the official; “I am sorry to say that the despatch is not yet ready. News came early this morning which caused the Secretary to modify his instructions to your chief. He has drafted a new despatch, which is in course of being translated into cipher. I am afraid it will not be ready for a couple of hours yet.”

“That will give me time to make a few purchases,” said Buckland. “I shall be able to catch the two-twenty?”

“I hope so. It will be a pity to lose half a day.”

“I will leave my bag with you, then, and return in good time. By the way, you don’t happen to have heard of a gang of Austrian spies in London?”

“Not a word. Why do you ask?”

“A number of foreigners have been living at Shepperton for a week or two, and I’ve an idea they may be shadowing me. The chief of them passes as a Count Slavianski.”

“I never heard of him. Wait a minute.”

He touched a bell, and a clerk appeared.

“Ask Mr. Rowlands if he knows anything of a Count Slavianski, now lodging at Shepperton.”

The clerk soon returned.

“Mr. Rowlands heard of the Count this morning, sir,” he said, “and has sent Williams down to inquire.”

“Thank you.” The clerk disappeared. “We shall know more presently. Perhaps you had better have a detective or two with you, as far as Dover at any rate.”

“I think not. They would only draw attention to me and show the importance of my journey. These fellows, if they are spies, no doubt have agents abroad, and would put them on the qui vive. I had better go quietly, and try to find some means of throwing them off the scent.”

“Just as you please,” said the Under-Secretary, with a smile.

Buckland went up Whitehall into the Strand, made his purchases, and started back again to the National Club. There was no sign of the foreigners. He took an early lunch, and returned to the Foreign Office at half-past one. The despatch still not being ready, he sat down to wait. While so doing an idea struck him. He got some Foreign Office paper, and amused himself by writing an imaginary despatch in the usual cipher, jotting down the first words that came into his head. This he sealed up in a long envelope like those that were ordinarily used, but took the precaution to make a small mark on it, by which he would be able to distinguish it from the real despatch.

The minutes flew by. Two o’clock came. Holding his watch in his hand, he began to doubt his chance of catching the Paris train. At a quarter past he gave it up. It was half-past before he was summoned to the Secretary’s room.

“You have lost the train,” said the Minister. “It was unavoidable, and is perhaps not altogether unfortunate. The police have just reported a number of suspicious characters hanging about the termini.”

“I fancy I have been shadowed this morning, sir,” said Buckland. “A Count Slavianski has been living at Shepperton for some weeks, with a suite. A detective has been sent down to make inquiries.”

“Indeed! Then it will certainly be inadvisable to charter a special train and hold up the boat at Dover. We must do nothing to attract attention. I leave the route entirely to your discretion. A torpedo-boat will be at Brindisi on Friday, but should circumstances render it necessary for you to choose some other route, you are perfectly at liberty to do so. One thing is essential: that you should lose no time.”

“Might I have an Admiralty launch to put me across the Channel?” asked Buckland.

“Certainly. What is your idea?”

“To dodge these fellows, if I can, and join the slow train to Dover at some little station down the line. Then I could slip out at Dover Town station, and cut off to the launch.”

“That sounds promising. I will telephone to the Admiralty at once.”

The arrangement was quickly made. Buckland shook hands with the Secretary, locked the despatch in his bag, and left the building.

Glancing down Whitehall, he saw one of Count Slavianski’s underlings forty or fifty yards away on the opposite side of the street. He began to walk in the other direction towards Trafalgar Square, and was not much astonished to see another of the foreigners hanging about, in an apparently aimless manner, nearly the same distance away. As he went slowly towards the Grand Hotel, this man moved on also. Buckland crossed the road, and halted to look in at a bookseller’s window. A glance to the left showed him that the other man had followed him at about the same pace. There was no longer the least room for doubt. He was being dogged.

He went on, and glanced down Northumberland Avenue, on arriving at the corner. At the entrance of the Victoria Hotel stood a large racing motor-car, with a yellow body. It was empty, and neither Count Slavianski nor any of his party was to be seen. But Buckland felt certain that it was the Count’s car. “A very keen lot,” he thought. Keeping a careful guard over himself so that he should not betray any sign of consciousness that he was surrounded by watchers, he walked into the hall of the Grand Hotel.

“I thought you were never coming,” said George, springing up to meet him. “I’ve been here hours. You have lost the train.”

“Yes. Speak low, and don’t look towards the door. I’ll tell you all about it.”

They seated themselves on chairs, placing them where there was no danger of being overheard. Buckland lit a cigarette.

“I had to wait while a new despatch was ciphered,” he said. “There’s no doubt that I’m being shadowed, George. The Count and his secretary got in at Sunbury; their car’s outside; and I’ve just seen two of their men in Whitehall.”

“By gum! the two others are somewhere about. I drove across country to Richmond, but I believe I saw the yellow car behind me as I came through Putney. It was a good way behind, and I couldn’t be sure of it. I had enough to do to steer clear of the traffic from Putney on; but, you may depend on it, they had their eye on me, and they know I’ve got your baggage.”

“Well, it’s pretty clear that they mean business. They’re bent on intercepting my despatch. We know there are six of them; how many more we can’t tell; but it looks as if they’ve made their plans on a pretty large scale.”

“It must cost a heap of money,” said George.

“That’s a small matter compared with the value of the information they hope to get. For every hundred they spend in obtaining news they may save a million. They mean by hook or crook to find out what England’s next move is to be, and when they take a matter of that sort in hand they don’t do things by halves. I’m certain they have made very complete arrangements to shadow and run down any one passing between the Foreign Office and our agency at Sofia.”

“By Jove!” was all that George could utter for a moment. His notion of it’s being what he had called a “lark” had quite vanished. “What will you do, old man?” he asked at length.

“I think I had better slip out by the back entrance in Craven Street, and make a dash in a taxi for Herne Hill. You stay here till I ’phone you from the station; then send the porter with my valise to Charing Cross and tell him to book it through to Paris by the 9 o’clock. I’ll wait at Herne Hill for the next Dover train.”

“That sounds all right. But did they see you come in?”

“You may be sure they did.”

“Well, they’ll watch for you to come out again.”

“They may not know of the back entrance. I’ll go and see.”

He rose and left the hall. In less than five minutes he was back again.

“One of the fellows is standing at the corner of Craven Street and the Strand,” he said quietly. “There’s another, whom I don’t recognise, strolling a little way down the street, and near him there’s a taxi with its flag down.”

“Just what you might have expected. You can’t get away without being seen, that’s clear.”

“Well, I must simply go openly, and take my chance. Where’s the gyro-car, by the way?”

“In the garage.”

“Then this is what we’ll do. I’ll engage a taxi, and tell the chauffeur to drive northward, and zigzag for a quarter of an hour or so through the streets between here and Oxford Street. If he’s up to his work, it will be impossible for the Count’s motor to keep the taxi in sight. When we’re clear, we’ll drive straight to Herne Hill. You must get away as soon as you can without attracting attention; then run out and make for Herne Hill too. You’ll get along faster than any ordinary motor, because you can squeeze through the traffic. I hope that I shall draw them all off, so that they won’t trouble about you; but if they see you, you must come on as fast as you can, with due regard to the speed limit. Pick me up at Herne Hill, and run me down to Dover; an Admiralty launch will be waiting for me there. Have you plenty of petrol?”

“Enough to drive from here to Edinburgh. This is going to be great sport after all.”

Maurice beckoned the hall porter and asked him to call a taxi. In half a minute it was at the door. Maurice walked out slowly, threw the end of his cigarette away, and, as he stepped in, told the chauffeur to drive to 73, Cavendish Square, the first number and address that came into his head.

“Beg pardon, sir, there is no number 73,” said the driver.

“Oh no! Thirty-seven. Drive slowly.”

At a glance towards the Victoria Hotel, Buckland saw that the yellow car was no longer there, but he caught sight of it in a moment drawn up on the south side of Trafalgar Square, opposite the offices of the Hamburg-American Line. Looking over the lowered tilt of the taxi-cab he failed to see the car in pursuit, but on reaching the Haymarket he noticed another taxi-cab about forty yards behind, and behind that, rapidly overhauling it, a small private motor-car. He was not sure that these were on his track, and determined to put it to the test.

“Driver,” he said through the speaking tube, “I think that taxi behind is following me, and I want to shake it off. Take all the side streets you come to; never mind about Cavendish Square; a sovereign if you do it.”

The cabman winked. He ran up the Haymarket, was checked by a policeman at Coventry Street; then, when the traffic was parted, cut across into Windmill Street, swept round into Brewer Street, turned the corner into Golden Square at a speed that caused an old gentleman to shake his stick and call for the police, and so by Beak Street into Regent Street and presently into Savile Row. Long before this the taxi-cab which had followed was lost in the traffic.

“Well done,” said Buckland. “Now turn back and hurry to Blackfriars Bridge, and then to Herne Hill. Choose the quietest streets.”

He sat well back in the cab, congratulating himself on the success of his stratagem. The driver made his way by a roundabout course to the Strand, down Arundel Street to the Temple, and along the Embankment. At the entrance to De Keyser’s Hotel Buckland noticed a man standing with his hands in his pockets beside a stationary taxi-cab. No sooner had Buckland passed than the man darted towards the cab, and said a few words to a person inside. The vehicle instantly started in pursuit across the bridge, the man who had given the alarm dashing into the hotel.

“Well I’m hanged!” said Buckland to himself; he had watched these movements intently. The pursuers had evidently guessed that he might make for one of the southern stations, and had set a watch probably at all the bridges. He had no doubt that the man who had run into the hotel was now telephoning to his friends, and the taxi-cab following close behind would keep him in view. The number of his own cab had almost certainly been noted as soon as he entered it.

The affair promised to become even more serious than he had expected. Considering the best course to follow, he decided that there was nothing better than to make all speed to Herne Hill, and then get George to drive him straight to Dover. The Admiralty launch would be there awaiting him. He could cross the Channel at once, while the pursuers would have to wait for a boat.

The chances of the traffic, and the eagerness of the cabman, enabled him to outstrip the pursuing cab as soon as he had passed the Elephant and Castle, and it was not in sight when he reached Herne Hill. There the gyro-car was awaiting him. It was surrounded by an admiring crowd, and Buckland wished that he could have chosen a less conspicuous vehicle. Having paid and tipped his driver he sprang into the car.

“Straight for Dover, George!” he cried.

“Right. I have kept the gyroscopes working, in case anything happened. Are they on your track?”

“Yes. There’s a taxi after me: there it is, not a hundred yards away.”

“Well, they can’t interfere with you openly. There’s no hurry. They’ll be sold when they find that you are not going into the station. Couldn’t we have them arrested?”

“There’s no time. I should be wanted as a witness. Besides, there’s no policeman. Now for Dover: you know the road?”

“Yes. We’ll give them a run, at any rate.”

The taxi-cab had by this time pulled up, but no one had as yet alighted from it. George started the gyro-car, and the crowd gave a cheer as it ran forward at ten miles an hour. The occupant of the pursuing cab had now stepped out, and stood on the pavement watching the departing car with ill-concealed chagrin. He was a foreigner, but not one of those whom the Bucklands had previously seen in the suite of Count Slavianski.

“He sees he is no match for us,” said George gleefully. “I think we are safe now.”

The suburbs were soon left behind, and as soon as the gyro-car came into the main Dover Road, away from the bewildering traffic of London, he increased the speed to twenty miles an hour.

“Remember the limit,” said Maurice warningly. “We don’t want to be held up.”

“We’ll chance it,” replied George. “In any case, they’ll only take our name and address, and the Government won’t mind paying the fine, I fancy.”

The gyro-car ran with much less noise than a motor-cycle, and being also much less cumbersome than an ordinary motor-car, it was able to travel at a high speed without attracting too much attention. Its unusual shape did indeed arouse a certain curiosity and excitement among pedestrians and carmen, but they were more interested in the vehicle itself than in any calculation of its speed. There might, of course, be police traps on the road, but it was probable that before the police became aware of the approach of a car at excessive speed, it would have shot past them.

When they had passed through Gravesend, George ventured to increase the speed to thirty-five miles.

“I can get eighty or more out of it, if you like,” he said, and in truth he was itching to put it to its maximum speed, in defiance of all regulations.

“I am quite satisfied as it is,” said Maurice with a smile. “We are going faster than the ordinary train, and there’s no pursuit.”

Here and there the speed had to be reduced in order to avoid the traffic, but the narrowness of the vehicle enabled it to pass with much less delay than a motor-car.

“We’re nearly halfway,” said George, as he slowed down on approaching Sittingbourne. “I say, old man, why shouldn’t I take you all the way to Brindisi?”

“My dear fellow——”

“Oh, I mean it. I can send a wire to Aunt, and get some pyjamas and a toothbrush in Paris. It would be the jolliest thing out.”

This suggestion, which Maurice was at first inclined to scout, started a train of thought. There was very little doubt that Count Slavianski would take the first train to Dover, in the expectation of crossing the Channel by the ordinary boat with Buckland. Having made such elaborate arrangements, he would not stick at trifles to gain his end. On the 9 o’clock train from Charing Cross there would probably be the Count himself and several of his men. They would cling to his track as he journeyed across France, and not until he joined the torpedo-boat at Brindisi could he feel safe.

Moreover, when he remembered the outrages that had been committed with impunity on the continental trains, he could not doubt that he would meet with his greatest dangers on the other side of the Channel. Three or four desperate men could certainly find or make an opportunity of attacking him during the long and tedious journey to Brindisi, especially on the Italian portion of it, when the train, as he well knew, crawled along for twenty-two hours at an average speed of twenty miles. He had his revolver, but that would avail him little if the attack were of the nature of a surprise, as it assuredly would be. If the train journey could by any means be avoided, he would have a much better chance of eluding the trackers, keeping a whole skin, and ensuring the safety of his despatch.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t try it,” he said after a minute’s consideration.

“Good man!” cried George, delighted.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” proceeded Maurice. “Your licence doesn’t run in France.”

“Of course it doesn’t; but don’t you remember I spent the Easter holiday in Normandy on a motor-bicycle? I wrote you, didn’t I? I’ve got my licence for that in my pocket-book, and we’ll make that do.”

“I foresee the necessity for a little diplomacy,” said Maurice, laughing. “But you haven’t any licence at all for Italy.”

“That’s true, but the Italians will do anything for a tip, won’t they? I hope you’ve got plenty of money with you: there’ll be import and octroi duties to pay.”

“I think I can manage them. As for the licence, we shall see.”

“Yes, and I shall say you are not fit for your job if you can’t manage a trifle like that. It will be great fun. With luck we should get to Brindisi as soon as the train: and if you’re game to do without sleep, or take turns with me at snatching a nap, we’ll beat the train.”

“The roads in south Italy are pretty bad, you know.”

“So are the railways, I’ll go bail. Besides, we don’t want such a good road as the ordinary motor. I’m sure we can do it.”

“Very well; I’m game, as you put it. There’s this advantage, that if we come to grief——”

“My dear chap, we shan’t come to grief; that is, unless we are smashed up by some scorching motorist.”

“I wasn’t thinking of a smash-up. We may find ourselves held up for want of a licence, you know, and have no end of trouble. What I was going to say was that we can join the train anywhere en route. If they find we don’t leave Paris by it, they’ll not travel by it themselves. We’ve several hours’ start of them, allowing for the Admiralty launch, and if we go straight ahead we shall be a good many miles on our way before the train starts, even; the Turin train doesn’t leave Paris until 2.10 to-morrow afternoon. We shall have time for a rest in Paris, and even then start several hours ahead.”

“Ripping, old man. This will be better sport than going to Scotland with Aunt Muriel. Here’s Harbledown; we shall be in Dover in another three-quarters of an hour.”

It was a quarter to four when they left Herne Hill. At twenty minutes past six they arrived at Dover. They ran straight down to the Admiralty harbour, where the launch, with steam up, was awaiting them. It was a temporarily awkward matter, getting the gyro-car on to the launch, for no preparations had been made for that. But British tars are handy fellows. At a word from the lieutenant ten men, five on each side, lifted the vehicle bodily and carried it on to the deck. Maurice gave a hurried explanation to the officer, and scribbled a telegram to Mrs. Courtenay-Greene to say that George would not be home for a few days. He handed this to one of the harbour men, the vessel cast off, and the two brothers mounted to the bridge at the lieutenant’s invitation.

Just as the launch was getting under way, George suddenly called Maurice’s attention to a large motor-car dashing down the hill above at a somewhat dangerous speed. It was coloured yellow.

“Hanged if old Slavianski isn’t on our tracks already!” he cried. “By Jove! I wonder how many policemen he has knocked over!”

The car ran straight on to the quay and pulled up.

“Can you lend me a telescope?” asked Maurice of the officer.

In a few moments a seaman brought a glass from below. Looking through it, Maurice saw Count Slavianski, his secretary, and two other men standing beside the car, and speaking to a policeman, whose right arm was outstretched towards the launch.

“It’s rather a joke to think of these foreigners applying to a British bobby for information about us,” said Maurice, handing the glass to his brother.

Next moment the men sprang into the car again, and drove quickly in the direction of the inner harbour.

“I hope we’ve seen the last of them,” said George.

“You may be sure we haven’t,” replied Maurice, who more fully realised the seriousness of this headlong pursuit. “We must make the most of our start. The Calais boat lands passengers in time for the train that reaches Paris at 5.50 in the morning. We shan’t have more than a couple of hours at the most.”

“What’s in the wind?” asked the lieutenant, whose curiosity had been aroused by the appearance of the odd-looking gyro-car and the evident interest of his passengers in the proceedings on shore. And Maurice Buckland told him as much as he thought proper of the story.

CHAPTER IV

RUNNING THE PLANK

The Admiralty launch made the Harbour of Calais about a quarter-past eight. There was a train for Paris waiting at the Gare Maritime, but learning that it did not arrive until 4.15, the Bucklands decided to stick to their plan of riding through the night. The production of George’s card of membership of the Automobile Club, and a short and pleasant interview between the naval lieutenant and the Custom House officer, sufficed to frank the gyro-car without the payment of import duty. Having enjoyed a meal on board the launch, the brothers were ready to start at once, and with cordial good-wishes from the officer, and amid many “Hé’s” and “Ah’s” and other exclamations from the onlookers, they set off on their journey.

The distance from Calais to Paris is a hundred and eighty odd miles. George had cycled over the route in the previous spring, and knew its general features. It would be easy, he thought, to maintain an average speed of at least twenty-five miles on a highway kept in such admirable repair as are all the French main roads, even allowing for slowing down when passing through villages and towns. The sky was clear, and illuminated by a half-moon, and the powerful acetylene lamp which he carried at the front of the car shed its rays many yards ahead. The interior of the car was lit by two small electric lamps, one on each side.

“There’s no chance of their catching us, is there?” said George, as the car spun merrily along.

“I think not,” replied Maurice. “They will have to wait for the train, which doesn’t get to Paris until 5:50. We ought to be there before four, so that at the worst we shall have an hour and a half before they can arrive.”

Before they had been two hours on the road, they were glad to think that they had so much margin. George was not accustomed to steering the car at a rapid pace by night, and Maurice’s experience was even less than his brother’s, so that they found it by no means easy to maintain the speed that George had mentioned. Until they reached Béthune they had a clear run, but thenceforward they had to slow down more often than they wished. There were octroi barriers, where they were halted and examined, much to George’s disgust. He found also that the places through which they passed had quite a different aspect at night from what he remembered of them by day, and more than once he had to stop to allow Maurice to ask the way of a gendarme or an innkeeper. At such times the curiosity excited by the unusual appearance of the car found expression in questions which had to be evaded rather than answered.

It was growing light by the time they reached the Porte Maillot. Here they had to submit to an interrogatory by the officer of the gate, and George smiled discreetly as he witnessed for the first time his brother’s diplomatic manner.

“I never knew you could be so polite,” he said, as they ran down the Avenue de la Grande Armée. “Perhaps it sounds politer in French than it really is. But it’s rotten to have to pay a tax on the petrol we carry.”

A few yards from the gate they saw a taxi-cab standing at the side of the road. The driver was in his seat, and two men were entering the cab as the gyro-car sped by.

“Early birds—or late,” said Maurice.

The street cleaners paused in the work to wonder and admire, and when the car came to the Place de l’Etoile Maurice turned about to glance back at an old fellow whose comical expression of face amused him. He noticed the taxi-cab coming at a good pace behind them; but the road was so broad, and so clear of traffic, that George drove the gyro-car through the Champs Elysées at a much higher speed than he would have dared in Hyde Park, and moment by moment it increased. He turned left into the Rue Royale, then to right into the Rue St. Honoré, and ran the car into the garage of the Hotel St. James where he and Maurice had both stayed during previous visits to the city. Having arranged for the replenishment of the petrol tanks and the cleaning of the car, they went into the hotel to get a wash and brush up, which they much needed after their long journey over dusty roads. It was half-past four.

Few of the hotel staff had as yet risen, and the travellers might perhaps have been received with less consideration had not their former visits, and their generous tips, been remembered. But a few minutes after they descended to the salle à manger an appetizing little breakfast was put before them.

“What a difference from England!” said George. “I say, Maurice, I’ll just run into the garage to see that things are going all right. The fellow looked rather sleepy. Pour out my coffee, will you? I shan’t be a minute.”

While he was in the garage, he heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs and the hum of a motor-car in the street; the sounds struck his ear all the more forcibly because of the peacefulness of the neighbourhood. In mere unreflecting curiosity, he stepped to the door and glanced out. Next moment he started back, pushed the door outwards until he felt that he could not be seen, and peeped out through the narrow opening just as the motor-car passed. There were three vehicles. The first was a large racing motor, not unlike that with which he had become so familiar at home, but its colour was a bright green. In it were seated—and the sight sent a strange thrill through him—Count Slavianski and Major Rostopchin, his secretary. Behind it came a taxi-cab, and a few yards in the rear of this a fiacre, the driver of which was gee-hoing and whipping up his horse to its best pace, with the evident intention of keeping up with the motors in front. Within this two men were seated. One of them George recognised as a servant of the Count’s; the other’s head was at the moment turned away.

George was thunderstruck. By what means had these persistent foreigners arrived in advance of the mail?

“Tell me,” he said in his best French to the man who was rubbing the car down, “is there a train from London at this hour?”

“Ah non, monsieur,” replied the man, “but there is a train from Calais. It arrives at the Gare du Nord at 4:15, an hour and a half before the London mail.”

“A slow train?”

“Certainly, monsieur, a very slow train.”

“It must be the train we saw at Calais,” said George to himself. “Those fellows must have caught it: but how on earth did they cross the Channel so soon?”

He had the presence of mind to show no sign of his consternation and anxiety, but strolled out of the garage and then dashed into the salle à manger.

“I say, Maurice”—he began, but then remembering that the garçon had a thorough command of English, he checked his impetuous tongue, and sat down beside his brother, who had already started upon his breakfast.

“Send him to fetch something,” he said in a low tone.

“Bring me an omelette aux fines herbes,” said Maurice to the waiter.

“Certainly, sir, in five minutes.”

“What is it?” asked Maurice, when the man had gone.

“Those fellows are on our track,” said George breathlessly. “The whole gang by the look of it. I have just seen a large green motor, a taxi, and a fiacre go down the street. The Count and his secretary were in the first.”

“They went by?” said Maurice in amazement.

“Yes.”

“Then they don’t know our whereabouts, yet,” said Maurice, heaving a sigh of relief. “But it won’t be long before they do. The place is full of German spies, and if this so-called Russian is a German, as I suspect, he’ll soon learn from one of his agents about the appearance of an odd-looking thing like the gyro-car. Indeed, I shouldn’t be surprised if those fellows I saw get into a taxi just this side of the Porte Maillot were his men.”

“But how did they get here in the time?”

“They must have had a swift vessel with steam up waiting at Dover. There’s no end to their resources when anything big is at stake. We’re in for a race, George.”

“You take it pretty coolly,” said George, who was quivering with excitement.

“That’s the first lesson I learnt from my chief. ‘Never get flustered,’ he dinned into me. We shall have to trust to the speed of your car. They don’t know where we are, nor which way we are going, which is one to us. Get on with your breakfast; I’ll think it out.”

He ate his omelet with an air of abstraction. After a few minutes he called the waiter.

“Have you got a road-guide?” he asked.

“Yes, sir: I will fetch it.”

He soon returned with a copy of the Guide Taride. Maurice glanced at the title page: “Les Routes de France, à l’usage des conducteurs d’automobiles et cyclistes.”

“The very thing. I will buy this, waiter; the proprietor can easily replace it. It gives everything we want, George.”

He turned over the pages until he came to the section dealing with the roads out of Paris.

“They’ll watch the bridges, as they did in London,” he said, “but they can’t watch all the gates, unless they have a much larger number of men than is likely. We mustn’t cross the river, so we can’t take any of the three roads to Marseilles; they all go by the Porte de Choisy, and that’s on the other side of the Seine. Here we are: Paris to Melun, forty kilometres. They don’t recommend the first route, by the Porte Daumesnil and the Bois de Vincennes, so we’ll choose that. We shall join the direct road at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, thirteen kilometres distant. And the sooner we start the better. Go and set your gyroscopes working, while I pay the bill.”

It took several minutes to set the gyroscopes running at full speed. Maurice was anxious to start before this, but George pointed out that they had better not appear in the street until the car was thoroughly ready, in case any of the Slavianski scouts were on the watch.

A few minutes after 5 o’clock they set off, running back through the Rue Royale thence into the Rue de Rivoli, until, having crossed the Place de la Bastille, they struck into the Avenue Daumesnil. There was little traffic as yet in that broad thoroughfare, except for the wagons of tradesmen and market gardeners coming into the city from the suburbs.

“We mustn’t go too fast while we’re within the walls,” said George, “but as soon as we’re outside I’ll let her rip, old man. Keep your eye on the map and tell me how to steer.”

Maurice had opened the map of Paris and spread it on his knees. Directed by him, George turned into the Rue de Charenton, left the city at the Charenton gate, after exchanging a pleasant word with the officer, and then set the car spinning along until they came to the bridge over the Canal de Marne. Being now beyond the probable risk of interference, George increased the speed to thirty-five miles an hour, which he maintained for forty minutes, until they reached the outskirts of Melun. There the road made a sharp descent.

“Slow down here,” said Maurice anxiously. “This hill is dangerous, according to the Guide, and the pavé is rather slippery with dew. A sideslip here would break us up.”

Reducing speed to fifteen miles an hour, they ran down the hill. Before they had reached the foot of it they saw, on turning a bend, that the road about two hundred yards ahead was broken for mending on the right-hand side—the side on which they were travelling, according to the rule of the road in France. A thin rope was stretched half-way across the road, supported on a light iron rod, from which hung a lantern, that had, no doubt, been lit during the night. It was not yet 6 o’clock, and no labourers were on the spot; but on the left-hand side of the road, where there was a space between the excavation and a wall just wide enough for the passage of an ordinary market cart, a small motor-car was approaching the gap in the same direction as the gyro-car at a low speed. There was plenty of time for it to pass through the narrowed portion of the roadway before the gyro-car overtook it, so George did not reduce his speed any further, but sounded his hooter as a measure of precaution.

The motor-car crawled on towards the gap, the chauffeur throwing a glance over his shoulder, as if to see whether he had time to win through before the vehicle behind overtook him. Moment by moment the space between the two cars diminished. The gyro-car was within a few yards of the narrow portion of the road, when suddenly the motor stopped dead, completely blocking the passage, and the chauffeur sprang from his seat towards the wall bordering the road on the near side. George involuntarily let out a cry. There was no time to consult with Maurice, nor even to hesitate between two courses. The momentum of the gyro-car was so great that it could not be checked before dashing into the stationary vehicle. To the left was the wall, to the right an excavation several feet deep. Across it lay a narrow plank, used, no doubt, by the workmen in wheeling their barrows from one side of the hole to the other.

A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT

It was supported on the nearer side upon some loose earth that had been thrown up from below. What the support on the further side was George could not pause to determine. His brother had waxed satirical about his unpunctuality, but in this critical moment, when there was only an instant of time for decision, the boy showed a surprising quickness. There was one desperate chance of avoiding a collision, which, even if it did not result in personal injury, might at least cripple the car. He steered straight for the plank.

There was a jolt, a sudden dip, and the sixteen-foot plank sagged under the weight of the car. A moment of suspense; then there was a more serious jolt as the front wheel apparently left the plank and struck the bank of earth on the further side, just high enough to make a passage for itself through the loose soil at the edge. The two front wheels were through. Alter an almost imperceptible interval the third wheel dropped from the end of the plank on to the earth, and immediately afterwards the fourth wheel. The gyro-car was safely across.

Almost before either George or his brother could fully realise the narrow escape they had had, the car was forty or fifty yards down the road.

“Shall we stop?” asked George, panting with relief. “I’d like a word with that ass.”

“No, go on,” said Maurice quietly. He was looking back towards the gap. “They are there!”

“The Count?”

“I don’t see him, but there are others. You were too busy to notice them, but just as we came to the gap I saw several men jump up from behind the wall and help to hoist the chauffeur over. The whole thing was planned.”

“Great Scott! How in the world did they get there in time?”

“I expect they wired or ’phoned from Calais last night. They knew we must take this road if making for Italy, and their agents must have left Paris early to find a convenient place for waylaying us. They couldn’t have chosen a better one, though, of course, the opening in the road was purely accidental You’re a wonder, George. I should never have had the nerve to do it.”

“My dear chap, you would run the car across Niagara on a tight-rope if you knew it as well as I do. But hang it all!—I hope it isn’t damaged. Don’t you think we might pull up for a minute to have a look?”

“We had better go on. The Count will be here before long to see how his trap had succeeded, and the sooner we are beyond his lordship’s reach the better. We are not out of the wood yet.”

“Can’t we stop at Melun and put the authorities up to collaring the fellows as German spies?”

“We’ve no proof that they are, and it would never do for me, in my position, to set France and Germany by the ears. It would mean delay, too. No: our job is to get to Brindisi as soon as we can. Run a few miles farther; then we’ll halt to examine the car; but it goes so easily that I don’t think much damage is done.”

“All right. Are they after us?”

“There’s no sign of them. We win the trick.”

CHAPTER V

ACROSS THE ALPS

It was still so early in the morning that the gyro-car ran through Melun without attracting attention, except from a few market-people and a priest on the way to church. Maurice inquired the way to Sens of a wagoner, and they mounted the hill towards the village of Sivry at a speed of twenty miles an hour. On reaching level ground again George increased the speed, and before 7 o’clock arrived at the crest of the long hill descending to Montereau. The morning sun shed a brilliance over the town, which had scarcely yet awaked to activity; and as the travellers coasted down the hill, they forgot their excitement for a few moments as their eyes delighted in the spectacle of river, church, and castle.

There being still no sign of pursuit, they halted at a blacksmith’s and alighted. The clang of hammer on anvil ceased, and the smith, attracted by the sound of the engines, came to his door.

“Hé, messieurs!” he said on beholding the gyro-car balanced on its four wheels, “comment ce diable de machine se tient-il debout?”

Maurice laughingly explained, while George stopped to examine the wheels. He found that the tyre of the foremost of them was gashed. Luckily he had a spare tyre in the car, and, replacing the injured one with assistance from the smith, he was ready to set off again in a few minutes.

On leaving Montereau they spun along the excellent road at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour.

“I presume they have a speed limit in France,” said Maurice, warningly.

“Oh yes, thirty kilometres. Every town can fix its own, I believe, and it’s as low as six kilometres in some, but we needn’t bother about that. There are no bobbies on the roads here, with stop-watches.”

“But there’s a penalty, I suppose?”

“No doubt, but I don’t believe they prosecute unless you do some damage. Far more sensible than our ridiculous regulations.”

“Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir,” said Maurice.

“What’s that mean?”

“Your ignorance is deplorable. Haven’t you heard that prevention is better than cure?”

“That’s all rot: you don’t have all your teeth pulled to prevent toothache. I wonder the French have such a proverb. It’s our confounded British caution that let them get ahead of us in motoring and aviation. And look here, Maurice, don’t for goodness’ sake talk French to me. Keep it for emergencies. I can’t stand it.”

At Sens they waited only to purchase a spare tyre and to swallow a plate of soup at the Buffet. Then they set off again, intending to get a substantial déjeuner at Dijon. Both were rather sleepy, and as the temperature increased Maurice began to doze. George took advantage of this to spin along at a much higher speed than before. The road was so good, running almost all the way through a valley, that the gyro-car travelled with as little vibration, noise and dust as a motor-car of the best make going at half its speed.

It was a little past twelve o’clock when George came in sight of a large town, which he guessed was Dijon. He nudged Maurice, exclaiming:

“Here we are! I’m desperately hungry, and now’s the time for you to air your French.”

“Surely we’re not at Dijon already! It’s—let me see”—he turned over the pages of his Guide—“it’s over three hundred kilometres from Paris—a hundred and eighty miles. You must have been tearing along at a terrific pace.”

“Not fast enough to wake you. You don’t snore very loud, old man; but I haven’t had to use my hooter.”

Maurice ignored his brother’s impudence.

“This Guide is all very well,” he said, “but it doesn’t name any hotels. I shall have to inquire.”

“Well, there are plenty of people about, staring at us with all their eyes. Ask that dear old Sister of Mercy there: did you ever see such a happy-looking old lady!”

But here a red-trousered gendarme came up and requested Monsieur to show his certificat de capacité. George was producing his motor-bicycle licence, and a corner of it was visible, when Maurice slipped a franc into the man’s hand and asked him to direct him to an hotel.

“Ah! Monsieur is English!” said the gendarme. “There is a good hotel in the Place Darcy to Monsieur’s left. Merci bien, monsieur.”

“As you’ve driven so fast,” said Maurice, as they went in the direction indicated, “we ought to have plenty of time for a decent meal, even if the Count is still after us. I’m afraid there won’t be time for you to have a nap.”

“Oh! I’ll take my turn when we start again. I think I can trust you to drive—for a few miles at any rate.”

For seven francs they had a capital déjeuner at the hotel. When they had finished, George had the machine oiled, and bought a supply of petrol, and about 1 o’clock they started for the next stage of their journey, Beaune, thirty-six kilometres distant.

“Now, old boy, it’s up to you,” said George, as they left the town behind them. “The road is quite flat, and we’ll get along all right if you’re careful. Wake me if anything happens.”

Maurice had driven the car once or twice at home, so that he undertook the piloting without any tremors. But, being cautious by nature and training, he contented himself with a speed of twenty miles. It was more than an hour before he reached Beaune. George was fast asleep, so his brother made no halt, but ran on at the same pace along an equally level road for another two hours. Then, just after passing the village of Romenay, where for the first time in more than fifty miles the road undulated, he heard the characteristic hum of a motor-car some distance behind. The gyro-car itself, moving at a comparatively low speed, made so little noise that he was aware of the sound almost as soon as if he had been walking.

The road was clear, and, keeping his hand on the steering wheel, he ventured to look round. A considerable quantity of dust was rising, and through this cloud he was for a few moments unable to see whether the motor was actually travelling the same road or not. But going round a slight curve in the direction from which the breeze was blowing, he saw, as the dust was carried aside, a motor-car running at a great rate towards him, about half a mile away. He could take only a fleeting glance, the alternate dip and rise of the road necessitating watchfulness; but that glance sufficed to tell him that the car was running at a much higher speed than his own.

He wakened George.

“There is a motor behind us,” he said. “Just take a look at it.”

George was up in an instant.

“There’s so much dust that I can’t be sure of the colour of it,” he said, “but it’s a powerful car, and gaining on us. What’s your speed?” He glanced at the indicator. “Twenty! quite lady-like, upon my word. Let me get back to my place.”

“I don’t like the idea of running away,” said Maurice. “It may not be the Count’s car at all.”

“Prevention is better than cure, as you reminded me a while ago,” said George with a grin. He looked back along the road again. “By gum!” he cried, “it’s coming at a spanking pace. It must be a racer. Better be on the safe side. I’ll drive; you keep your eye on it. You may be able to see the colour of it when we come to a curve.”

They exchanged places. George immediately increased the speed to forty miles. At that rate he dashed through the village of Mantenay, outstripping a train that was running along the line. Farm labourers trudging home from the fields pressed into the hedges to avoid the car, and at St. Julien, a mile and a half further, George narrowly escaped dashing into a flock of geese, which waddled off into the village pond uttering shrill cries of alarm.

“Better be careful,” said Maurice.

“Oh, geese don’t matter. I killed one near Caudebec at Easter, and the owner came up in great excitement with a gendarme. But the gendarme only shrugged his shoulders and said, as near as I could make out, ‘It is forbidden to pasture geese by the roadside.’”

Maurice smiled.

“Pasturing geese is distinctly good,” he said. Again the road was quite level.

“It is still gaining, very rapidly now,” said Maurice, who caught fleeting glimpses of the motor through rifts in the cloud of dust. “And it is green as grass!”

“Well, I hope the Count likes our dust,” said George. “He must be getting his fill of it. We’ll go a little faster.”

He advanced the speed-lever, and increased the pace to fifty, and finally sixty miles an hour, at which rate the car dashed through Javat. The horse attached to a market-wagon there took fright, and galloped into a by-road only just in time to avoid a collision. The kilometre stones flashed by at two a minute. A sign-post with a staring warning, “Allure modérée,” at the entrance to Montrevel, forced George to reduce his speed to fifteen kilometres; but since this applied equally to the pursuing motor he did not care a rap for that, as he said. By the time they reached Bourg there was no sign of the motor, but when they had run up the narrow wooded valley of Alberine beyond Ambérieu, Maurice, looking back, descried the pursuer rushing along at a reckless speed, its dust trailing behind like the smoke of a steam-engine.

“They’ll lose up-hill,” said George. “We have the better of them there. But it’s lucky the road is dry and pretty straight. If it were wet I should have to slow down to avoid skidding.”

The road now undulated frequently, the slopes in some places being very steep. They dashed along beside a picturesque lake; then, a little distance ahead, they saw a level crossing, and a man in the act of shutting the gates. George sounded his hooter and increased the speed. The man hesitated, looking up the railway line. Before he could make up his mind the car raced through.

A few miles further on they came to another level crossing. Here the gates were already shut. Continuous hooting failed to bring out the gate-keeper, and George had perforce to pull up.

“Another chance for your French, old man,” he cried to Maurice. “Skip out and run to the cabin yonder. Tip the man handsomely, and he’ll let us through.”

Maurice sprang out and hurried to the gate-keeper’s hut. The man was eating his supper. Maurice lifted his hat, and, jingling the coins in his pocket, said:

“Will you be good enough to open the gates?”

“Impossible, Monsieur; a train is due,” replied the man.

“We have a little wager with some German gentlemen in a green car behind,” proceeded Maurice, pouring out the words with extraordinary quickness. “They say 1870 is forgotten: they can run across France as quickly and easily as a Frenchman. They have only to call, and a Frenchman will spring to do their bidding. We don’t believe that, we English. You’ll let us through, I’m sure, and we shall be able to show our German friends that the entente cordiale stands for something.”

Before he was half-way through this speech the gate-keeper had moved to the door. By the time it was ended he was running to the gate. He looked up the line; the train was not in sight, and in less than half a minute the gates were thrown open.

“Conspuez les Allemands!” said the man as the gyro-car ran across.

The moment it had passed he closed the gates, and stood looking up the road for the impudent Germans.

A few kilometres beyond Aix-les-Bains the road was blocked by the gates of another crossing. Here Maurice told the same story, and the keeper entered into the spirit of the trick even more thoroughly than the other. The train would have passed, he thought, before the German car could arrive, and he would have no reason for keeping the gates closed against it.

“But no matter, Monsieur,” he said. “If no reason, I can find an excuse. I have a little shunting to do. The Germans shall see!”

Pocketing Maurice’s coin with a cheerful grin, he shut the gates behind the gyro-car and re-entered his cabin.

Evening dusk was falling; it would soon be dark. Maurice was anxious to cross the Italian frontier that night. The little town of Modane, where he must necessarily stop to deal with the Customs officers, was still more than a hundred kilometres ahead. It might not be so easy there as it had been at Calais to get the gyro-car passed. Maurice was ignorant of the regulations, whereas he had little doubt that the pursuers were well informed on all essential points.

“The worst of it is,” he said to George, “they are so horribly persistent that we hardly dare stop even for a meal. They are determined to run us down.”

“Couldn’t we lay a trap for them and smash up their old motor?” suggested George.

“It’s too dangerous a game to play. We might trap the wrong people. And I confess I take a sporting interest in the race. We don’t want to harm the fellows; they are only doing what they are paid for. I regard it as a match between our Government and the Austrian, and so much the more credit to us if we play the game.”

“They won’t scruple about playing the game.”

“That hardly absolves us, does it? Their only chance of getting my despatch is to overhaul us and take it by main force, so that it’s essential that we should keep ahead of them. We have managed to delay them at the level crossings; we must see what we can do at Modane, and if you’re game, and we get through, we’ll go right on to Turin.”

“Don’t you want your dinner?” asked George.

“I am ravenous. We ought to have gained an hour or two by the time we reach Turin, and can then get a meal. Look out, George; this is rather steep.”

They were descending the hill into Chambéry, and here, for the first time since leaving Paris, they were delayed at the octroi barrier. It was not yet dark, and hearing the hum of the approaching car, the official stepped out of his little house into the road and held up his hand as a signal to stop.

“There is no tax on petrol here; why can’t they leave us alone?” grumbled George, as he brought the car to a standstill.

“They like to show their authority, I suppose,” replied Maurice. “Treat them civilly, and all will be well.”

“Permit me, Monsieur,” said the man courteously, lifting his hat.

“Certainly, Monsieur,” said Maurice, rising in his seat.

The man looked into the car to see if the travellers had anything taxable concealed: then poked a bamboo stick down among the air-chambers, George being on thorns lest he should puncture them. Finding nothing suspicious, he smiled pleasantly, lifted his hat again, and waved his hand to indicate that the car might proceed.

“Confounded red tape!” growled George, as he re-started, after lighting his lamp. “Now I’ll let her rip. What sort of road is it, Maurice? Switch on the light and look at your Guide.”

“It’s a hundred and one kilometres to Modane, a gradual ascent all the way. We’re coming among the mountains.”

“That’s all right. We’ll beat Slavianski easily, going up-hill. And how much farther to Turin?”

“A hundred and twelve: that’s about a hundred and twenty-seven miles altogether.”

“Well, we’ll do it in under four hours if the Customs don’t cause trouble. We ought to get to Turin about eleven; there’ll be no traffic on the road at this time of night; then we’ll have dinner, and follow it with supper: I feel as if I hadn’t eaten for a week.”

They reached Modane in an hour and a half, and halted at the Customs station. Maurice, feeling very stiff, alighted from the car, and met the official at the door. He had already ascertained from his Guide that the dues on motor-cars were levied by weight, but that motor-cycles were passed on payment of a fixed due of forty-two francs.

“Monsieur will place the car on the weighing-machine,” said the official, politely.

“Certainly, Monsieur, if you insist,” replied Maurice: “but, as you perceive, our car is of the nature of a motor-cycle.”

The man walked towards it.

“It is as you say, Monsieur,” he said, staring at the car. “But, pardon me, it runs on four wheels: ma foi! it stands on four wheels! I have never seen such a thing before: it is not mentioned in the regulations.”

“No, it is a new invention,” said Maurice, courteously, as if he were addressing a prince. “It is, as you see, a sort of double bicycle, and is kept upright when stationary by the gyroscopes spinning at the back there. You would like to look at them, no doubt.”

“Don’t waste time,” said George in English.

“It will save time in the end. Stop the spinning and let down the supports.”

The official was vastly interested in the novel mechanism. Maurice explained it as well as he could, perpetrating several howlers, as George informed him afterwards; then he suggested that, as there was no provision in the regulations, the law might be satisfied on the payment of the sum for a motor-cycle.

“But it is double, Monsieur. I must ask, I fear, for eighty-four francs.”

“Very well,” said Maurice, handing over the money.

“Now, Monsieur,” said the official, “I must make out the certificate for importation temporaire. You will give that up when you leave the country, and the sum you have deposited will be returned to you.”

“Do you think you could stretch a point, and let us go without that? We are in a great hurry, and I will tell you why. I am proceeding on an important mission for the English Government. There is a party of Austrian gentlemen pursuing me in a green motor-car, hoping to defeat me. They know your country thoroughly, every pass and by-road; it used to belong to Austria, as you know, and I think they would like to get it again.”

The man let out an exclamation in Italian: there are no friends of Austria in Italy!

“But I think that while you have your Alpine troops on the frontier,” pursued Maurice, “the Austrians had better remain on their own side of the Alps.”

“Per Bacco! I agree with you, Monsieur. These Austrians are coming behind you?”

“Yes. They have chased us from Paris. Perhaps when they arrive you would suggest that we are proceeding to Venice?”

“Ah! I perceive. Yes, I will do so. You may pass without a certificate if you will take the risk. But you should have a green light as well as a white; it is the regulation.”

“We will get one to-morrow. We must take our chance to-night. What is the speed-limit in Italy?”

“Forty kilometres in open country, Monsieur; twelve in town. At night, fifteen.”

“Thank you.” George was smiling. Maurice thanked the official profusely, and with mutual compliments the interview closed.

“Fifteen!” said George, as they set off again. “Fifteen be hanged! we’ll do forty at the least,” and at that speed he set the car spinning along the mountainous winding road that connects Modane with Turin. There was little but the coolness of the air to tell them that they were now crossing the Alps. It was too dark to see the form of Mont Cenis towering above them, and even George felt a little regretful that he could not get a glimpse of the mountains. They reached Turin soon after eleven, and at the Hotel Europa did full justice to the excellent repast with which they were provided at extraordinarily short notice.

CHAPTER VI

A NARROW MARGIN

The Bucklands spent very little time over their supper at the Hotel Europa. Not knowing how far behind the pursuers were, Maurice hid under his imperturbable mien a very real anxiety. George, for his part, was much concerned about the gyro-car. After so long a journey as he had just made, a railway engine would have a thorough overhauling; but there was no time for more than a rapid examination of his mechanism. He required petrol and oil; the hour was late, and no doubt all the establishments where these essentials could be procured had been closed long ago. It was just possible that they might be obtained in the garage of the hotel; so, after satisfying his hunger, he left Maurice to attend to the wants of his inanimate steed.

Maurice, as he sipped his coffee, found himself wishing that someone had invented a means of seeing in the dark, or of hearing at immense distances. If he had possessed either of those as yet hitherto unattained powers, he might have indulged in the sleep he needed, with a mind at ease.

A quarter of an hour after the gyro-car ran the plank at Melun, Count Slavianski (whose name in private life was Max Mumm) arrived on the scene with his so-called secretary, who was neither a major nor a Rostopchin, but a German ex-sergeant of cavalry, by name Ernst Böhmer. The Count—let him enjoy his brief ennoblement—was furious at the failure of his trap. As Maurice Buckland surmised, he had telephoned from Calais to his agents in Paris instructing them to watch the southern road, and to devise any plan that seemed good to them for stopping the gyro-car. The unusual shape of that unique vehicle made its identification easy, and the Paris agents laid their trap at the spot where the chance breaking of the road seemed to promise certain success. Perhaps the Count’s anger was the more intense because he had no reasonable ground for complaint. His instructions had been carried out, and if he had not wasted time by waiting for information from his emissaries at the bridges, he would almost certainly have reached Melun before the men he was pursuing.

His stratagem having failed, there was nothing to do but to continue the pursuit. Without doubt the gyro-car would keep to the main road, and in fact the Count had tidings of it at every place where his racing-car had to slow down in obedience to local regulations. When he caught sight of it for the first time a mile or two beyond Romenay he exulted. If he could only catch it before it reached Turin, he felt very pretty sure that at some lonely spot on the mountain road he and his three companions in the car would have the diplomat at his mercy.

But at the level-crossing near Le Viviers he suffered an exasperating check. The gates were closed. Insistent appeals failing to bring the gate-keeper from his cabin, one of the men got out of the car to open the gates himself. But a prudential management had ordained that the apparatus should not be easily manipulated by the first-comer, and the man was still fumbling with it when the keeper appeared from behind a hedge, and with great indignation demanded what he meant by interfering with the property of the railway.

Then ensued a brisk and heated altercation, in which the honours lay with authority. It is wonderful what assurance even the meanest office gives. The Count demanded that the gates should be opened instantly. The gate-keeper replied that not for the President of the Republic himself would he open them until the train had passed. The Count produced his card.

“Germans!” muttered the official, sniffing.

“But no; we are Russians!” cried the exasperated Count.

“I know those Russians!” replied the man grimly.

The Count produced a five-franc piece.

“Hé quoi! you think to bribe me!” said the scandalised official.

“Really, my good man,” said the Count, struggling to command his temper, “you exceed your duty.”

“Ah! Monsieur perhaps knows his duty well. Where is Monsieur’s certificat de capacité?”

“What right have you to ask that?”

“Never mind,” said the Frenchman.

With an oath the Count drew from his pocket-book the licence headed “République Francaise.” The man took it and scrutinised it carefully, comparing the little photograph pasted on its left-hand side with the original before him, wrinkling his brow as he read the name, Alexis Slavianski, the birthplace, Borisoglebsk, and the other details required by the authorities. This wasted another five minutes. Then the Count lost his temper utterly, and exchanged a wordy war with the gate-keeper, which had no other result than to waste more time. It was twenty minutes before the train ran by, and not till then did the man open the gates for the passage of the motor-car.

“We have forgotten 1870, have we?” he said with a chuckle, as the car disappeared in a cloud of dust.

At every crossing the Count had the same experience, with slight variations, chiefly against him, in the period of waiting. His eagerness, impatience, and finally abuse convinced the gate-keepers that they were serving their country in delaying him, and the absence of other traffic on the road enabled them to give free play to their patriotism without inconveniencing their fellow-countrymen. Consequently the green motor reached Modane nearly two hours after the gyro-car had left it.

At Modane occurred the worst check of all. The Customs officer took a long time in weighing the car, and then, by an unfortunate miscalculation, asked for a hundred francs more than was due. He demanded to see the Count’s certificat de capacité, and made out with great deliberation a similar licence for Italy. He was equally deliberate in preparing the certificate for importation temporaire, and the Count, fume as he might, had to wait for that document. Every impatient word he spoke lengthened the delay; the officer broke a pen, made a blot which he erased until not a vestige of it was visible, all with the most charming courtesy and frank apologies. He entertained the Count with a full description of an extraordinary car which had passed through on the way to Venice a little earlier, noting with keen enjoyment the exasperation which the traveller, weary after his long journey, vainly tried to conceal. By the time the motor-car once more took up the pursuit, the Bucklands had finished their supper, filled their tanks, and run forty miles beyond Turin in the direction of Venice.

This was, however, only a blind. If the Count could be deluded into rushing on to Venice, so much the better. About forty miles from Turin George turned into the road leading southward through Alessandria to Genoa. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and clear, the sky a dark blue vault spangled with stars, and a rising moon shedding a white radiance over everything. The road was good and fairly level. The brothers took turns at driving and napping, and kept up an even pace of about thirty miles an hour. It was five o’clock in the morning when they reached Genoa. Putting up at a quiet hotel where Maurice had formerly stayed, they got a bath, breakfasted, and spent some time in studying the map. In Italy the Guide Taride no longer served them, and they had to choose their own route. They decided to run to Rome by way of Pisa and Leghorn, then to Naples, and thence across the Peninsula to Brindisi. By six o’clock they were again on the road.

“This is the Grand Tour with a vengeance,” said George as they sped along, with the blue Mediterranean on their right, and on their left the olive-clad slopes of the Apennines. “I should like to do it at a more leisurely pace.”

“I don’t know. I find the speed exhilarating.”

“That’s a confession for a cautious old diplomat! Well, if you like it you shall have it. There’s no one about.”

He opened the throttle, and soon had the car spinning along at nearly seventy miles an hour.

“Look out for the turn ahead,” said Maurice anxiously, after a minute or two.

“All right.”

He threw off the power, but there was scarcely any slackening of speed. He clapped on the brakes gently; the bend in the road was very near. It happened to occur at a little hollow, partly overshadowed by trees, and a few yards of the roadway were covered with a film of greasy mud. The brakes, now fast set, were unequal to the demand upon them. Experienced motorist as he was, George had the sickening feeling to which the most hardened never becomes accustomed; the car was skidding. It swung round; he managed to steer it past a stone post at the roadside, shaving the obstacle by an inch; and then it seemed to vault the shallow ditch, and was finally brought up in the middle of a hedge of brambles. But it maintained its balance.

“This is more excoriating than exhilarating,” said Maurice coolly, as he passed his handkerchief over his scratched cheeks. “You steered wonderfully, but I think for the rest of our journey we had better be respectable, even if we are dull; we can’t afford time for repairs.”

“You’re right, as usual, old man. By Jove! that was a squeak. I had the most ghastly feeling. I hope there’s no buckling.”

They got out and examined the car. There was no apparent injury. Dragging it back to the road they resumed their journey, content to jog along, as George described it, at thirty miles an hour.

It was a pleasant ride along that coast road, through fishing villages, with the sea, sparkling in the early sunbeams, on one side, and groves of oranges, lemons, and olives on the other. Here was a row of date-palms, there an avenue of plane trees, and at intervals brightly decorated villas gleaming amid abundant greenery. The road began to be populous with fishers, donkey-drivers, girls going to the lace factories, barefooted young labourers on their way to the vineyards and olive-yards. They stopped to gaze at the gyro-car; a youth would raise a “Viva!” a girl wave a coloured kerchief—smiling, happy people in a smiling country.

Presently Pisa hove in sight, with her marble cathedral and leaning tower gleaming white in the sunlight. But the travellers could not wait for sightseeing; they ran across the Arno and along the pine-clad road to Leghorn, passed through this grimy seaport, on and on until, as they topped a rise, the battlements of the fortress at Volaterra struck upon their view. Through the narrow, steep street of Colle, crowded with children, who shrieked as they tumbled out of the way; along the cypress-shaded road, winding over and around the hills; and they see the towers of Siena. Still they do not halt, until one of the front tyres burst with a loud report, and they had to stay at a little village while it was replaced. They profited by the enforced stop to take their luncheon. The village inn had little to provide them except hard brown bread and eggs fried in butter, with a sourish wine for beverage. But they were hungry enough not to be fastidious. After a halt of half-an-hour they set off again, and ran along steadily through the hot afternoon until, about four o’clock, they came to Rome.

Here they stayed an hour for an early dinner. The next important stage would be Naples, and as they could not hope to reach that city until past midnight, they thought it best to have a full meal before going on. They bought petrol and two new tyres at the British Stores, and left at 5 o’clock. Six hours later they came to Naples, having again slept and driven in turn. There they took a light meal. The mail train, as Maurice knew, arrived at Brindisi at 11:30 a.m. It was possible that the Count himself, or if not he, some of his men, had boarded the train, and since it was all-important that it should not reach the port before them, they refused to yield to the solicitation of fatigue, and started at 2 o’clock in the morning for the ride across from sea to sea.

They had an easy run to Eboli, but after crossing the Sele river, when dawn was breaking, they found the road difficult. The soil was loose; there was scarcely half a mile level; the ascents and descents were steep and dangerous. George was in a constant state of anxiety lest a tyre should be punctured, and drove more slowly than at any previous part of the journey. They had almost forgotten the pursuers. What was their amazement and consternation, as they began the ascent of a steep acclivity, when, hearing the sound of a motor behind them, they turned their heads and beheld the green motor flashing at headlong pace down the incline they had just descended.

George instantly threw open the throttle, and the gyro-car raced up the hill at a speed of forty miles. The motor was little more than fifty yards in the rear when it reached the foot of the hill. Then it lost ground, but as soon as it arrived at the crest it picked up its speed again. It was a tremendous race. For many miles the road switchbacked among the hills. Now the motor would gain, now the gyro-car. Wherever he could, George ran along the fairly level foot-track by the roadside, thus escaping the loose shingles of the ill-kept highway. Here the motor-car could not follow it. Fortunately there was little traffic. At one point he swerved suddenly to avoid a man driving a diminutive donkey. Warned by the hooter, the man snatched up the donkey, and carried it to the side out of harm’s way. Dense volumes of dust rose behind the gyro-car, flying full in the faces of the pursuers; but ever and anon the hum of their car could be heard, and the Bucklands could not but admire the reckless courage of the Count and his party in maintaining so high a speed on so rough a road.

Through Potenza both vehicles rushed like whirlwinds, separated by only a few hundred yards. The speed-limit was set utterly at defiance. Then the switchbacking began again, the dips occurring at even shorter intervals. The road would drop several hundred feet within half-a-mile; in ten miles there were as many as sixteen steep ups and downs. Sometimes the green motor was left out of both sight and hearing, and then George would hope that it had broken down. But it always reappeared whenever an abrupt curve forced him to slacken speed for fear of skidding, even though in his excitement he took the corners at a pace that he would not have dreamed of risking a few hours earlier. The gyro-car had always this advantage in the race: that it was capable of higher speed than the motor when pressed. It was only a question of taking risks, and neither Maurice nor George was unready to do this.

The sun was now beating down fiercely on the travellers, and gilding the dust-cloud that almost continuously hid the pursuers from view. But the heat was tempered by the rush of air as they whirled through it, and at these altitudes the air itself was cool. As the gyro-car spun along, the few pedestrians whom it met or overtook turned to gaze at it in amazement. Mile after mile was covered, until at Ginosa nearly three-quarters of the distance between Naples and Brindisi had been completed.

“We shall do it!” cried George jubilantly, as they ran down the hill a few miles farther on.

Hardly had he spoken when he was suddenly conscious that the power had given out. The car ran on for some distance by its own momentum, but it was only too clear that the engine had ceased to work. With a smothered exclamation George brought the car to a standstill, let down the supports, and sprang out. Maurice listened anxiously; there was no sound from behind. Had the green car broken down too?

CHAPTER VII

AN ACT OF WAR

For a brief, breathless moment George almost lost his head. Then, pulling himself together, he said:

“We can’t go on, Maurice. We must get the car out of the road before those fellows come up.”

There was nobody in sight of whom to ask assistance. But a little way down the road Maurice spied a narrow by-lane.

“Can you put the engine to rights?” he asked.

“I can have a shot at it,” replied George. “The ignition is all right; there may be something wrong with the compression or the carburettor.”

“Well, let us wheel the machine down that by-lane and hope the Count will run by and not discover us, though that’s hardly likely when he doesn’t see our dust.”

“I hope to goodness he’s had a smash,” said George as they wheeled the car as fast as possible down the by-way. It was narrow, but not so narrow that a motor-car could not follow it. It was also stony, and broken by deep ruts; but George was able to pick a track for the gyro-car, and the two pushed it for about a kilometre until they were out of sight from the highway. Then George stripped off his coat and began to examine the engine, while Maurice walked a few yards back to a spot whence he could see the road.

Almost before he got there he heard the fast-approaching sound of the motor-car. A minute later he saw it dash by the end of the lane. Evidently the pursuers had not yet discovered that the gyro-car was no longer in front of them. But they were rushing at such a pace that the absence of dust ahead must soon make them suspect the truth, and then it was hardly doubtful that they would cast back and look about for tracks. It happened just as he expected. Within five minutes he heard the returning hum: the motor passed slowly back. Two men were walking beside it, examining the road. They discovered the track of the gyro-car turning into the lane, jumped into the motor-car, which swung round and began to run towards the place where Maurice stood concealed.

“They fancy we have taken a short cut,” said Maurice to himself; “they would come on foot if they thought we had broken down.”

It was soon clear that the motor was in difficulties. The road became rougher the farther it proceeded. It jerked and jolted over the stones and into the ruts, going quickly, at the imminent risk of overturning, or of an axle breaking. Its pace was soon reduced; for a moment or two it came to a stop, but started again immediately. Maurice, keeping out of sight, did not report progress to George for fear of flustering him. The boy was working busily inside the engine.

As the seconds passed, Maurice became more and more anxious. The pursuers would soon come in sight of him; then they would instantly guess that the gyro-car had broken down, and the two brothers would stand a poor chance against four determined and unscrupulous men in a wild country. He ran back; George had heard the throb of the approaching car, and called him with a low whistle.

“A few seconds, and we’ll be all right,” he said.

At that moment the motor came in sight, moving now at less than a walking-pace. Two hundred yards separated pursuers and pursued. The Count and two of his followers sprang from the car and rushed towards the gyro-car. George slammed down the casing and started the engine. Maurice was already in his place. In a moment George was beside him. He pulled over the gear lever, depressed the pedal, and the car was off. The Count was now within twenty yards of them. When he saw George spring into the car he whipped out his revolver and fired shot after shot; but his haste and the movement of the car ruined his aim. George had already declutched and changed into the second speed. The car gathered way, and, running within a wide rut, in less than a minute was out of sight.

“Won by a neck!” said George with a gay laugh.

“By a head, I should say,” remarked Maurice—“a head with brains in it. I had no idea you were so expert a mechanician. What was wrong with the engine?”

“The carburettor. The nozzle was foul, so that the petrol couldn’t get into the float-chamber fast enough. It didn’t take me long to put it right when I discovered what was wrong: that always takes time.”

“We had a lucky escape. Now we really owe a good deal to the Count. He will have to back his car to the main road; there’s no room to turn it, and to follow us is impossible; the road gets worse and worse. We get off through his error of judgment. He ought to have run straight on and cut us off from Brindisi. Now, barring another accident, he is too late.”

“We may lose ourselves.”

“Oh no! According to the map, this road runs to Castellane, which is not very far from the main road. It makes a sharp turn a few miles from where we left it. We shall find somebody there who’ll direct us, and then we shall only be about sixty miles from Brindisi.”

They ran on to Castellane, thence regained the highway below Mottola, and the road being fairly level, reached Taranto in twenty minutes. There they halted for a few minutes to drink a glass of lemonade, then made by way of Francavilla for Brindisi, where they arrived at 11.20, ten minutes before the mail train was due.

“Do you remember that Virgil died here?” asked Maurice, as they passed the column marking the end of the Appian Way.

“Poor chap!” said George. “He might have chosen a cleaner town. Perhaps it was cleaner in his time; it is a disreputable-looking place now.”

The streets were indeed squalid in the extreme. Here and there stood half-finished buildings, the ground floor complete, but falling into decay. On open patches heaps of garbage polluted the air, and the harbour itself had an air of neglect and stagnation.

The gyro-car was soon surrounded by a motley crowd, apparently of many nationalities. Maurice rejected the officious offers of shabby touts to guide him to an hotel, and George steered direct for the harbour. As good luck would have it, they saw an English naval officer walking along by the harbour wall. Maurice sprang out of the car and accosted him.

“Yes, I am in command of the torpedo-boat wired for from London,” he said, in reply to Maurice’s question.

“My name is Buckland. My brother and I have come across the continent in his gyro-car. We want to get on to Constantinople without delay.”

“I’m sorry to say we’ve had a mishap. My vessel went aground outside the harbour in the mist this morning. If we can get her off, it will be two or three days before she can put to sea. Understanding that the job was urgent, I wired to Malta, but I doubt whether another vessel can arrive within a couple of days; they are all at manœuvres. They might recall one by wireless, but she would certainly have to return to Malta for fuel. It’s rather a bad job.”

“It is indeed. We have been chased all the way by a gang of German or Austrian spies, who want to get hold of a despatch I have. We only got away by the skin of our teeth; no doubt they’ll be here before long.”

“The deuce they will!” said the officer. “Did they molest you at all?”

Maurice related the circumstances of the breakdown, and how the pursuers had fired at them.

“That’s good enough. Charge them with assault on the highway. The authorities here will take care of them.”

“I’m afraid I can’t afford the time. It would mean endless delays, and I’m sorry to say we haven’t quite clean hands ourselves—we don’t possess a licence.”

“That’s a trifle. Our consul can put that right; the authorities won’t interfere with a man in your position.”

“The less said about that the better,” returned Maurice; “my errand is best kept quiet. What I am concerned about is how to get to Sofia. I want to save time, and don’t at all relish the idea of kicking my heels here for days waiting for a torpedo-boat. Isn’t there a vessel in the harbour that will take me?”

“There’s a weekly service to Port Said, and an occasional boat to Constantinople. It takes more than three days, though. Look here, let us get out of this crowd and go to the hotel and talk it over. That’s a queer machine of yours.”

They proceeded to the hotel, George explaining the mechanism of the car as they went. At lunch they discussed the situation, having asked the proprietor to let them know if a green motor-car appeared in the town.

“The delay is very annoying,” said Maurice. “If we wait for a vessel it will take us four or five days to get to Sofia; that’s a week altogether. Isn’t there a steamer across the Strait of Otranto?”

“There’s a sailing vessel that takes eleven hours to make Corfu, but that won’t help you much.”

“Why not cross in the gyro?” suggested George.

“What!” exclaimed the officer.

“It goes perfectly well on the water,” pursued George. “How far is the strait across?”

“From about fifty to a hundred miles. But the idea, pardon me, is absurd. The sea is calm enough now; but these waters are subject to sudden storms, and your car could not live through anything like a sea.”

“I’m inclined to think we might try it, nevertheless,” said Maurice. “If the weather holds we could make the passage in seven or eight hours.”

“And then?”

“Then we should have to make our way across Albania.”

“Over the mountains! My dear sir, it’s quite impossible.”

“Our gyro can go wherever there’s a track,” protested George.

“You would be murdered en route,” said the officer; “they’re all brigands there.”

“When I was in Constantinople,” said Maurice, “I made acquaintance with several Albanians, and learnt something of the language. I think we might get through safely.”

“But, my dear sir, what about petrol? You will use far more in crossing the Adriatic than you would over the same distance by land, and you can’t possibly carry enough with you to take you to Sofia over mountainous country. There’s no chance whatever of getting petrol on the other side.”

“Yes, that is decidedly awkward,” said Maurice.

“Don’t give it up,” urged George. “Surely there’s a vessel of some sort that could take us over, and plenty of petrol too.”

“Let us ask the proprietor; he will know,” said Maurice.

The proprietor, on being summoned, told them that a small trading vessel, the Margherita, plied between the Italian and Dalmatian ports, frequently trading at Durazzo and Hagio Saranda. She was lying in the harbour, and would, no doubt, sail in the course of the afternoon. Maurice at once decided to go down to the harbour in company with the naval officer and interview the skipper, leaving George to look after the gyro-car and be on the watch for Slavianski and his crew.

There were two or three Austrian vessels in the harbour, including an Austrian-Lloyd liner bound for Trieste. Maurice had no doubt that, although the arrival of the green motor-car had not yet been reported, Slavianski had by this time reached the town. Probably he was keeping out of sight, but some of his party would be spying on the movements of the Englishmen. If they went openly on board the Margherita, she would almost certainly be followed by one of the Austrian vessels and overhauled at sea. But suddenly an idea occurred to Maurice: that the Margherita should put off at her appointed time, carrying some tins of petrol, if they could be taken on board without attracting attention. Somewhat later, the gyro-car should run to some little spot northward, take the water, join the vessel in the offing, and be towed by her across the Adriatic. By that means not only would petrol be saved, but immediate pursuit would be rendered impossible; for though Slavianski would certainly chase the gyro-car as soon as it was clear of Brindisi, he would be quite helpless when it ran into the sea, and be compelled to return. At any rate, much time would be gained.

The naval officer laughed when Maurice put this plan to him.

“This is strategy, if not diplomacy,” he said. “You are determined, I see; the next thing is to interview the skipper of the Margherita, and find out whether he will make terms with you.”

“Five English sovereigns will go a long way, I think,” returned Maurice.

And so it proved. The skipper, a stalwart native of Gallipoli, whose broad Southern patois was not easy to understand, readily agreed to undertake what was required of him. Maurice took him to a certain extent into his confidence, and he needed no persuasion to play a trick on Austrians. He suggested, as the spot to which the English signori should drive, Villanuova, a little place about thirty kilometres up the coast. It was not so far distant as Maurice would have liked, but Antonio Fagazzi assured him that beyond it the coast roads were impossible. The arrangement made was that the gyro-car should start about three hours after the Margherita sailed.

“When I have you in tow, signor,” said the skipper, “I will make all sail for Durazzo, and with the fair south wind behind us, we shall make port early to-morrow morning.”

“Durazzo is farther north than I want to go. On the other side I must make for Monastir and join the railway from Salonika. Hagio Saranda would suit me better.”

“We shall make better sailing to Durazzo, unless the wind shifts, signor,” said the skipper.

“Very well, we will be at Villanuova at dusk.”

They turned to retrace their way to the hotel. At the harbour gates they were met by a postal official, who handed a telegram to the naval officer and stood patiently expecting a gratuity.

“Just like our Intelligence Department,” said the officer on reading the telegram. He handed it to Buckland, who read:— Nobleman notorious foreign spy: be on guard.

“The fruit of the inquiry set on foot by the Foreign Office three days ago,” said Maurice. “It’s very good of them. Now I wonder whether I could get a map of Albania in the town? I don’t know the country, except in a very general way, and I should like to be able to take my bearings.”

“The chances are a hundred to one against you,” said the officer; “but we’ll see.”

Inquiries at all the likely shops in the main street proved fruitless.

“We shall have to take our chance,” said Maurice. “Now I must return to my brother, and tell him what we have arranged. We must also have some petrol sent to the Margherita at once—as much as we can load onto our car; and a couple of tyres. We can’t expect to get through without punctures on the mountains yonder.”

“Let us hope only your tyres will be punctured,” said the officer grimly. “I don’t envy you your journey.”

CHAPTER VIII

A ROMAN ROAD

Meanwhile George had thoroughly overhauled the car.

“She’s in tip-top condition,” he said. “Not a sign of weakness anywhere. Have you seen anything of Slavianski?”

“Nothing,” replied Maurice. “I don’t think he has come into the town. The arrival of a racing motor could not fail to attract attention. The Foreign Office has discovered who he is, and telegraphed to us to be on our guard.”

“Thank you for nothing,” said George with a grimace. “Have you made all arrangements?”

“Yes. The skipper is a stout fellow, and if his seamanship is as good as his Italian is bad, we shall make Durazzo in less than twelve hours.”

“What about passports, by the way?” asked the officer. “You can’t travel in Turkey without them.”

“I have mine,” replied Maurice. “George must pass as my chauffeur; I daresay they’ll let him in without difficulty in that capacity.”

Having dined early as the guest of the officer, they left the hotel about five o’clock, running the gauntlet of a crowd of urchins who shrieked entreaties for alms. George had started the gyroscopes while still in the garage. They proceeded due westward over a gradually ascending road until they ran down into the little town of S. Vito de Normanni. Immediately after leaving this town Maurice, looking back, saw the green car speeding after them at a tremendous pace.

“They haven’t given it up, then,” said George, when Maurice informed him.

He opened the throttle until the car spun along at the rate of nearly seventy miles an hour. For a few minutes the racer held its own, but then began to drop away, not from any defect of speed, but owing to the bumpiness of the road. Just before reaching Ostuni there was a short, steep hill, first down and then up. George did not slacken speed until he reached the by-road that turned abruptly to the right towards the sea. When round the corner he drove at maximum velocity, crossed the railway line, and came to the hamlet of Villanuova, within twenty minutes of leaving Brindisi. Maurice looked anxiously behind. There was no sign of the motor-car; it had indeed overshot the by-road.

Amid the wonderment of the fishermen, the gyro-car ran down the beach, and into the sea. The Margherita was not in sight, and George steered eastward to meet her. They were nearly a mile from the shore when they saw the motor-car emerge from the village. It halted for a few minutes; no doubt Slavianski was scanning the sea. Then it turned about, and disappeared from view.

“He’s running back to Brindisi,” said George. “Will he pursue us in one of those Austrian boats, I wonder?”

“It’s a lost game, I think,” replied Maurice. “It will be dark before he can overtake us, and even his perseverance won’t be able to discover us then. But I wish the Margherita were in sight.”

There were several craft, including a large steamer going south, near the horizon, too far off to be distinguished with any certainty. None of them was the Margherita. The travellers became anxious; had Antonio Fagazzi failed them?

“If she doesn’t appear soon we shall be in a pretty hobble,” said George. “I can’t do more than seven knots on the water.”

“We could steer for Durazzo by your compass if the weather keeps reasonably fine,” suggested Maurice.

“That’s true, but we should consume a terrible quantity of petrol, and probably shouldn’t have enough left for a hundred miles’ run in Albania. Has that skipper sold us?”

“I doubt it. Perhaps he had to wait for the petrol. We had better cruise about, and not too far from Villanuova.”

An hour went by; darkness fell, and they switched on one of the small electric lamps that lit the interior of the car. The wind blew cold, and their spirits sank: the Margherita might easily pass them in the dark, and they hesitated to light the powerful acetylene lamp, lest it attracted foes rather than friends. At last, when they almost despaired, they caught sight of a light some distance out at sea to the north-east. Immediately afterwards a second light appeared, near the first, but swinging like a pendulum.

“I fancy that’s a signal,” said George; “I’ll light our lamp and show it in that direction; it’s too far northward to be seen towards Brindisi.”

“We might make towards it, don’t you think?” said Maurice. “If you find we are wrong, we must try to slip away in the darkness.”

They moved slowly towards the swinging light, George every now and then turning his lamp inwards. In half an hour they came up with a sailing vessel, hove to.

“Is that the Margherita?” Maurice called in Italian.

“Si, Signori,” came the reply. “An Austrian gunboat ran down a little while ago, and I thought it best not to take you in tow while she was in sight. Now that they have this telegraphing without wires, I feared she might communicate with the Austrian vessels in the harbour.”

Maurice complimented the man on his forethought. A rope was thrown from the deck; George made it fast to the gyro-car; the skipper hauled up his courses, and the vessel sailed away on the smooth sea, under a cloudless sky, towards the Illyrian coast. The brothers slept for the greater part of the night, too fatigued to feel the want of overcoats or rugs.

At daybreak on the following morning they saw, far ahead, the castellated fortress of Durazzo gleaming white on its rocky headland, with the Albanian hills behind. Just as Brindisi had evoked memories of Virgil and Horace, so Durazzo—the Dyrhacchium of the ancient world, and the starting-point of the Via Egnatia—had familiar associations in Maurice’s mind. As they stepped on to the jetty he said to George:

“It’s odd to think that Cicero may have come ashore on this very spot? He chose Dyrhacchium as his place of exile when he fled from Clodius.”

“Well, all I can say is,” said George, “that I’ve lost all my respect for Roman noses. Brindisi was bad enough, but there are several generations of stinks here.”

Maurice smiled, and turned from him to meet the Customs officer, who addressed him in Italian. The gyro-car was being swung ashore from the deck of the Margherita.

“I am at a loss, Signor,” said the officer, eyeing the vehicle in perplexity. “I have no scale for such a thing. Is it a boat or a motor-car?”

“It is both, Signor,” replied Maurice.

“Then I fear I must refer the matter to Constantinople. It will be a week or more before I receive a reply. Meanwhile I must, of course, impound the machine.”

“Perhaps that will not be necessary, Signor,” said Maurice, pleasantly. “As a boat it is not subject to duty, I presume. I am quite willing to pay the duty on a motor-car and on the petrol we carry.”

“That will be sufficient, Signor. But have you a passport?”

Maurice produced it, and the official handed it back after inspection.

“And this other?” he added, indicating George, who stood looking on with the air of suspicion common with persons who hear a conversation in a language they do not understand.

“He is my chauffeur; he doesn’t count, Signor,” replied Maurice, smiling as he thought how indignant George would be if he understood him.

This explanation satisfied the official, who accepted the English money offered him in payment of the duties, and allowed the travellers to pass. They made their way, wheeling the gyro-car, through the single dirty street of which Durazzo consists, avoiding the small hairy bullocks that lay here and there, and the swarms of red-capped children who buzzed about them, calling out: “Capitagno! O capitagno! Pará! pará!” Maurice beckoned one, and asked him in Italian to lead him to the little hotel recommended by the skipper of the Margherita, promising him a couple of paras for his trouble. Meanwhile the sailors were trundling the tins of petrol in the rear.

The hotel was kept by an Italian, who gave the English capitani—all well-dressed strangers are captains in Durazzo—a satisfactory breakfast.

Maurice entered into conversation with him, and learnt, with a certain misgiving, that there were several Austrians in the town. For some time past there had been an influx of Austrians into the seaboard districts of Albania. They had been diligent in making friends with the people, sympathising with them in the diminished prosperity of the ports due to the railway from Salonika, hinting that the day of independence would soon dawn for them, and that when they finally threw off the Turkish yoke they might get a slice of territory from Servia or Montenegro. These hints and suggestions fell on a ready soil. The Albanians were still sore from the stern suppression of their rising a few years before, and the disarmament which had been attempted by the Turks. They resented also the endeavours of the Turkish Government to enforce the use in their schools of Arabic characters instead of the Latin alphabet, which had been formally adopted in a national congress. Their discontent was being artfully fomented by Austrian agents, who had plenty of secret service money at their disposal. Something of this was already known to Maurice; but the hotel-keeper having, as a good Italian, a cordial dislike of the growth of Austrian influence, told his English guest a great deal that was not suspected by the British Foreign Office.

Maurice was making a careful mental note of all this for the benefit of his chief, when Antonio Fagazzi came in hurriedly:

“Per Bacco! Signor,” he cried, “there is a steam-launch making all speed for the harbour. She shows no flag yet, but she is as like an Austrian launch that lay in Brindisi harbour yesterday as one egg to another.”

This news was disquieting, in the light of what Maurice had learnt from the hotel-keeper. He had good hope of escaping the pursuit of Slavianski if they once got among the mountains and had only natural difficulties to contend with. These difficulties, of course, were serious enough. Apart from the risks of travelling through a wild and unknown country of rugged mountains, there was the danger of falling among brigands. To this must now be added the probability that the Albanian mountaineers, who would, perhaps, in any case be likely to regard the travellers as fair game, would be egged on by the Austrians to attack them, not merely as travellers, but as enemies of the country. It was the Young Turks that were troubling Albania, and the Young Turks were encouraged by England. Slavianski, if he was in the approaching launch, would not scruple to make use of odium and prejudice to effect his purpose.

Maurice thanked the skipper, and learning from him that the launch would probably not make the harbour for half an hour, decided to leave Durazzo at once. The gyro-car could travel a good distance in half an hour. He told George rapidly what he had heard. They laid in a stock of food and wine—this of a poor quality, but the best, and indeed the only, beverage the hotel afforded—and bought a fez each as a measure of precaution, Maurice saying that if they passed through the country in infidel hats, some fanatical Moslems might be provoked to molest them. Then they prepared to start.

But they were not to get away easily. At the door they were beset by people, old and young, begging the nobili capitani to purchase their wares. Maurice sternly refused, knowing that if he bought from one, the rest would clamour the more persistently. They had mounted into the car, when the bimbashi of the Turkish garrison came up and demanded to see their taskereh. Maurice amiably showed him the passport, and gave him the same explanation about George; whereupon the officer became very friendly, and began to ask questions about the mechanism of the car. It required all Maurice’s tact to make his answers brief without offence; and when at last the car was started, nearly a quarter of an hour had passed.

Maurice felt miserably handicapped by the lack of a map. Monastir, the place he intended to make for, was, he knew, due east of Durazzo, but he did not know how far distant it was, nor could the hotel-keeper tell him with any certainty. The road at first ran over a plain, but it was worse than the worst by-lane in the wildest part of England. To an ordinary motor-car it would have been quite impassable, and even a cyclist would have had to dismount frequently. But over such rough ground the gyro-car had an advantage. Its equilibrium was not easily disturbed; it could even run in a rut that would prove fatal to motor-car or bicycle. Yet it was only at a very modest pace that the travellers were able to pick their way along this apology for a highway. George’s patience was severely taxed when he found it impossible to maintain a higher average speed than about six miles an hour.

The ground rose gradually towards a barren range of hills, along the sides of which ran a track so narrow, that if it had rained there would have been the greatest risk of skidding on the slippery clay soil. George had to drive with infinite care, crawling along at a walking pace, and often applying the brakes. When they had crossed the ridge they saw a broad river winding picturesquely between high cliffs, and a village nestling among olive-grounds. Here Maurice would have liked to engage a guide, but reflected that there was no time to make inquiries, and it would be imprudent to employ a man without recommendation. Maurice knew enough of the Albanian language to ask the way of the keeper of a small han, as the inns are called, and learnt that Tirana, the first town of any size, lay about four hours’ journey across the river. Beyond Tirana, another four or five hours’ march, lay Elbasan, and though its distance from Durazzo could scarcely have been more than forty miles as the crow flies, it was clear that they would be lucky if they reached it by nightfall.

They passed on, and found that the river wound so frequently that they had to ford it eight times before they finally crossed it by a stone bridge. At this point the road was a trifle better, and they were able to drive faster. At another time they might have been interested in the scenes along the road—the luxuriant olive-gardens, the women trudging with heavy bundles on their backs, knitting as they walked; the teams of mules laden with black wool, and driven by black-cloaked men who called upon Allah as the strange vehicle ran past them. But their anxieties forbade more than a fleeting attention to their surroundings. They crossed little streams on crazy plank budges, each one of which gave George a shudder; and as they approached Tirana were amazed at the immense flocks of turkeys that infested the road, and stubbornly refused to heed the warnings of the hooter.

Tirana itself proved to be even more dirty than Durazzo. They were hungry, but wished to reserve for emergencies the food bought at Durazzo, yet hesitated to seek a meal in the wretched-looking hans. Plucking up their courage, they entered that which appeared least offensive, and found themselves in a low room, suffocatingly hot, festooned with cobwebs, and swarming with cockroaches. They made a meal of grapes, the only article of food for which they had any appetite, and left the place in a few minutes, to find the whole population gazing with awe at the gyro-car.

On again, through a broad, undulating plain, and once more into the mountains, covered with beech and oak and a tangle of ferns and creepers. Looking back over the splendid prospect when they reached the crest, they saw, in the valley about four miles away, a party of horsemen following the same track as themselves, and riding at extraordinary speed, considering the nature of the ground. They were too far away to be distinguished, but, strung up to anticipate pursuit, the Bucklands did not doubt that Slavianski and his companions had engaged Albanian guides, and were hot-foot in chase.

“We can go wherever horses can,” said George, “and faster. They daren’t go at more than a walking-pace in these hills. By the time they get here we ought to be a dozen miles away.”

“I shouldn’t risk too high a speed,” said Maurice; “a single slip, and we’re over a precipice.”

“Don’t be nervous, old man. Those white minarets yonder should be Elbasan; but we can’t venture to put up for the night, can we?”

“I’m afraid not. It will be four o’clock by the time we get there, at a guess; we shall have to go on until it’s dark, and then either find a shelter in some village, or camp in the open. It will be quite impossible to run by night, as we did in Italy.”

“Well, luckily it’s fine. I suppose there are no wild beasts in these parts?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve got a fit of the blues,” said George. “I hoped we had seen the last of those fellows.”

“I confess I’m off colour too. There is evidently a good deal at stake with Slavianski, or he wouldn’t have kept it up so long. We have had good luck so far, but the country is getting wilder as we go on, and we shall come across the mountaineers before long. If we are held up, we shall be overtaken.”

“Confound your despatch!”

“I’m not troubled about my despatch,” said Maurice with a laugh; “that is, I don’t think Slavianski will find it. The bother is the delay. The Foreign Secretary would have risked the telegraph, I think, if he had had any inkling of Slavianski’s game.”

“Well, we’ve had some fun,” said George; “but I hope it’s not going to be spoilt now. I’d relish a stand-up fight, with a fair chance; but this handicap’s rather unfair, don’t you think so?”

“My dear fellow, have you lost faith in your gyro-car?”

CHAPTER IX

THE HONOUR OF AN ALBANIAN

Passing a long stretch of walled olive-gardens, the travellers arrived at Elbasan. The gate in its high and massive wall stood open. They ran through into a narrow, dirty street, roofed over with matting and dry leaves, scattering the groups of wild, sullen-looking inhabitants, some of whom raised a fierce cry of “Shaitan!”; others put their fingers into their mouths and whistled shrilly, after the manner of English butcher-boys. But the travellers were not molested; they left the town, spun through a barren valley, and crossing the river Skumbi by the high one-arched bridge, found themselves climbing a steep and difficult path that wound along at the edge of clay precipices, so narrow that if they had met another vehicle, or a mule-train, further progress would have been impossible.

They had nearly reached the top, going slowly, as the perilous nature of the path demanded, when they saw, bright against the grey wall ahead, a young man with a rifle in his hand, intently watching them.

“Our first brigand!” said George. “Have your revolver handy.”

“The disarmament is evidently a fiction,” said Maurice. “Sound your hooter; he is stepping into the middle of the path.”

“Better not, in case Slavianski is within earshot. I’ll give him a shout when we come near, and if he doesn’t budge I’m afraid we shall have to bowl him over.”

But at that moment a shot rang out from the hill above. The man gave a cry, staggered, and dropped his rifle, which fell over the precipice, and could be heard clashing against the saplings that grew out of the clayey wall. There was a shout from the hill-top, and a second man scrambled down the steep and rugged slope about two hundred yards away. The wounded man drew his dagger and faced about as if to await the onslaught of his enemy; but as the car came up with him, he seemed to realise that without a rifle his case was desperate, and with a sudden spring clutched at the side of the vehicle and began to run along beside it. His action would have overthrown a motor bicycle, but the gyroscopes kept the car steady.

“Beat him off!” cried George, thinking that the man meditated an attack. It was impossible to shake him off by increasing the speed on such a dangerous path, so he slowed down in order to give Maurice assistance if it were needed. But the man begged him earnestly to proceed, and on the impulse of the moment Maurice leant over the side and helped him to scramble into the car. There was a sharp bend in the path a few yards ahead. As they came to this, a bullet struck the face of the cliff at an angle, and bespattered them with crumbs of hard clay. Next moment they turned the corner, and were out of sight of the man who had now descended to the path.

George, though dubious of the prudence of his brother’s impulsive action, ventured to run a little faster in spite of the risk. Before the car reached a second bend another bullet whistled past, unpleasantly close, and again he increased the speed.

“Go easy,” said Maurice, after a minute or two. “We must be out of reach now. The oaks below there are very picturesque, but I shouldn’t care for a closer acquaintance with them.”

At this point the precipice on their left broke away at the height of several hundred feet, and through a cleft beyond they saw a snow-capped mountain towering into the sky. On the other side, far below, lay a dense oak forest, through which they caught glimpses of a river sparkling like a silver thread.

Mustering his stock of Albanian phrases, Maurice questioned the man.

“You were attacked. Why?”

“For blood, excellence,” was the reply.

Maurice had lived long enough in the Balkans to understand what the man’s answer implied. Either he, or one of his family, perhaps generations before, had injured a man of another family, and there was a relentless blood-feud between them. Maurice did not press the question, but, as dusk was falling, asked the man whether he knew of a han in the neighbourhood where they might put up for the night.

“No han, excellence,” replied the man; “but the house of my family is near; there you will be welcome. You have saved me, excellence. Tan giat tjeter!” (Long life to you!)

They went on for a short distance. Then, at a narrow defile in the hill, they left the track at a word from the Albanian, and climbed up a still narrower path, winding intricately amid dark, overhanging woods. After about half a mile they came to an opening among the trees, where stood a tiny village clustered at the foot of the hill. First was a square three-storied building, with a narrow door in one face, and small windows on two sides. This was the kula, a sort of watchtower for the village, and there, as the Albanian explained, lived his grandfather, his father, two uncles, three brothers, and a cousin, with their families. Beyond were smaller houses, which appeared to be entered through a hole in the wall, approached by ricketty ladders.

At sight of the gyro-car, a child, dressed in a kind of sack, screamed shrilly and fled into the house. George stopped the car; they all alighted, and the Albanian led them to the doorway, paying no heed to the explanations of the neighbours who flocked up.

Following him, the travellers mounted a crazy ladder to the top of the house, and found themselves in a vast dark room. At the further end a fire was smouldering under a kind of tent. As their eyes became accustomed to the dimness, they saw nearly a score of persons, male and female, squatting on chests ranged round the walls. Their guide spoke a few words. Instantly there was commotion. A woman threw a faggot on the fire, which flared up, revealing smoke-blackened rafters, from which, as from the walls, hung weapons, field implements, haunches of dried meat, and festoons of smoked fish. Others of the company strewed the floor with sheepskins and cushions for the visitors, and an old man removed a millstone that blocked a narrow window, and shouted: “We have guests; we have guests.” The travellers wondered at this, until they learnt presently that it was a warning to the people of the hamlet: while guests were in the house, blood-feuds were in abeyance.

The family’s reception of their guests lacked nothing in warmth. A kid was instantly cut up in preparation for a meal; rakia, a kind of spirit, was poured from stone pitchers into earthenware goblets; no questions were asked. When the grandson of the old man explained what the strangers had done for him, there were loud cries of praise and gratitude; and hearing that they had come on a devil machine, the whole party trooped out of the house to inspect it. Maurice asked that it might be placed in safety, and it was wheeled into the large chamber that occupied the ground floor, and served as stable and storeroom.

The old man meanwhile attended to his grandson’s injury. He professed to be an expert in the treatment of gunshot wounds. He took the white of an egg and a handful of salt, mixed them together, poured the liquid on the man’s injured arm, and bandaged it. This would suffice for an hour or two, until he had compounded a lotion of rakia and pine resin. While he was doing this he explained to Maurice, who knew enough of the language to follow him, that the man who had fired the shot owned the house opposite. He had accused Giorgio—such was the young man’s name—of setting fire to his haystacks. The charge had been considered by a council of elders, and Giorgio was acquitted. But in Albania acquittal is no bar to a second trial; indeed, the case had been heard two or three times, always with the same result. Then the ill-feeling between the families found vent in a free fight, in which a relative of the accuser had been killed. Now there would be no peace until either Giorgio or one of his family had been slain, and the honour of the accuser “cleaned.” For some weeks Giorgio had not ventured to leave the house alone until this day. If accompanied by a relative he would be safe, but alone he was always in danger. It was only because the enemy had been absent for some days that he had gone out unattended, and evidently he had met the avenger returning home.

While they were eating their supper, Maurice, knowing that, as a guest, he could depend on his host’s friendship, explained briefly, and in halting speech, the circumstances in which he was placed, and his intention of proceeding next day to Monastir. The old man was much troubled. The Inglesi, he said, were disliked in Albania. They were represented by the Austrians as friends of the Turks and the Serbs, whom the Albanians hated and distrusted equally. He recommended that the travellers should call themselves Austrians, and be very free with their money as they passed through the villages in the interior.

They were still talking, when there was the sound of a shot without. The women and children shrieked: the men started up in great indignation at this breach of the besa or truce, which ought to remain inviolate while guests were in the house. One of the sons ran to the door, and soon returned shaking with laughter. The shot had merely been fired by one of their neighbours in sport.

An hour or two later, when the women were preparing for the guests beds of reed mats, felt sheets, and red-cotton pillows, laid on the chests by the wall, a loud voice was heard outside hailing the master of the house. Feeling secure in the besa, the old man once more removed the millstone from the window, and asked who spoke and what he wanted. It was too dark to see. Maurice tried to follow the ensuing dialogue, and understood enough of it to make him desperately uneasy.

“You Giulika, I know you, Christian dog that you are,” cried the man without. “I demand that you give up the English spies, who are overrunning the country on a contrivance of Shaitan himself.”

“What, you Moslem pig, have you come from Elbasan on a fool’s errand? Shall I deliver up my guests? It is no custom of my house to betray those who seek my hospitality. Know that I take what guests I please, and keep them.”

“Hound, they are spies, infidels like yourself. Give them up, or you will suffer a grievous punishment when the Bey hears of it.”

“Get you back whence you came,” cried the old man, “lest evil befall you. Who are you to bid Giulika lose his honour by betraying a guest? Begone! Trouble me no more.”

He spat out of the window and replaced the mill-stone.

Maurice had understood only a part of what had been said. The old man explained to him that the summoner was a swordsmith of Elbasan, a Moslem, and an ill-conditioned fellow. And from the clanking of horses’ bits that he had heard at a little distance he believed that the swordsmith was accompanied by a considerable party. But no matter who they were, or how numerous, he would never defile his honour by betraying his guests.

Begging old Giulika to excuse him, Maurice turned to consult with George, who was looking puzzled and anxious.

“It’s very unfortunate that we are here,” said the elder brother. “The old fellow refuses to give us up, but I’m afraid he’ll suffer for it. The man who summoned him is a Moslem; he’s a Christian himself; and though the Christians and Moslems live peacefully enough as a rule, they fight like tiger-cats if they’re set by the ears. I’ve no doubt that Slavianski has hired a lot of ruffians who’ll commit any sort of outrage for pay, and if he works up the anti-English feeling, we may have a whole tribe attacking us. We’ve no right to involve the old man and his family in our difficulties.”

“Couldn’t we slip away in the darkness? One of the family might guide us.”

“I’ll ask him. My good friend,” he said to the old man, “we thank you for your hospitality, but we know what trouble we may bring upon you. We wish to go to Monastir; could one of your sons or grandsons guide us, if we slip out of the house by-and-by?”

Giulika reflected, and spoke to his sons.

“It is not wise, stranger,” he said at length. “My honour is engaged, by the law of Lek, to protect you for a day after you leave my house. By night, it is true, you could go up into the hills, and be safe: but when it is light, you would be seen, and your presence would be shouted from hill to hill, until the whole country was roused. That is certain if you proceed to Monastir by Ochrida.”

“Could we not go some other way?” suggested Maurice. “I wish ultimately to reach Sofia.”

“Yes, there is a long and difficult road to the north. It would be safe, perhaps, to travel by way of Prizren. The people of the north do not love the Austrians: it is only they of the south that are flattered and deluded by them. They do not love the Serbs nor the Montenegrins, but they have no wish to change bad neighbours for worse masters. Do they not remember what has befallen the Bosnians?”

“It is a very long way to Prizren, and thence to Bulgaria,” objected Maurice.

“True; it is farther than to Monastir, and more hilly. But I tell you, friend, it is safer.”

“How could we go?”

“Along the banks of the Black Drin. It is a bad road; but not impossible.”

At this an idea struck Maurice. If they could gain the bank of the river, they might float down the current on the gyro-car without any expenditure of petrol. The river would only take them a short distance in the direction they wished to go, because it swept westward towards the Adriatic; but a river journey would have the advantage of keeping them off the frequented roads, and probably out of sight from the pursuers.

“How far is it to the river?” he asked.

“About five hours’ march to Struga, by the main road: about seven hours to the Drin below Struga, by the mountain paths. Why does my friend ask?”

“The machine you saw is a boat. Could we take it over the paths you mention?”

“You have brought it from Elbasan, by the mercy of God,” said the old man with a smile. “Why should you not take it to the Drin? For myself, I would not trust my life to it; but the Inglesi are great adventurers. The mountains to the north are higher than those you have passed, but I know of a pass that avoids the highest summits. The track begins but a little way behind this house; it climbs the hill, and then winds in and out among the lower slopes of the mountains above the Drin.”

All this time the old man had preserved a cheerful demeanour, evincing no anxiety as to what might be going on outside. The silence there seemed to Maurice suspicious. Slavianski had shown such persistence hitherto that he was hardly likely to draw back when, to all appearance, he had his quarry in a trap.

Suddenly there was a great commotion without. Shots rang out, followed by fierce cries. Then came from below a crash as of some heavy body driven against the massive door, which had been closed and bolted at nightfall.

“They are trying to break in!” cried George.

The old man showed no trace of alarm. Some of the younger members of his family climbed up a ladder in a corner of the room, leading to the roof, where a store of stones and combustibles was kept for just such an occasion as this. George, thinking of the safety of the gyro-car, snatched up a rifle and cartridges and hurried down the ricketty ladder to the ground floor. Maurice followed him, gripping his revolver; and Giulika took a rifle from the wall and descended the steps more slowly.

The Bucklands had just reached the door when it was burst in, yielding to a tremendous blow from something of the nature of a battering-ram. They fired at the crowd beginning to swarm in. In darkness themselves, they were able to take good aim at the enemy by the glare of combustibles flung down from the roof. The shots from the black doorway checked the rush. The assailants shrank back, into a shower of stones hurled at them from above. At the same time, to Maurice’s surprise, they were met by a fusillade from the opposite house—the dwelling of the man who owed “blood” to Giorgio, and had that very day attempted his life. It was one of the inconsistencies of this strange people. As a private person Giorgio was the man’s deadly enemy, to be stalked and shot down without remorse as a family duty. But as a fellow-villager, attacked by men of another place and another religion, he was to be helped even at personal risk. “Blood” was forgotten in face of a public danger.

Taken thus between two fires, and battered by the falling stones, the assailants were utterly discomfited. The crowd fell apart, they flitted away into the blackness beyond, and in the fitful light of the fireballs from the roof, Maurice caught a glimpse of Slavianski and his party hastening after the Albanians.

CHAPTER X

SOME RIDDLES AND A NURSERY RHYME

Old Giulika, laughing with a childish delight in the discomfiture of the enemy, closed the door, and, since the bolts had been broken, had it barricaded with balks of timber that were kept on the ground floor. Then he returned with his guests to the living apartments at the top of the house. He was quite cheerful. He joked with the men of his family on their victory, and ordered the women, who showed no alarm, to prepare a sumptuous supper to celebrate it. The larder, which consisted of two large dug-out troughs, did not contain anything very dainty; but a fowl and a young pig were soon simmering in a huge pot of beans, and on these, served in wooden ladles, and hard maize bread, the men feasted; the women would eat when their lords had finished.

The guests had little appetite. They were very weary, but too anxious and troubled to sleep. The air of the room was hot and oppressive, and by-and-by the old man, perceiving how pale they were, asked if he could serve them in any way, and, at their request, immediately removed the millstones from the two unglazed windows, and let in a current of cool air. He chuckled as he returned to the company. The enemy, he said, had encamped some little distance away, around a large fire; evidently they wished to be out of reach of stones from the roof. They, too, appeared to be cheerful. Strains of song rose from the encampment—fierce songs of war, of struggles with the Turks, and the heroic deeds of Scanderbeg. Presently these ceased, and there was a vast stillness without.

But not within. After supper the guests expected the family to repair to their mat beds, and felt some delicacy in remaining among them. But Giulika commanded the women and children to retire behind their curtains, and the men to form a group in the middle of the room.

“We must cheer our guests,” he said, “unless they wish to sleep.”

Maurice assured him that to sleep was impossible.

“That is well,” said the old man; “too much sleep is bad for men. Now, Marko, ask a riddle. And you, Doda, go to the roof to watch.”

One of his grandsons drank off a mug of rakia, and mounted to the roof. Another cleared his throat, and said:

“Though it is not an ox, it has horns; though it is not an ass, it has a pack-saddle, and wherever it goes it leaves silver behind.”

“Ah! that is a good one,” cried Giulika. “What is the answer, friend Inglesi?”

Maurice’s head was racking, but he smiled, and pretended to consider; he would not hurt the feelings of these hospitable folk. But he confessed in a few minutes that the riddle was beyond him.

“Aha! it is a fine riddle: a snail, friend,” and he chuckled with glee. “Ho, Doda!” he called up the ladder, “is there anything?”

“Nothing,” was the reply.

“That is well. Now, Dushmani, it is your turn.”

His second son, a big, fierce-looking fellow, with a huge moustache, scratched his shaven head; all heads in Albania are shaven, leaving patches of hair of various shapes.

“What is that which wears the wool inside and the flesh outside?” he asked.

“A splendid riddle!” cried his father; “Answer that if you can, friend.”

Again Maurice considered. He repeated the riddle in English to George, who was making heroic efforts to appear interested.

“They must think we’re kids,” he said, sourly.

“Well, smile, old boy; they’ve done a good deal for us.”

George grinned vacantly at his host, who slapped his thigh, and asked if the young Inglesi had discovered the answer.

“No, we are not good at riddles in England,” said Maurice. “We cannot tell.”

“A candle!” shouted the old man, triumphantly. “You would never have guessed that. Now I will give one myself.”

So an hour or two passed, every riddle being received with the same gravity, every answer with the same simple joy. At intervals Giulika called to his grandson on the roof; the answer was always the same. Then they fell to telling stories. One of these tickled even George when Maurice translated it to him.

“A man,” said Giulika, “bought a donkey in the bazaar and led it away. Two thieves followed him. His back being turned, one slipped the halter from the donkey and put it over his own head. The other went off with the donkey. When he had had time to escape, his mate began to pull and groan. The purchaser looked back, and lo! there was no donkey, but instead, a man. ‘Where is my donkey?’ he asked, in great amazement. ‘Woe is me!’ cried the thief; ‘I am that luckless being. A magician turned me into a donkey for fifteen years; the time has just come to an end. I am a man again, and have nothing, and know not where to go.’ And the kind man released him, and gave him some money.”

Roars of laughter greeted the end of the story. Then Giorgio, the young man who had been wounded, and had hitherto kept silence, announced that he had had a very funny thought. It tickled him so much that for a time he could not tell it; and even while he told it, laughter interrupted him after every sentence.

“Suppose a cow fell from the cliff opposite,” he said. “It would be broken all to pieces. Every man would run to pick up a bit for supper. Then suppose, just as they got there, the bits all joined into a cow again and ran away!”

The thought of their disappointment amused the company so much that they shouted again and again. More stories followed, and all the time Maurice was pondering on his plight, wondering what the next day would bring forth. Slavianski had not given up his purpose; the encampment outside was proof of that. The darkness had been to his disadvantage in the first attack; would he renew his onslaught on the morrow? Was the kula strong enough to withstand him? Was it right to imperil the lives and goods of these kindly, simple Albanians? Presently, from sheer exhaustion, both George and Maurice fell into an uneasy sleep, from which they were roused, as the dawn was stealing into the room, by a shout from Doda, who had remained on the roof. The enemy were advancing to the attack. There was a score of Albanians, and four Europeans, and the tall, bearded leader of the Europeans was urging on men who bore a heavy tree-trunk slung on ropes.

The old patriarch, instantly ordered the ladder leading to the ground floor to be drawn up. He knew that the door would not withstand a battering-ram. At the same time the rest of the men went to the windows and the roof and fired at the assailants, some of the boys hurling stones down among them. There were scattered shots also from the other houses in the village. The enemy replied briskly with a fusillade. Several of them were hit, but the others rushed forward to the door, broke it in with one stroke of the ram, and poured into the house, followed by the Austrians.

But here they were baffled by the removal of the ladder. They shouted to the old man, commanding him to deliver up his guests. They fired through the trapdoor; there was no one on the second storey, but the Mauser bullets pierced the logs that formed the floor of the upper room, and sent the inmates for safety to the roof. Thence they fired, but sparingly, for they had not many cartridges; their stock of missiles also was becoming exhausted: but the old man declared that they were safe—there was no ladder in the village long enough to replace that which had been withdrawn.

What was to be the end of it? The answer was soon made clear. A smell of burning arose from the bottom of the house. The invaders had set fire to some of the stores. Maurice could not but regard this as merely a warning; he could scarcely believe that Slavianski, however unscrupulous, deliberately intended to burn down the house and all that it contained. Giulika, looking grave at the destruction of his property, took the same view, and declared that such threats were vain; every Albanian must know that his honour was committed to the preservation of his guests, and he could never give them up. Such loyalty in a half-savage mountaineer stirred Maurice to admiration.

“The car!” cried George suddenly. “If a spark catches the petrol the whole place will be blown up.”

Without an instant’s hesitation Maurice sprang down into the room, down the ladder to the next floor, and, leaning over the opening, called aloud that he surrendered.

“Count Slavianski,” he cried, “spare the household.”

“Assuredly, Mr. Buckland,” replied the man.

“And wheel the gyro-car into the open, away from the fire, or the petrol will explode.”

The Count evidently had not thought of that. The fire had indeed been started by the men of Elbasan, without orders from him, and he had been too much occupied to remember the danger. Fortunately the car was at the rear of the large chamber; the fire was at the front. He ordered the Albanians to beat out the fire, explaining to them that the Inglesi had surrendered, and the siege was at an end.

By this time Maurice had been joined by George and the men of the household. Giulika was almost angry at the turn of events. But Maurice courteously waved aside his expostulations, and, the ladder having been let down, descended to the ground.

“I congratulate you,” said the Count in French, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“On what, may I ask?” said Maurice.

“First, on the ingenuity of your scheme of travel; now, on your return to your senses. The air is fresher outside; shall we continue our conversation there?”

They went into the open air. At a sign from Rostopchin, George and the members of the household were disarmed as they came one by one down the ladder, the Austrian explaining, in answer to Giulika’s indignant outcry, that the weapons would be returned very soon.

“Now, Monsieur,” said Slavianski when they were outside, “I have wasted so much time that we had better come to business at once. You have a despatch from your Secretary of State?”

“You say so, Monsieur le Comte.”

“I ask you to hand it to me—to save trouble.”

“Of course I shall hand you nothing.”

“Then I must search you. Resistance is useless.” He glanced significantly at the group of Albanians who stood beside their horses a few yards distant.

“I shall not resist,” said Maurice with a smile. “But you will permit me to make a formal protest.”

“A protest can do no harm,” said the Count, grinning, “Now, if you please.”

The search was concluded in a surprisingly short time. From one pocket the Count removed a revolver, from another a long envelope with the official seal, and addressed to His Majesty’s agent and consul-general at Sofia. He did not attempt to conceal his elation. Breaking the seal, he drew from the envelope the folded paper it contained, opened it, and, after a glance, said:

“Seeing that the game is up, you will no doubt save time by deciphering the despatch.”

“I won’t deprive you of that pleasure,” said Maurice serenely.

The Austrian smiled. Taking a little book from his pocket, he turned quickly over a few pages.

“We are not without resources, Mr. Buckland,” he said. “I have here the key to your Foreign Office cipher.”

A faint smile showed itself on Maurice’s face. George, who, a moment before, had glowered with indignation, for Rostopchin had tied his hands behind him, now grinned broadly. The scene was peaceful. Hostilities had ceased: Giulika and his men leant disconsolate against the wall of their house; the half-dozen neighbours lolled at their doors, idly watching; and the intruders from Elbasan stood beside their horses, looking on with silent curiosity.

The Count rapidly pencilled, with the aid of his key, the translation of the despatch. After a word or two a look of puzzlement stole upon his face. He knit his brows, compared the words before him with the key, and summoned Rostopchin to his side. The two spoke in whispers inaudible to Maurice, who had lighted a cigarette, and was pacing up and down unconcernedly.

“It is clearly correct,” said Rostopchin. “Finish it; we shall get the explanation by-and-by.”

The Count proceeded with his task. In twenty minutes he had finished. His puzzlement had but increased. With a frown of irritation he pored over what he had written with Rostopchin.

“There must be a secret within a secret,” said the secretary.

The Count strode towards Maurice.

“Zis, is it correct?” he asked in English curtly, spreading his transliteration.

Maurice glanced over it.

“Quite correct, Monsieur le Comte,” he said.

“Zen vill you tell me vat zis mean? I do not understand it:—

Hey, diddle, diddle,

Ze cat and ze fiddle,

Ze cow jomp over ze moon——

“Vat is ze meaning of zis—zis galimatias?” demanded the Count, his English failing him.

“It is very idiomatic,” said Maurice, “but as you have deciphered it correctly, I have no objection to putting it into plain English. ‘Hey,’ Monsieur, is an exclamation of warning: equivalent to ‘look out,’ ‘beware,’ in French, gare. ‘Diddle,’ is ‘to deceive,’ ‘take in,’ ‘to spoof,’ ‘lead anyone a wild-goose chase.’ The cat, as you are aware, is not a musical animal, but there is a certain variety, bred in our county of Cheshire, that smiles at any mention of fiddlesticks. The cow is—just a cow. It may be of any nationality: Russian, German, or even Austrian, but it is merely a cow, unless specially qualified. ‘To jump over’ or ‘shoot the moon’ is English argot for a sudden change of address. The moon refers to the lunatics—you have the same word, Mondsüchtige—who are deceived or diddled thereby. ‘The little dog laughed to see such sport’—that is quite clear; but we usually say in English, ‘it is enough to make a cat laugh,’ referring to——”

But at this point in Maurice’s commentary, delivered in an even, placid tone of voice, the Count’s rising fury burst its bounds.

“Sapperment!” he cried. “You dare to play viz me! I give you ten minutes—ten minutes, and no more, to consider. You vill tell me vere your despatch is”—he tore up and cast away the fragments of the bogus despatch—“or if your message is merely verbal you vill acquaint me viz it.”

“And if I do not, Monsieur le Comte?”

“If you do not, you shall be shot.”

CHAPTER XI

IN THE SMALL HOURS

The amusement with which George had listened to his brother’s ironic nonsense turned to dismay and despair. Helpless with his hands bound behind him, he hurried to Maurice’s side.

“He does not mean it?” he cried.

Maurice shrugged, and lighted another cigarette.

“Whatever happens to me, old boy, you won’t betray our secret.”

“No; but—he can’t mean it, Maurice.”

Further speech was prevented when Slavianski came up and demanded that Maurice should take off his coat and waistcoat. These he searched thoroughly: there was no despatch in pockets or lining. Meanwhile Rostopchin and the other Austrians had gone to the back of the house, taken the valise from the gyro-car, turned out its contents, and thoroughly overhauled them. Then Slavianski himself joined them and searched the gyro-car, finding nothing but the Guide Taride, the maps they had bought en route, and the provisions brought from Durazzo. By this time the ten minutes had expired.

The Count returned to the front of the house. His face was black with rage. Addressing George, he cried:

“Are you a fool like your brozer? Vere is ze despatch?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” replied George, his cheeks going white.

“Zen I vill shoot your brozer before your eyes: and if zat does not cure you of your obstinacy, ze next bullet shall be for you.”

He raged up to Maurice.

“Once more I demand zat you tell me vere is your despatch, or vat it contained. It is ze last time. Refuse, and you vill be shot. Don’t flatter yourself zat I shall hesitate.”

“I have no information to give,” replied Maurice, between puffs of his cigarette.

The Count strode to him, snatched the cigarette from his lips, and bade his men tie his hands behind. When this was done he called forward one of the Albanians from Elbasan.

“Shoot that man,” he said, pointing to Maurice.

The Albanian lifted his rifle slowly. Maurice faced him squarely, with not so much as the tremor of an eyelid. The man hesitated, looked from Slavianski to the prisoner and back again, then grounded his rifle.

“No, no, excellence,” he said. “In fair fight, yes; for blood, yes; it is my duty. I have killed five men for blood; but I will not shoot a man like a dog. If that is the way in your country, do it yourself; it is not our way.”

Cries of applause broke from his comrades. Slavianski turned angrily towards his own countrymen. There was a something in their demeanour that gave him no hope of finding among them an executioner. With a snarl of rage he whipped out his own revolver and pointed it at Maurice, whose eyes looked into his unflinchingly, and whose lips curved in a slight smile. His finger was on the trigger.

“My Government has a long arm, Monsieur le Comte,” said Maurice quietly in French. “Had you not better think it over?”

“Bah!” cried the Count, dropping the muzzle slightly, nevertheless. “Your ambassador at Constantinople has given warning that Englishmen travel in this country at their own risk.”

“True,” replied Maurice, as calmly as if he were discussing a matter quite impersonal; “at their own risk—of interference by the people of the country. You are not an Albanian, Monsieur.”

“You will disappear—the mountains swallow you.”

“But not you, Monsieur. You are known to have tracked me to Brindisi; it is known at Brindisi that you followed me to Durazzo. This is a time of peace. If you shoot me, if I disappear, you will be suspected of murdering me, and whatever your services may have been to your Government, I think it will hardly protect you.”

A TENSE MOMENT

Rostopchin touched his chief on the arm, and spoke to him in low tones. The Count gnawed his moustache, frowned, muttered a curse. Then, with an angry gesture, he called to his men to take the prisoners into the house, and walked towards his Albanian allies. After a short conversation with them, he too entered the house.

The brothers, on reaching the first floor, were placed against the wall. Their legs were bound. Leaving two of his men to guard them, Slavianski mounted to the upper floor with Rostopchin. In a few moments the women and children came hurriedly down the ladder. On reaching the ground floor they were turned out of the house. Giulika and his men looked on sullenly; they were too few to oppose any resistance. The men from Elbasan laughed. They had no quarrel with them. Even though some of them had been wounded in the recent fighting, they were too much accustomed to hard knocks to bear a grudge on that account, so long as their honour was not concerned. They had been engaged to hunt down the Inglesi, and knew that if they raised a hand against the villagers, now that the Inglesi were captured, it would start a feud that might involve the whole countryside.

Slavianski and Rostopchin took up their quarters in the upper floor of the kula. By and by they summoned one of the men left to guard the prisoners to prepare a meal. After a time all three came down, descended to the lower floor, and passed out of the house.

“You were fine,” said George in a murmur to his brother. “I was in a most horrible funk. I’m glad I wasn’t put to the test.”

“Oh, you’d have come through all right. What I was most conscious of was a raging thirst. Monsieur,” he said, addressing the guard in French, “may I have some milk, rakia, coffee, or water, if it is drinkable?”

The man grinned.

“The Count’s order is that you have nothing,” he said.

“They’re going to starve us into giving in,” said Maurice to his brother.

“The fiends!” muttered George. “How long can you hold out?”

“Long enough to tire them, I hope. When they think of it, they’ll see that we’re no good to them dead. They haven’t found, and won’t find, the despatch; they’ll suppose I carry a verbal message; and starvation is just as much murder as shooting.”

“If they’d only give us a drink! It’s like an oven here now that the sun is getting up. My mouth is parched already: don’t people go mad from thirst?”

“Oh! it won’t come to that. They’ll give in presently.”

But the hours crawled on, and neither food nor drink was given to them. The Austrians re-entered the house. As they passed, Maurice, in a rough, husky whisper, said to the Count:

“Monsieur, will it not satisfy you that we are hungry? Is it in your instructions to torture us with thirst?”

Slavianski went by without a word. The man who had been on guard mounted the ladder, his place being taken by the fourth member of the party.

The long day drew out towards evening. The two prisoners at first lay still and tried to sleep. But the heat and stuffiness of the room, the cramping of their limbs, and their increasing thirst caused almost unendurable pain. They tossed and writhed, now and again calling in hoarse whispers for water, only to be answered with a jeer. The voices of the others came to them from above; through the window floated sounds of laughter and singing; and as the light faded they felt creeping upon them the numbness of despair.

Again the guard was changed. The man lit a small candle-lamp, and sat against the wall, a revolver beside him. Within and without the sounds were hushed; their enemies slept, but no sleep came to cool their fevered brows. Their guard began to doze; breathing hard, waking with a start, then dozing again. By and by his breathing became regular; he too was asleep. How many hours passed it was impossible to tell. Wakeful, tortured with pain, the prisoners longed for morning.

Suddenly they heard a slight creaking sound. The guard awaked, sat erect, and looked about him. The prisoners were lying where they had been placed; all was well; and after a minute or two his loud breathing proclaimed that sleep had again overcome him. There was a second creak, a rustle, and a man slid into the room through the window. He stole across the room towards the sleeping guard; there was a gurgle; then silence. The prisoners raised themselves slightly from the floor, and saw the intruder approaching them. Without a word he stooped and with swift, silent movements cut their bonds. Then for a few moments he rubbed their numbed wrists and ankles, and signed to them to follow him. They saw now that the bars had been removed from the window. He motioned to Maurice to climb up. When he did so, he saw a ladder resting on the wall just below the sill, its lower end standing on a wagon beneath. He looked anxiously below. Nobody was in sight, but from round the corner of the house came the glow of a fire. He descended, slowly, painfully; George followed him; last of all their rescuer issued forth and climbed down.

From the wagon they reached the ground. In the dim glow the Englishmen saw that their deliverer was Giorgio.

“Where is the car?” whispered Maurice.

“At the front of the house,” he replied. “Come with me.”

They followed him towards the trees at the back of the house. Here they were met by Giulika, Marko, and the other men of his family, together with half a dozen strangers.

“Come with us, friends,” said the old man.

“We cannot leave the car,” whispered Maurice.

“Is it worth a life?” was the reply.

“Yes, we must have it.”

They spoke in whispers. How was the car to be removed without discovery? There was no time to lose. The men in the upper floor might waken; there would be no wakening for the guard in the room below. Marko stole to the corner of the house. Between the house and the camp fire a number of horses were tethered. They cast a shadow on the spot where the gyro-car rested against the wall. Marko beckoned, and George joined him. After a moment’s hesitation they crept round on all fours, placed themselves one on each side of the car, and wheeled it silently round the corner to the side of the house, and thence to the back.

“Come with us,” said Giulika.

He led the way through the trees, up a steep path in the hill-side. Maurice helped George and two other men to wheel the car. It was a rocky path; there were frequent stumbles in the darkness, and they shivered lest the slight sounds they made should reach the ears of the men encamped below, who were not all asleep. The hum of voices rose and fell.

After a few minutes the slow procession halted, and Giulika offered a gourd full of sour milk to the famished Englishmen, of which they drank greedily.

“Long life to you!” said the old man cheerily. “My honour is clean, and only one man is dead.”

“Could we not have gagged and bound him?” said Maurice.

“The other was the shorter way,” said Giorgio. “He might have waked while I cut your bonds, and made a sound.”

“And we had to think of our honour,” added his grandfather.

Maurice did not reply. Honour has different meanings in different places.

They went on again. The moon was set, and the stars gave little light. Following a winding gorge between two almost perpendicular cliffs, George thought that there would be no danger in lighting his lamp. By its bright flame they were able to see the way, and marched more quickly. Giulika went first, behind him came the Bucklands, with four men wheeling the car; the rear was brought up by the rest of the company, to keep a watch over the backward track. Maurice drew out his watch; it was nearly one o’clock. They had three or four hours until dawn, and Giulika said they must travel as far as possible before sunrise. The car had probably left a track by which the direction of their flight would be discovered. There were few dwellers in these mountain solitudes, but someone might see them when daylight came, and the passage of so strange a vehicle would almost certainly be announced from hill to hill by shouts.

“Where are you leading us?” asked Maurice.

“By the path I spoke of, to the Black Drin,” answered Giulika.

CHAPTER XII

THE SWAMP

Yard by yard the path became steeper, and at times bent so abruptly that only with the greatest care, and by the united efforts of the whole party, could the gyro-car be dragged or pushed round. More than once Giulika muttered an imprecation on the people who invented machines. On foot, even on horseback, the narrow path presented little difficulty to a mountaineer, and the simple old man could not understand why two travellers, in peril of their lives from enemies, should enhance their danger by clinging to a thing of metal. He admitted, however, that the lamp was a good one, and even said that he should like to have a light as brilliant in his kula; it would enable the women to knit at night!

When they had gone so far from the village that there was no risk of a sound reaching the Albanians at their camp fire, George started the motor actuating the gyroscopes, and so made the haulage of the car easier, since the men no longer needed to concern themselves with keeping it upright. This fact caused no little consternation among them, and one asked earnestly whether the Inglesi would assure him that the car was not a creature of Shaitan.

They soon found that, difficult as it was to get the machine up-hill, it was still more difficult when the path took a downward trend. At such times the car had a tendency to break away from the hands of those who held it. By-and-by it occurred to George to climb into the car at the head of such descents and apply the brakes. Even then, however, the men had to hang upon it, for powerful as the brakes were, they were scarcely strong enough to hold it at the steepest parts.

Progress was slow. To start the driving motor was out of the question: the one consolation was that no petrol was being consumed. Eager as all were to reach the river, Maurice was determined not to jeopardise the remainder of his journey to Sofia by over-haste. Both George and he felt utterly worn out. The strain of constant travelling, the want of sleep and food, the agitation of the past day, were telling upon them heavily. They nibbled at hunks of hard maize bread given them by Giulika, and at some polonies they had bought at Durazzo; but with the exhaustion of their nervous energy they had lost appetite. Their present perils, and the thought of possible dangers to come, kept them on the rack.

It was indeed anxious, terrifying work, this scrambling up rough, tortuous acclivities, then diving headlong into what seemed at times an almost perpendicular gulf. The path was little more than a goat track. Here a huge mass of rock blocked the way; there the track diminished to a width of little more than four feet, with a sheer cliff on one side, and on the other a precipice of unknown depth. Giulika confessed that but for the light of the lamp he would never have attempted the more hazardous portions of the path; and the Englishmen were thankful that the surrounding darkness concealed from them the full measure of the risk they were running.

Suddenly they heard the baying of dogs.

“We are coming to the house of Zutni; he is a friend,” said Giulika.

Descending a long incline, a bend in the track brought them in sight of a rectangle of light. A door stood open, and out of it came a gigantic mountaineer, gun in hand. He was dazzled by the white glare of the lamp, and called suspiciously to the strangers to halt. Giulika went forward; his friend recognised him, and kissed him affectionately. A few words passed between them: then, hearing that two Englishmen were with the party, Zutni advanced, shook them warmly by the hand, and invited them to enter his house.

“Be welcome!” he said.

“Is it safe to delay?” Maurice asked of Giulika.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the old man. “We have come far; the Austrians will not dare to follow on horseback in the dark, and they may not discover our flight until the morning.”

The house was a small one, perched on a rocky eminence. The whole party entered; Giulika and his men, according to Albanian custom, handed their weapons to their host, who hung them beside his own on the wall. He placed mats for the Englishmen before a blazing fire; his women pulled off their boots, and in a few minutes grilled for them some mutton steaks on skewers. Rakia was produced: “Good health, friends,” said the jovial host; and the travellers, basking in the warmth, ate and drank with relish.

Giulika related what had occurred. His friend listened with indignation.

“You have done well,” he said, “but will not the villains slay your women and children and burn your house when they find that you have gone?”

“Aha!” chuckled Giulika. “The women and children are safe: I sent them this afternoon towards Ochrida to my brother.” (It was really a very distant cousin, but the ties of blood are close in Albania). “As for my house, it is likely to be burnt; but it is God’s will. I could not betray my guests.”

“True. And do I see Leka among you? Is it besa?”

“Yes: it is besa until we return to the village. Leka is an honourable man.”

And then Maurice learnt, with amazement, that among the villagers who had accompanied him was the man who had shot Giorgio. The blood-foes were at this moment squatting side by side, laughing and talking in the friendliest way, drinking alternately out of the same mug. The truce between them would hold until they returned to their village: then Leka would watch for an opportunity of stalking and slaying his enemy, with no more compunction than if he were a noxious beast.

“Sleep, friends,” said Zutni presently to the two Englishmen, who were nodding. “The Inglesi need much sleep; it is one of God’s mysteries. I will wake you when day comes. Long life to you!”

They needed no pressing. Zutni’s wife brought some mats for pillows, tucked them up in blankets with her own delicate fingers, and they slept till daybreak, oblivious of the insects that feasted on them.

In the wan, grey light Zutni awoke them. The fire was raked together: the women made strong coffee; and after a breakfast of coffee and hot maize bread baked on the hearth they set off to resume their journey. Zutni himself accompanied them; like Giulika, he felt responsible for his guests, and had resolved to see them safely to the Drin.

When they looked back upon the track they had traversed, they could scarcely realise that it had been possible to cross the rugged mountains behind them. Looking forward, it seemed equally impossible that they could climb the heights in front with so cumbrous a vehicle as the gyro-car. Peak after peak thrust its pinnacles into the sky. The path was visible for only a few yards ahead, and as each rugged corner was rounded, another came into view. But the terrors of the night had vanished. Daylight, while it revealed the difficulties and dangers of the journey, enabled the travellers to avoid them; and the Albanians hauled and pushed and dragged joyously, grunting with satisfaction as each new obstacle was surmounted. The only check upon their high spirits was the necessity of moving quietly, in order not to attract attention from any who might be wandering on the heights. For the same reason George did not start his engine. In the clear mountain air its throbbing might be heard for many miles. But it was possible now to let the car run down many a downward slope by its own weight, so that the progress was nearly twice as rapid as it had been in the darkness.

After they had been marching for about an hour, and began to find the descents longer than the ascents, they came to the blackened ruins of a small mountain village. In answer to Maurice’s inquiries, Giulika explained that the houses had been burnt by the Turks in the last rising. The Ottoman troops, coming to a village and finding any of the men absent from their homes, would assume that they were with the insurgents, and burn their houses. There was no more effective means of crushing an insurrection, for the Albanian’s house is his all.

“What we want is a good government,” said the old man. “You Inglesi have a good king, they say; why does not he come and govern us?”

This was a question which Maurice found it difficult to answer in any way that could satisfy the simple mountaineer, to whom international politics was an unknown world. He was listening sympathetically to Giulika’s recital of the misdeeds of the Turks, when the party encountered a more serious obstacle than any they had yet met. A mountain stream, running towards the Drin, had spread out into a wide swamp, dotted with boulders. So soft and oozy was the soil, that the leaders of the march sank deep into it. There was not water enough to float the car, and its weight would clearly prevent its being run across. Nor was there any possibility of carrying it as the sailors had carried it from the quay to the launch at Dover: the men could not get a firm footing.

They halted, looking blankly at one another. Zutni said that the morass could be circumvented, but only by striking back into the mountains, and following a track that would take them several hours’ march out of the direct course. Such loss of time was dangerous, and might prove fatal. Remembering how the man from Elbasan had refused to shoot him at the bidding of Slavianski, Maurice asked Giulika whether the Austrian might not have permanently lost the help of his allies. But the old man answered that this was unlikely. The Elbasan had obeyed the dictate of honour in refusing to kill a helpless prisoner; but the same sense of honour would bid him fulfil his obligation to his employer when the prisoners were free. They would certainly pursue on horseback, and the delay involved in fetching a circuit about the swamp would enable them to gain upon the fugitives.

While they were discussing the perplexing situation in which they found themselves, George’s eyes lighted on the ruined buildings perched on the heights about half a mile in their rear.

“If there are any planks left whole in those buildings,” he said to Maurice, “there is a chance for us. We could lay them on the mud and form a track. It would be slow work getting across even then, but quicker than going miles round.”

Maurice explained the suggestion to Giulika. He at once sent half a dozen men back to the village to see if the fire had spared enough timber to serve the purpose. The Englishmen gazed with admiration as the lithe young men hastened up the slope, as nimbly as goats. In an extraordinarily short time they were seen returning, each carrying one or more long, rough, blackened planks, ripped from a half-demolished barn. They brought news as well. They had caught a glimpse of horsemen approaching through a defile in the hills behind.

“How far away?” asked Maurice anxiously.

Their answers left him very much in the dark. Time and distance are alike vague to the people of Albania. One said an hour’s march, another declared that it was less; all were agreed that if the swamp were dry ground, the pursuers would overtake them before they had reached the other side, and from this Maurice inferred that the distance between the two parties was even less than the mountaineers supposed.

Without the loss of a moment he instructed them how to lay the planks. The first having been thrown down upon the mud, a man carried a second along it and placed them end to end, and so on, until there was a kind of pier, sixty or seventy feet long, extending into the swamp. George then mounted into the car to steer it, and it was pushed from behind until it reached the furthermost plank. At times the planks sank until they disappeared below the surface; but then, although the wheels were running in several inches of ooze, the boards beneath them afforded a sufficiently firm foundation. Each plank was held by a man at the nearer end as the car ran over it, so that it should not swerve, George well knowing that the slightest deviation to right or left must precipitate the vehicle into the morass.

Behind the car marched the whole of the party in single file. The last man, on gaining the second plank, lifted the first and handed it to his comrade in front. Thus each board was raised in turn. When the car arrived at the end of the pier, and came to an enforced standstill, a man passed through it and laid a plank beyond, and the pier was reconstructed as before. Then the advance was carried for another sixty feet, and the operation was once more gone through.

“Upon my word, I’d rather face the precipices,” said George to Maurice, as the car reached the end of the third section. “They were not half so trying to the nerves as this slow crawl.”

“Have patience, my dear fellow,” replied his brother. “It was an uncommonly happy thought of yours. We’ve the consolation of knowing that, as we take up our path behind us, Slavianski can’t follow, and will have to go the roundabout way that we have escaped.”

“Do you see any sign of the fellow?”

“Not yet. The mountain track winds and undulates so much that we shan’t catch sight of him till he comes to the ruins.”

“Well, I hope that won’t be yet, for if the Albanians are anything of marksmen, they can pick us off long before we get to the other side. And we can’t go any faster; these fellows are working splendidly. I suppose if we get through to Sofia safely your chief will reward ’em pretty handsomely.”

“It isn’t in the regulations, as the Customs officer told us,” said Maurice with a smile. “Still, I daresay we shall be able to do something for them—if we get through; we’re not out of the wood yet.”

By slow stages the party had advanced about a quarter of a mile into the swamp, and only forty or fifty yards yet remained, when there was the report of a rifle. Glancing round, Maurice saw a group of horsemen halted in the ruined village; several had dismounted. Then came three cracks in rapid succession.

“They’re no good!” cried George gleefully, when neither man nor car was hit.

“The range is too long for accurate shooting,” said Maurice, “but they can alter that. See, they are coming down, and much faster than we did.”

The horsemen were putting their steeds to a pace that seemed to the onlookers dangerous. Before they were half-way down the hillside, indeed, one of the horses stumbled, throwing its rider.

“He is an Austrian,” said Giulika laughing. “No Albanian, Christian or Moslem, would leave his saddle so quickly as that.”

On coming within a quarter-mile of the swamp the horses began to gallop; but the fugitives had advanced another sixty feet before they reached the edge. There the horsemen reined up, flung themselves from their saddles, and fired a scattered volley. Maurice looked grave as the shots whistled round, but the danger of the party was not so great as might be supposed, even had the Albanians been better marksmen, because the fugitives were not grouped, but marched in a line. The car itself formed the best target. One or two bullets struck its framework, and George felt a little nervous lest one should find its billet in the petrol-tank. But no harm was done until a shot struck Giorgio in the arm, just below the spot where his former wound was bandaged. He growled with rage; but his grandfather laughed at his ill-luck, and Maurice could not help smiling when Leka, the young man’s blood-foe, said cheerfully:

“Never mind. We’ll have besa until your wounds are healed.”

“Hadn’t you better be friends for life?” asked Maurice.

“And lose my honour, excellence?” said Leka. “No; I would sooner drown myself in this swamp.”

The Albanians laid the track over the last stretch with wonderful speed, and in a few minutes the car and the whole party touched terra firma. The pursuers were still firing, but without effect. Some of Giulika’s party paused to return the shots, but their marksmanship was no better than their opponents’, and Giulika presently ordered them to desist.

By this time Slavianski had recognised the hopelessness of further shooting. Mounting his horse again, he rode for a few yards into the swamp, as if to test the possibility of direct pursuit, but he halted when the animal’s legs had disappeared almost to the knees, and returned to the shore. In a few moments his party were in their saddles, and started at a gallop to make the circuit of the swamp.

“Really, his perseverance deserves to be rewarded,” remarked Maurice, as he mounted to his place beside George in the car.

CHAPTER XIII

A LANDSLIP IN THE HILLS

On the eastern side of the swamp the ground rose so gradually that it was possible, for the first time since the escape from the kula, to start the engine. The car’s easy motion surprised and delighted the Albanians, who ran along beside it with cries of admiration. Giulika himself, old as he was, kept as good a pace as the younger men, and when Maurice invited him to enter the car he declined.

“Never in my life have I been carried by anything but a horse,” he said, “and I am too old to try new things. Nothing but a horse shall carry me until I am borne to my grave.”

After a time the path again became steep and rough, and the pace had to be moderated.

“How far are we from the river?” asked Maurice.

“About an hour’s march,” replied Zutni, who was more familiar with this part of the country than Giulika. “The track is very bad.”

“Shall we not come to a valley?”

“No, excellence. The river runs between high rocky cliffs. There are but few places where we can get to the water.”

“And will the horsemen come to the track we are following?”

“They must. But it is a long way round, and, if we do well, we may reach the river before they discover us. But it is a very bad track.”

It proved, indeed, to be even more difficult than any they had formerly traversed. Again their progress was checked at every few yards, either by an abrupt bend that demanded the most careful manœuvring, or by a narrowing of the path between a perpendicular wall on one side and a yawning chasm on the other. To keep the engine going was only a useless expenditure of petrol, except when mounting an incline. At one spot the ascent was so steep that the car had to be lifted by the whole party and hoisted over a sharp ridge. Progress was terribly slow. The sun was now high in the heavens, and its rays were reflected with scorching heat from the rocks. The Englishmen began to feel sick and dizzy. Their boots, soaked through during their passage of the morass, were torn into shreds by hard marching over the rugged ground, and both felt that if they did not soon gain the river, they would be incapable of continuing their journey without a prolonged rest; then all hope of escaping Slavianski must be abandoned, and when once again in his clutches they would hardly win release.

They struggled on. Then, rounding a bend in the narrow track, they saw themselves faced with an insurmountable obstacle. To the right was a craggy precipice, to the left a steep and rugged hill-slope. A mass of earth, loosened, apparently, by rains, had slid down the slope across the path, blocking it to the height of several feet. Even the Albanians were aghast.

“It is God’s will,” said Giulika, with the fatalism of his race. “God sent rain that washed the earth down. The way is blocked for ever. No man will reach the Drin by this path again.”

“Is this the path by which the Austrians must come?” asked Maurice.

“Certainly it is; there is no other,” was the reply. “We must go back and meet them, or, if you please, stay here and shoot; we can kill a good many of them before we ourselves are killed.”

Maurice consulted with his brother.

“The question is, are you willing to be collared again?” said George, when he understood the position. “I am not, I tell you frankly. There will have to be a fight, and it’s not our fault; they fired at us. If any of these fellows have pluck enough to keep Slavianski off while the rest of us work, I don’t see why we shouldn’t cut a way through this obstruction—it’s loose earth.”

Maurice put the suggestion to Giulika and Zutni, and with them examined the position. It was clear that, posted behind the rocks at the bend in the path, a few bold spirits could hold a regiment at bay. Screened from sight themselves, they would have the enemy in full view, and as these approached the bend they would be completely at the mercy of the hidden marksmen. The Albanians, accustomed to mountain warfare, grasped the possibilities of the situation; their only doubt was whether the obstructing bank of earth could be cut through in time, but they were ready to make the attempt.

Accordingly a division of the party was made. Zutni and a few of the best marksmen posted themselves behind convenient rocks; the rest, with assistance from the Englishmen, set to work with knives and rifles to cleave a way through the obstacle. It was arduous work, lacking proper implements, and with the sun beating upon them in all its midday strength. As George pointed out, the gyro-car needed only a narrow passage, and if the enemy could be held off for an hour or two the task might be accomplished.

Some ten minutes after they had begun work, there was a crack from Zutni’s rifle. Slavianski and his party, approaching on horseback in single file, at once came to a halt. The Albanians among them recognised that they had the worst of the position, and though as yet only one shot had been fired, they guessed that there were other marksmen lurking behind the rocks. They dismounted and held a consultation, their perfectly-trained horses standing stock-still.

Presently the man next to Zutni caught sight of the muzzle of a rifle edging round the bend, and then the arm of the Albanian holding the weapon. Keeping his eye fixed on the slowly-moving objects, the watcher bided his time. Then there was a crack and a flash: the rifle dropped from the hand of the advancing enemy on to the path. The arm disappeared. But in a few moments the fallen rifle was drawn slowly backward by an unseen hand.

Save for the noise of the shots, and the sounds made by the men in clearing the path, the silence of that mountain solitude had hitherto been scarcely broken. Now an eagle, which had been startled by the crack of the rifles, flew over the place with a hoarse scream, and there broke in upon it the voice of Count Slavianski urging the Albanians, in their own tongue, to make a dash upon the fugitives. Maurice smiled when he heard the answer, roared in so loud a tone that it was plain the Count was some distance behind his vanguard.

“You are our leader, excellence,” cried the men. “We follow you.”

It was not surprising that the mountaineers were reluctant to advance. They knew from what had happened already that the first man to show himself round the corner would be shot before he could see his enemy to make a target of him. And there was a delicious irony in the man’s retort that pleased Maurice. The Count, however courageous he might be—and the Englishmen had had no reason to doubt his courage—was debarred from undertaking the office of leader by the narrowness of the path. It was blocked by the men and horses of his party, and no change could be made in the order of their advance, unless they were willing to retrace their steps for some distance, to a spot where a cleft in the rocky hill-side would permit them to turn without falling over the precipice. But this plan had apparently not yet occurred to them, for Slavianski continued his exhortations, which led to an altercation that became increasingly acrimonious.

Meanwhile the men of Giulika’s party had been working like navvies, or rather, with much more alacrity than George had ever seen English navvies display. The discussion beyond the bend was still proceeding when a narrow passage for the gyro-car was completed.

“It is done, praise God!” cried Giulika, who, in spite of his years, had toiled as hard as any of the younger men. “Now I will tell my English friends what they must do. We cannot all go at once, because when those Moslem pigs beyond discover our absence they will follow at once, and we shall have gained nothing. It will be best for you to go on with your machine, while we remain to hold the path. Giorgio, poor unlucky one, is no good as a fighter until his wounds be healed: he will guide you.”

“Is it much further to the Drin?” asked Maurice.

“Not a great way, and presently the road will be easier. This track runs into a broader path when you come within sight of the Drin, and you will be able to make your machine buzz.”

“And you can hold the path behind us?”

“Surely we can. You have seen how slow those infidels are to face our bullets. Without doubt we can keep them back until our cartridges are all spent.”

Clearly the plan suggested by the old man was the best in the circumstances. George vaulted into the car to manipulate the brakes, the path now becoming a gradual descent, and Maurice and Giorgio walked ahead.

For some two miles they threaded their way between bluffs and precipices. There was no sound of firing behind them, which Maurice regarded as a favourable sign. But to his surprise Giorgio became more and more uneasy. Every now and again he stopped to listen, and to scan the path behind and the country around, where a view was possible.

“What are you troubled about?” asked Maurice.

“Why are there no shots, excellence?” Giorgio asked, in return.

“I suppose our pursuers are still considering whether to try to force the pass or not.”

“Ah no! Look!” cried Giorgio, pointing to the left.

Following the direction of his outstretched finger, George and Maurice saw, far above them on the skyline, perhaps a mile distant, a series of specks moving in the same direction as themselves.

“That is why there are no shots, excellence,” said Giorgio. “They must have gone back to a narrow gorge that runs up into the mountains, a very bad path, but shorter than this one. It leads to the road my grandfather spoke of. If they get there first they can block our way to the Drin. But the road there is pretty good, and if you make the machine buzz loud, you can dash into them and throw them over the cliff, horses and all.”

“We had better get there first, if we can,” said Maurice, repeating to George what he had just heard.

“We must make a dash for it, and take our chance,” said George. “I’m not going to be collared again. Get into the car, old boy, and Giorgio too. The path isn’t so bad as it was, and if we don’t get a puncture we shall do very well.”

Maurice mounted to his seat beside his brother. There was no proper accommodation for a third person in the car, but Giorgio crouched in the narrow space between the seats and the gyroscopes. George started the engine, and the car began to gather away. The Albanian, stolid and iron-nerved as he was, gasped with dismay as the vehicle ran down the incline, bumping a little when, in spite of George’s careful steering, it crossed a hollow or a knob of rock. The path began to switchback. Then it was a series of rushes at the up grades and scrambles down the slopes on the other side, with the brakes hard on. George knew well that a few yards of specially bumpy ground might break a spring or puncture a tyre; but the risk seemed to him negligible by comparison with the greater risk of being intercepted. More than once he felt the indescribable movement of the rear wheels that betokened skidding, and he could not repress a shudder as he recognised how the swerving of an inch or two to the right must plunge them over the chasm. But he set his teeth and kept a firm grip on his levers, and after nearly half an hour of this perilous driving he saw with joy that the path left the rocky face of the cliff, and ran into a wider and more level track.

They looked ahead. No one was in sight. They looked behind, along the narrow track by which the pursuers must come. There was no sign of them. But they heard shouts from the heights above them, long, vociferous, howling calls that must have made great demands on the lungs of the shouters. To Giorgio’s dismay these shouts were answered on their right. It seemed as if they would have to reckon with enemies on both sides of them. But at present on neither side was an enemy visible.

The path being now less rugged and tortuous, with no yawning precipice at its edge, George increased the speed of the gyro-car. Giorgio said that they would soon come in sight of the Drin. All at once George was conscious of a lack of power in the engine. He opened the throttle, to no effect.

“We are done for,” he said in despair. “Something is wrong.”

He brought the car to a standstill and leapt out. The explanation was immediately obvious. A trail of petrol lay behind the car, stretching out of sight.

“The outlet plug of the tank has fallen out,” he cried, “and I haven’t another.”

He ran back, searching the path for the missing plug. Maurice sprang after him, snatching up Giorgio’s rifle, in case the enemy came in sight. George hurried to the spot where the trail of petrol began, but there was no plug.

“What an ass I am!” he cried. “We were going at a good speed, and of course the plug might be carried some yards. Hunt back along with me, Maurice.”

So many stones lay on the path that they almost despaired of finding the plug. But Maurice’s foot by-and-by struck against something which the instinct acquired in searching for lost golf balls told him was not a stone. He stooped, and picked up the missing plug.

“Good man,” said George. “It’s lucky we’ve plenty of petrol left, for the tank is as empty as a drum, you may be sure.”

They ran back to the car, replaced the plug, and filled the tank from one of the tins. Then they started again; the accident had cost them more than five minutes. The shouts from the hill-tops sounded nearer. Giorgio now and again flung out his hand on one side or the other, to signify the exact direction from which the shout came. Like a batsman who has just been “let off” in the long field, George seemed to become reckless. He drove the car at a speed that made Giorgio cling in terror to the back of the seat, and even provoked a remonstrance from Maurice.

“All right, old man,” said George jubilantly. “We’ve got another life, and——By Jove! Is that the Drin?”

“Yes, yes,” shouted Giorgio in wild excitement. “It is the Black Drin. We have won the race.”

CHAPTER XIV

A RUSH THROUGH THE RAPIDS

Far below the travellers, at the foot of steep cliffs, clothed here and there with forest, but in many places bare, flowed the Black Drin. It seemed to Maurice to belie its name, for its waters were of a yellowish brown. They drove on rapidly, sometimes losing sight of the river, but catching glimpses of villages and cultivated fields in the distance.

In a few minutes they entered a narrow gorge which, as Giorgio explained, led straight down to the river. A fast run brought them to the brink of the stream. To the Albanian’s amazement and alarm George ran the car straight into the water. He was rather uneasy himself when he found how the additional weight of a third person depressed the car. The stream was shallow and sluggish, and he had to bring the car very near to the middle of the current before he was satisfied that it would float without risk to the wheels. If they should strike with any force upon a rock in the bed of the river they might buckle, or the tyres might be punctured, and then it would be good-bye to any chance of finishing their journey.

Owing to the make of the car, it was impossible to employ the rods that supported it when the gyroscopes were not working to fend off obstacles in the channel. All that George could do was to keep a sharp look-out over the edge of the wind-screen, and steer what appeared to be the safest course.

“I suppose the channel deepens as we proceed, and we shan’t be in such danger,” he said.

Maurice asked a question of Giorgio.

“Yes, excellence,” replied the man. “The river becomes deeper after the rapids are passed, and deeper still when it joins the White Drin and flows towards the sea.”

“Rapids, are there!” cried George, when the man’s reply was translated. “I hope they’re not bad ones.”

“The water is very swift there,” Giorgio replied to a question from Maurice. “And many rocks stand out of it. Assuredly you will not think of running through the rapids, excellence?”

George declared that he certainly would run the rapids, unless they were very bad. What else could be done? The bank of the river on either side appeared too high and rugged even for a climber to scale.

Georgio explained that before they came to the rapids they must pass the bridge that spanned the river near the hill-side village of Trebischte to their left. He threw out his hand to indicate the locality of the village.

“A bridge?” said Maurice. “Then there is a road, and we may still be intercepted.”

“That is true, excellence. The river makes many windings, and there are goat-tracks over the hills leading to Trebischte.”

“And if we run on to the land and cross the river by the bridge at Trebischte, what then?”

“Then, excellence, you will have a difficult path until you come to the road to Prizren.”

“The only thing to be done,” said George, “is to make all speed for the bridge, and get there first. I think old Giulika might have managed this a little better. Why didn’t he make straight for the bridge instead of leading us over that wretched mountain path?”

“He was discretion itself,” replied Maurice. “You remember we have not passed through a single village. The old man chose an unfrequented route to ensure that we should not be molested or checked.”

“I daresay you are right. I’ll set the propeller going, though I wanted to trust to the current alone, so as to save petrol. But if there’s a chance of those ruffians reaching the bridge before us, the faster we go the better.”

Almost immediately after the propeller was started there was a faint shout from some elevated spot on the left.

“They hear the buzz,” said Giorgio. “Trebischte is over there.”

A few minutes afterwards there were more shouts, much louder, and now on both sides of the river. It appeared that one party was answering another. As yet no one was to be seen. But in a few moments, as the gyro-boat rounded a bend, its occupants saw a lofty one-arched bridge spanning the stream. On either side a steep path led up into the hills. Giorgio looked anxiously around.

“See,” he said, pointing to the left-hand path.

The Englishman espied a number of men hurrying down towards the river. Just above them stood some horses.

“The path is too steep for horses,” said Maurice. “Do you see Slavianski and Rostopchin among the men?”

“I see them,” said George grimly. “We’ve got to shoot the bridge before they get to it, or they can pick us off as we pass. Slavianski won’t care a rap what he does now. Despatch or no despatch, he means to have his revenge on you for the dance you have led him. We’ll beat him. With the current in our favour we are going ten or twelve knots now. But—great Scott! there’s another lot on the other side, and much nearer, too.”

“No doubt the fellows we heard shouting,” said Maurice, with an anxious glance at a line of men running at breakneck speed down the path on the right. “Some of them must reach the bridge before we do. But they have no rifles; that’s one point in our favour.”

That the men were unarmed was due to the fact that they had been working in the field above the river, and had left their labour in response to the cries from the further bank. But they were followed at a long interval by some of their comrades, who had delayed to fetch their rifles from the hedge under which they had laid them. The Albanian and his weapon are rarely parted.

Three or four men gained the bridge when the gyro-boat was still some fifty yards from it. Shouts from the hills beyond had already apprised them that the travellers were to be intercepted. For a second or two they were lost in amazement on beholding the extraordinary craft bearing down towards them. Then, stationing themselves in the middle of the bridge, they prepared to hurl down on the gyro-boat, as it passed beneath, some heavy stones from the more or less dilapidated parapet.

Maurice had already divined their probable action. It was a fearsome prospect, and one that called for promptitude. He caught up Giorgio’s rifle—

“Put the helm hard over, George, when I give the word,” he said.

At the same time he rested the rifle on the gunwale and took aim at the man nearest to the right bank.

“Now!” he said, as he fired.

The wheel spun round, and the gyro-boat swerved abruptly towards the right bank. It was impossible to tell whether the shot had taken effect. The Albanian, when he saw the rifle pointed at him, dropped down behind the parapet, loosing his grip on the stone he was preparing to cast. His fear not only robbed him of his chance, but prevented his companions from hurling their stones, for those who were already on the bridge imitated his ducking movement with great celerity, and those who were still running had to pass him before they, too, could seize upon the missiles.

There was a moment of confusion. Then the men began to hurry towards the bank, evidently supposing that the occupants of the gyro-boat intended to land there. But another turn of the wheel caused the boat to swing back into its former course. It shot under the arch, and before the Albanians could turn about and rush to the further parapet, the boat was beyond the reach of their missiles, speeding merrily on in the middle of the stream.

Shouts now sounded on all sides; rifles cracked, and bullets began to patter in the water, none striking the boat or any of its occupants.

“Dished ’em, old man!” cried George, gleefully, stopping the engine. “That was a very neat idea of yours. We must be going ten knots with the current, and as they can’t possibly pursue us along the banks, I think we’re safe.”

“What do you say, Giorgio?” asked Maurice of the man, who had crouched low in the boat while it ran under the bridge, but now raised himself and looked around. For a few moments he made no reply; then, pointing first to the right bank and then to the river ahead, he said—

“There is danger, excellence. You see!”

“I see them running from the bridge back up the hill, but what of that?” asked Maurice.

“They will run to the rapids and cut us off there,” replied Giorgio. “There is a short path to them across the hills.”

“But they can’t run so fast as we are going.”

“True, excellence; but the river bends and twists so much that they will be there long before we shall, and we shall be in very great danger. No fisher of this country has ever dared to go down the rapids.”

“We shall see when we come to them. Where is the other party—those who were pursuing us?”

Giorgio looked back along the left bank, but Slavianski and his men were not in sight. There was no path along the bank, which was a line of precipitous cliffs, and Giorgio surmised that the pursuers had retraced their steps towards their horses, and would make their way over the hills towards the rapids.

A moment later he cried out that he saw another party ahead of them, and pointed to a spot on the left, where, high on a ridge, and too far away to be distinguishable, several men were hurrying down towards the river. Apparently they were few in number, and in a few moments they were lost to sight behind a shoulder of the hill.

“It looks as if the whole countryside has been roused,” said Maurice. “There’s no doubt we are in a fix, old boy.”

George looked much perturbed. The situation was a desperate one. On each side lofty and precipitous rocks: ahead, unnavigable rapids; two parties on the hills, making for this critical place by short cuts; and in front a third party already approaching it. These numerous enemies would choose spots on the cliffs above the river from which they could pour a hail of bullets on the gyro-boat as it came level with them.

“We must run the gauntlet. We’ve no choice,” said George. “Perhaps when we get there we shall find some way of escape. I’d give anything at this moment for a bullet-proof awning. But it’s no good wishing for what we haven’t got. You ought to have shot that ruffian Slavianski when you had the chance.”

“I rather grudge him my revolver,” said Maurice. “If we do manage to get away, the fellow will never dare to show his face in England, at any rate.”

“Nor if we don’t, either; but that won’t be much comfort to us.... The current is rather swifter here; we can’t be far from the rapids, I should think.”

The river wound from side to side erratically, and the cliffs seemed to be higher. None of the enemy were now in sight. Ahead, and on both sides, mountains many thousands of feet high appeared to hem the stream in completely. The surroundings reminded George of the scenery in the fjords of Norway, or the lochs in Scotland: its rugged majesty was softened by the sun’s engilding rays.

Never very wide, the river at length narrowed to little more than a gorge, with almost perpendicular walls, several hundred feet high, descending into the water. It was hard to imagine that the stream could find a way through what appeared to be a solid barrier of rock; but as the gyro-boat sped on upon the quickening current, there was always a bend where the river swept round a bluff.

The boat was now rushing on at a greatly accelerated pace, and the proximity of the rapids warned George to stop the propeller. There might be just the possibility of running into some creek or upon some level bank if the rapids proved too dangerous. Almost suddenly they came to a reach where the swirling and foaming of the water told of rocks in the bed of the stream, and there was a perceptible increase of speed. Tense with nervous excitement, George bent forward over the wind-screen, his eyes fixed on the channel, his fingers clutching the steering wheel.

Meanwhile Giorgio, stout-hearted enough on land, cowered like a very craven in the bottom of the boat, ejaculating Aves and Paternosters as fast as the words would pour from his lips. From moment to moment Maurice and his brother glanced around in search of any possible landing-place or refuge; but on either hand there was nothing but bare rock rising sheer from the stream.

The boat made its own course down the tortuous channel. As the current became ever swifter, it was almost hopeless to attempt to steer: the boat went in whatever direction the seething torrent bore it, swerving to this side and that, dashing between the rocks, shaving their jagged edges, as it seemed, by a hair’s-breadth.

A sudden bend in the river gave the voyagers at once relief and a new alarm. The water ran more smoothly, the worst perils were passed; but the perpendicular walls had given place to banks still steep, but more broken—rather a succession of crags and irregular columns of rock than walls. And here, at several points on the right bank, perched on rocks overhanging the river, stood armed Albanians in wait, while on the hillside above them others were clambering and leaping down to find a post of vantage.

Hitherto the brothers had conversed cheerfully, neither letting the other guess the full measure of his anxiety. But now the moment was too critical for speech. Numerous as were the perils they had met and overcome since they started on their adventurous journey, both recognised that the severest ordeal of all was imminent. They sat firmly in their seats, with tight-closed lips, and eyes fixed straight ahead. Maurice offered no suggestion. He knew that George would act as the emergency demanded. To both it was obvious that the single chance of escape, and that a desperate one, lay in rushing past the enemy at the highest speed of which the boat was capable. The Albanians had been hurrying over a toilsome path; even allowing for the short cuts, they must have made extreme haste to arrive at this spot before the boat, favoured as it had been by a current of ten miles an hour. The Bucklands knew from experience how detrimental to steady aiming is such violent exertion, and both nourished a faint hope that the Albanians’ arms would prove too unsteady to take good aim at a rapidly-moving target.

It was no time for half-measures. George started the motor. The effect did not become manifest for some few seconds; but then, under the combined impulse of current and propeller, the boat shot forward at the rate of at least seventeen miles an hour—a desperate speed considering the rocky nature of the channel.

THE RAPIDS OF THE BLACK DRIN

The ambuscaders had been timing their attack by the rate of the boat when it first came into view. Taken aback by the sudden and unlooked-for increase of speed, they were flustered. Some raised their rifles hastily to their shoulders; others, who were unarmed, stooped to lift the rocks and small boulders which it was their purpose to hurl at the boat when it came within striking distance. The man nearest to it was a trifle too late in his movement. His rock was a large one; before he could heave it above his head to make a good cast, the boat shot by, and he had to jerk it from him at haphazard. It splashed into the river, being only a yard behind the boat, in spite of the man’s unpreparedness. The occupants were drenched with the shower of spray.

Picture the scene. The gyro-boat dashing along in mid-stream at the mercy of the impetuous current. In it two young men, conspicuous by the red fez, their features pale and strained. Only George was needed to manage the boat; Maurice might have crouched with Giorgio in the space between the side and the gyroscopes; but he disdained to shrink from a danger which his brother could not evade. Above, at heights varying from sixty to a hundred and fifty feet, big moustachioed Albanians, rugged mountain warriors, standing on rocky ledges, firing down at the boat, or hurling stones and rocks with the force of sinewy muscles and high altitude. For a hundred yards the occupants of the boat carried their lives in their hands, and over all the sun beat mercilessly down.

Bullet after bullet flashed from the rifles. Rocks of all sizes plunged into the river, behind, before, to right and left of the boat. Now and then there was a metallic crack as a bullet struck the steel framework. A boulder crashed upon the vessel, tearing a long gash on the exterior of the hull, but above the water line. A smaller rock hit the wind-screen, rebounded, struck George’s arm, and rebounding again, found a final goal on the head of Giorgio, who crouched face downwards on the bottom, pattering his prayers. George was in terror lest a large boulder, more accurately or luckily aimed, should plunge into the interior of the boat, for such a missile might break a hole through the bottom, or hopelessly damage the engine if it struck fair. But the only injury suffered by the vessel during that terrible half-minute was the shattering of the glass case of the gyroscopes, which were not in motion.

Nor were the passengers destined to escape unscathed. When they had half run the gauntlet, a rifle shot struck Maurice above the knee. The burning, stinging pain was intolerable; yet neither by sound nor movement did he give sign that he was wounded. Everything depended on George’s nerve, and Maurice felt that a cry of pain might draw his brother’s attention from his task. George knew nothing of the wound. Looking neither to right hand nor to left, he kept his gaze fixed on the channel ahead.

Suddenly a new factor entered into the situation. There were rifle shots from the heights on the left bank. Maurice glanced up in dismay; surely their case was now hopeless; they were running into the jaws of destruction. For some seconds he was unable to catch a glimpse of these new assailants. Then an abrupt turn in the channel carried them out of sight from the enemy on the right bank, and at the same time brought the men on the left into view. A gleam of hope dawned upon Maurice’s troubled mind.

“Giorgio,” he cried, “look up. Who are these?”

The Albanian timorously raised his head. Then he sprang up in the boat and, looking upward, shouted with delight. On the bare hillside above the river stood a party of eight or ten Albanians. As the gyro-boat swept into view they shouted and fired off their rifles, not, however, aiming downwards, but shooting into the air, their usual mode of expressing pleasurable excitement.

“It is grandfather Giulika,” cried Giorgio, “and Marko, and Doda, and Zutni; yes, and there is Leka, my blood-foe. All are there. Praise to God, excellence! They have come over the hills to our help. While they stand there those dogs behind cannot pursue us further. We are saved!”

“But where are the Austrians?” asked Maurice. “They were on the left above the bridge as we passed.”

“We shall soon know, excellence,” said Giorgio. “Stop the boat, and I will speak to my grandfather.”

George shut off the engine, and the current being much less swift now that the boat had come beyond the rapids, they drifted along slowly. Then Giorgio lifted up his voice, and in clear trumpet tones, with a force that caused his face to flush purple and the veins in his neck to swell, he bellowed a question to the party above. The answer came in a long, loud chant from Marko, and though the distance was several hundred feet his words were clear and distinct.

He explained that, some while after the travellers had left the scene of the landslip, the enemy retreated along the path, and turned into the narrow gulley leading up to the hills. Giulika, suspecting their intentions, decided to follow them. After some time, when the pursuers came in sight of a village on the further bank, they called to the people there to hasten down to the river and intercept the boat. Their shouts were heard by Giulika and his party, who instantly left the direct track towards the Drin and hurried to a point above the rapids where they in their turn could command the ambuscaders.

“Where is the Austrian hound?” asked Giorgio.

“That we know not,” replied Marko. “We can see the Moslems behind, across the river; they are no longer pursuing; but there is no Austrian among them.”

“Surely he has not found another short cut to head us off again?” said Maurice to Giorgio.

“No, excellence; he cannot do that, for he would have to cross the river by the bridge at Lukowa, and then recross. There is no other way.”

“That is good news indeed. And now what had we better do?”

Giorgio shouted to the men above. This time the answer came from Zutni. He said that about three hours’ march down the river was a bridge, and the bank was low enough there to allow the boat to run ashore.

“And what then?” asked Maurice.

“Then there are mountains for many days’ march eastward. It is a very difficult road,” replied Zutni.

“We had better keep to the river,” said Maurice to George. “It is joined by the White Drin some distance to the north, and if I am not mistaken, Prizren, the old Servian capital, is not far from the confluence. From there we can make our way to the railway, and then we can either go by train to Nish and change there for Sofia, or make straight across country, whichever seems best. We shall find somebody to advise us in Prizren.”

“Whatever you like, old man,” said George. “At present I want nothing but a rest. Look how my hand trembles.”

“My dear fellow, you are dead beat, and no wonder. Let me take your place. We can float on the stream, and I can steer.”

“What’s wrong?” asked George, seeing his brother wince as they changed places.

“Oh, I’ve got a scratch on my leg—nothing to speak of.”

“Let’s have a look.”

On examination it proved that the bullet had passed through the flesh just above Maurice’s right knee. Luckily it had not severed an artery. They dipped their handkerchiefs in the stream and extemporised a bandage.

“That will do until we get to Prizren,” said Maurice. “Now take it easy.”

“What about Giorgio?”

“He must leave us at the bridge they spoke about. I daresay his friends will meet him there. We can’t take him with us out of the way of his blood-foe; probably he wouldn’t come if we asked him, so far from his home, and he would be of no use to us as a guide. But we owe a great deal to old Giulika and his family, and must do something to repay them.”

It was arranged between Giorgio and his friends that all should meet at the bridge, and the marching party soon disappeared among the hills. As the boat floated down with the stream, the Bucklands and Giorgio ate and drank ravenously of the food they had with them.

“This is like heaven,” said George, as he leant back, “after the strain of the last few hours. D’you mind if I go to sleep, old man?”

“Not I. You must want sleep badly. I’ll see that we don’t run aground and jog you when we come to the bridge.”

It was more than two hours before they came to the bridge, and they had waited another hour before Giulika and his party arrived. The meeting was hilarious. The Albanians appeared to take it all as a great joke, and the fact of having got the better of an Austrian and a Moslem from Elbasan afforded them vast satisfaction and amusement. Giulika regretted that, being so far from home, he could not give a feast to celebrate their triumph, but assured the Englishmen that if they would honour him with a visit at some future time he would assemble all his kinsfolk and hold high revel.

“Will you give Giorgio a tip?” asked George, as the man stepped on to the bank to join his friends.

“He would be terribly insulted,” said Maurice. “Whatever we do for him and his people must be done delicately. I’ll see to that when we get to Sofia.”

He thanked Giulika warmly for his hospitality and kindnesses, and promised to accept his invitation some day. Then they parted with mutual congratulations and compliments, the Albanians to face the long march across the hills, the Englishmen to continue their voyage down the river.

CHAPTER XV

THE END OF THE CRUISE

It was now late in the afternoon. The Bucklands were both on the verge of exhaustion after the fatigue and the excitements they had undergone, and since it was impossible to reach Prizren before dark, they decided to float down the stream for a short distance until they came to some secluded spot where they might rest. In little more than an hour they reached a cove in the left bank where they could lie up without the risk of being seen, except from some passing boat, and since they had as yet neither passed nor met a vessel of any kind, it seemed likely enough that nothing would disturb them.

So it proved. Taking turns to watch, they remained throughout the night in the cove, and when day broke felt refreshed by their rest. They breakfasted on the remnants of the food they had brought from Durazzo, and set off about 7 o’clock.

The voyage down the Black Drin was slow and uneventful. Careful navigation was required to avoid the rocks and reefs with which the bed of the river was studded. Here and there they caught sight of villages perched far up on the hillsides. At one point they saw a file of horsemen winding along a path two or three hundred feet above the river, and for a moment feared that they might be Slavianski’s party; but the boat had apparently not been noticed, and the horsemen disappeared.

About 3 o’clock they came to the junction of the Black Drin with the White. Since the united stream flowed from this point westward, they could no longer avail themselves of the current, nor could they proceed up the White Drin without an expenditure of petrol which they did not care to afford. It was time to resume their land journey. The banks of the river were still so lofty that they found no landing-place until they arrived at a many-arched bridge. Here they left the water and took to the road, which was little more than a bridle-track. A few minutes’ run brought them to another bridge, crossing a tributary stream. At the near end of the bridge was a kula, and as the gyro-car came to it a man stepped into the path, holding a rifle.

“Shall we run past him?” asked George.

“I think we had better pull up,” replied Maurice. “We don’t want a bullet in our backs. I daresay he will give us some food if we approach him properly.”

George halted the car, and Maurice gave the man a courteous salutation, and, taking the bull by the horns, asked if he could provide a meal. The man looked amazed at the question, then curious, and finally said gruffly that the strangers might eat if they chose, but he had nothing but bread to offer them. This Maurice accepted, and while eating it asked how far it was to Prizren. Hearing that it was only four hours’ march, he decided to push on at once; and, thanking their reluctant entertainer, the travellers set off again. The road improved as they entered the dusty plain of Prizren. They overtook many people as they sped along—goat-herds, mule-drivers, horsemen, women carrying huge bundles of wood, and here and there an ox-sledge. George was amused to see them skip aside at the sound of the hooter, and many were the cries of consternation and affright as the humming car ran by.

At length the minarets of Prizren came into view, and in a few minutes they passed the guard-house at the entrance to the town. The main street was cleaner than any they had seen since leaving Italy. It was thronged with people, who had come out of their houses, now that the heat of the day was past, to shop in the bazaars and gossip with their neighbours. Here was a tailor’s shop, blazing with colour; there a saddler’s, where hung bright saddle-bags, and horse-trappings with scarlet tassels; in the open spaces were piled vast quantities of luscious fruit, the sight of which made George’s mouth water. But the car was attracting so much attention that Maurice thought it best to find a han at once before they were mobbed. They stopped at the first han they came to, and by that time there was a considerable crowd about them, who looked on in hushed amazement as they alighted.

Entering the place, Maurice was received by a portly hanji, whose guests rose from their seats and courteously saluted the newcomer. George remained outside to keep an eye on the gyro-car. When Maurice explained that he wished the car to be taken to a safe place for the night, the host sent two of his household to wheel it to the stables. Maurice took occasion to explain that anyone who meddled with it would suffer a severe shock, and to emphasise his warning got George to let off a cloud of smoke into the faces of the bystanders, who scuttled away holding their noses. Feeling assured that the car would not be molested, the travellers entered the inn; the innkeeper and his attendants removed their boots and pressed strange drinks upon them, which they politely declined, asking for coffee. Soon they were furnished with an excellent supper—a fowl boiled with rice, maize bread and honey. This was a banquet, compared with the meagre and uncertain meals they had had since leaving Durazzo, and they enjoyed it thoroughly.

“We will stay here for the night, and go on to-morrow,” said Maurice.

“Is it safe to delay?” asked George.

“Quite, I think. The people here are very suspicious of Austrians, and Slavianski won’t venture to follow us any further. But we’ll start as soon as it is light to-morrow. Is there enough petrol to take us to Sofia?”

“That depends on whether we can make a straight run of it. If we have to double and wind as we have done up to the present, we certainly shall not have enough. It is about a hundred and fifty miles from here to Sofia, I think you said?”

“About that. We shall have to cross the railway. There’s a branch line to Mitrovitza, a few miles from here; a few miles further on there’s the main line running north to Nish and Belgrade; and about forty miles beyond that, across the hills, there’s Kustendil, from which there’s a wretched train service to Sofia; so if we do break down en route, we shall have opportunities of boarding a train. The mischief is that there’s such a poor service that we may be hung up for twenty-four hours or more.”

“Let us hope it won’t come to that,” said George.

Here one of the inn attendants offered him a cigarette which he had just rolled, and another a glass of a liqueur called rosolio. George accepted the former, but declined the latter, which led to a polite inquiry on the part of the host whether his guests were Mussulmans. Before Maurice could reply, there came a tremendous banging at the door, which had been fastened to keep out the crowd. The hanji sprang up and rushed, uttering loud imprecations, to deal with the inquisitive person who he supposed was intruding upon his guests. But on throwing open the door he became suddenly dumb, smiled with great deference, and bowed himself nearly double as a stout Turkish officer in a green-braided uniform clanked into the guest-room, followed by half-a-dozen soldiers similarly attired.

The inmates instantly rose from their stools or the bundles of hay on which they were sitting, and made humble obeisance. Maurice got up and saluted, telling George in a low tone to do the same. Ignoring the obsequious bowings of the company, the officer marched up to Maurice, gravely saluted him, and then, with an air of great importance, addressed him in Turkish.

“The effendi will have the goodness to show his teskereh,” he said.

Maurice smiled as he replied to the man, and produced the document from his breast-pocket.

“Who is the buffer?” whispered George.

“An officer of zaptiehs—a kind of gendarmerie,” said Maurice. “No doubt everybody in the town knows of the arrival of two strangers in a devil machine. We were bound to be questioned.”

The officer proceeded to examine the document with great solemnity, and a frown showed itself on his features as he read. After a minute or two he looked up and said sternly:

“The teskereh is not in order, effendi. You must come with me immediately to the konak.”

“That I must decline to do,” replied Maurice with a smile, “at least until I have finished my meal and washed. We have come a long way, and are, as you see, dirty. We are Englishmen, and we should discredit our nation and dishonour the Chief of the Police if we appeared before him in our present condition. If, therefore, you will be good enough to wait for a few minutes, we shall be happy to accompany you.”

“Very well, effendi,” said the officer, “we will wait.” He spoke to his men, who squatted on the floor in a half circle round the travellers, lighted cigarettes, and stared solemnly at the prisoners.

“What did he say?” asked George, somewhat uneasy.

“He is going to take us to the police station.”

“But he read your passport!”

“I am not at all sure that he did. He held it upside down, from which I infer that he knows no language but his own. A few words with the Chief of the Police will no doubt set things right. But we are disreputable-looking objects, and I’m afraid there are no toilet arrangements here. Unluckily my valise is at Giulika’s kula: we haven’t so much as a comb between us. We must do the best we can.”

Explaining to the host that they desired to wash, they were led to the courtyard behind the inn, where two of the servants poured water over their heads from a tin wine-measure, this performance being stolidly watched by two of the zaptiehs. There was no soap to be had, and the travellers had to be content with this imperfect ablution. They returned to the inn; their battered boots were pulled on, and amid respectful salutes from the hanji and his people, they passed into the street under the escort of the officer and his men.

A slight evening mist was gathering over the city. They marched up the steep cobbled streets towards the konak, perched on a ridge up the mountain side, a motley crowd following at their heels. After a fatiguing climb they came to the courtyard of the konak, guarded by sentries perched on wooden platforms, and, passing these, came to the long untidy building. Mounting a few steps, they reached the great hall, where the officer left them under charge of his men while he went to report their presence.

The scene was more novel to George than to Maurice. The great hall was thronged with people, dressed in every variety of costume and colour. Here was a rough countryman from the hills, there a portly merchant; soldiers marched up and down with clanking heels, or lounged against the wall; messengers elbowed their way through the crowd with shrill outcries. The noise was deafening as the people chatted, laughed, disputed in a score of different dialects. George thought that they were politer than an English crowd would have been, since they paid little attention to the newcomers.

Presently the officer returned, and led the travellers through a curtained doorway into a large room railed off at one end, where a number of officers and secretaries were seated on a divan raised a few inches above the floor. In the centre, cross-legged in an arm-chair, sat the Chief of Police. He rose as the prisoners were led forward, saluted, and signed to them to seat themselves on the divan near him. George was amused at the elaborate ceremony that followed. The whole company rose and saluted, then sat down again, but immediately half rose from their seats in turn, and repeated the salutation. George copied his brother faithfully, thinking what a pleasant description he would make of the ceremony when he got home again.

These preliminaries being concluded, the Chief ordered the officer of zaptiehs to make his report.

“Excellence,” he said, “these men came into the city in a strange machine, that makes a noise like a motor-car, but is such as I have never seen before. They are Austrians, and spies; their presence in this city is very injurious to our Government. The elder has a passport, which I deliver to your excellence, who will no doubt give orders that the spies be lodged in the prison.”

“What have you to say, effendi?” asked the Chief, not looking at the passport, from which Maurice inferred that he, too, was unable to read it.

“I compliment you, excellence,” said Maurice blandly, “on the zeal of your officers. His information is not absolutely correct, but that is a small matter; it is well that in these times every care should be taken. In the first place we are not Austrians, but Englishmen.”

Here there was a rustle of interest among the company.

“How do you prove that?” asked the Chief suspiciously. “You speak Turkish; how should Englishmen do that?”

“I have lived for some time in Constantinople, excellence,” replied Maurice.

“Why are you here?”

Maurice thought it inadvisable to explain either his position in the diplomatic service or the object of his journey. There was in Prizren, as he knew, an Austrian vice-consul, from whose ears he wished to keep these particulars.

“Your excellence knows the singularity of our insular habits,” he said gravely. “We think that travel has a beneficial effect on the mind. Tastes differ, of course, but having a wish to cross the mountains, I came with my brother, a student of mechanics, to test the merits of a car that he has invented. You are doubtless aware that the English are friends of your country, and I assure you that we have none but innocent designs in coming here.”

The Chief of Police stroked his chin.

“You say you are English,” he said at length. “What is the chief town of England?”

“To the best of my belief it is London,” replied Maurice, whereupon the official nodded gravely.

After a few more questions, he announced that the Englishmen were free to return to the inn, but since the hour of business was already past, they must present themselves before the Pasha next day; he would give a final decision. Thereupon a lengthy ceremony of leave-taking ensued, and the travellers were permitted to depart without a guard.

George laughed heartily as Maurice, on the way back, repeated the substance of the conversation; but Maurice was annoyed at the further delay which a visit to the Pasha would involve. Turkish etiquette demanded that he should remain until the Pasha had paid a return visit, and then he would be lucky if he got off without visiting other important men in the town.

“We should have done better to go to Constantinople from Brindisi,” he said.

“My dear chap,” replied George, “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. To be arrested as Austrian spies, after being chased by Austrians for a thousand miles, is decidedly comic. Of course, if you really want to escape the Pasha we might scoot off in the night, but I confess I’d like to see him, and I’d rather have a good night’s rest and ride in daylight.”

“Well, let us hope the Pasha won’t keep us long.”

On regaining the inn, they found that the only sleeping apartment was a tiny box of a room, approached by a rickety ladder. Here they settled themselves on rugs provided by the genial host, and tumbled off to sleep, unaware that sentries had posted themselves at the door.

Next morning they were awakened by the sound of the ladder being replaced, and rose to see the host and three of his family climbing up, laden with towels and battered wine-pots full of water.

“Good morning, excellencies,” said the smiling hanji. “Knowing your fondness for water, we have brought plenty for the washing. If you will be pleased to step on to the balcony yonder, and lean over, we will pour the water over your heads.”

The travellers good-humouredly accepted the host’s kind attentions. A crazy balcony ran along at the back of the inn. They stepped on to this, removed part of their clothing, and leant over, while the wine-pots were emptied successively over their heads and bare backs. In the courtyard below, two sentries and a dozen idlers watched the performance with grave interest. When it was over, and the assistants had rubbed them dry, they descended to the common room, to eat a breakfast of the same fare as their supper.

Maurice knew that it was impossible to see the Pasha until midday was passed, so George and he spent the morning in wandering about the streets, always closely attended by the sentries. After an early dinner they set off for the Seralio. At the door an official wanted to pull off their boots, but Maurice objected to this, pointing out that it was not the custom of his countrymen, who showed respect by taking off their hats, whereupon the man pulled aside a heavy curtain over the doorway, and gave them admittance.

They found themselves in a long room furnished in European style. The Pasha, a tall, handsome Turk, gorgeous with medals and decorations, was seated at a small table at a window overlooking the city. Rising at their entrance, he motioned them to seat themselves on chairs beside his own, and offered them glasses of a pink syrup.

“I am exceedingly sorry, Messieurs,” he said in French, “that you have been inconvenienced by the action of our police. When they heard of your arrival, they suspected you to be Austrian spies, but no sooner did the Chief of the Police see you, and perceive your noble appearance, than he felt the groundlessness of his suspicions.”

Maurice made suitable acknowledgment of so handsome a compliment, remembering that he was dirty and tattered, and had several days’ growth of bristles on his chin. He then had a short conversation with the Pasha on the state of the country, the last revolution, the reforms of the Young Turks, and finally asked permission to continue his journey eastward.

“You are travelling on some wonderful machine, I am told,” said the Pasha.

“It is novel, excellency,” replied Maurice, “and if you would care to see it, we shall be most happy to show it to you.”

“You do me great honour,” said the Pasha. “I shall return your visit presently, and shall then be charmed to inspect your car.”

Coffee and cigarettes were brought in, and after the interview had lasted an hour the visitors rose to go. Maurice’s wound had as yet given him little trouble, but he moved somewhat stiffly after remaining seated. The Pasha noticed this, and asked whether Maurice, like himself, suffered from rheumatism. On being told that the lameness was due to a slight accident in the hills, he insisted on summoning his hakim, who immediately discovered that it was a gunshot wound, and reported the fact to the Pasha.

“You were molested on your way?” the Pasha asked. “I will provide you with an escort for the road.”

“It is unnecessary, excellency,” said Maurice quickly. “Our car will go so fast that even horsemen would find it difficult to keep up with us, and we shall rely on our speed for safety.”

“Then we will have a race,” said the Pasha eagerly. “There is a suitable course along the valley of the river. It will amuse me to see a race between a horseman and your car. I will arrange it, and let you know the time fixed.”

No one could have guessed from Maurice’s demeanour that he was annoyed at the proposition. He politely assented, and after having had his wound dressed with strange ointments by the hakim, he returned with George to the inn.

George spent the greater part of the afternoon in overhauling the mechanism of his car. The glass case in which the gyroscopes spun was wrecked, and could not be replaced in Prizren; but the gyroscopes themselves, the motors, and the dynamo were uninjured, and there was quite enough petrol left to make the run to Sofia, if a direct route could be followed. The proposed race, George thought, was rather a nuisance, for it would consume a good deal of petrol, without carrying them a yard on their way. And yet!—an idea struck him that made him chuckle with anticipated delight, and astonished the grave bystanders, who had watched his proceedings in stolid silence.

Maurice meanwhile had found the time drag. Unwilling to leave the inn in case the Pasha called in his absence, he sat in front of the door to watch the passers-by. Down the steep street came hill-men driving pack-animals, women with empty pitchers on their heads, zaptiehs with rifles slung over their backs, long-bearded scribes, gipsy tinkers—but never a sign of the Pasha. Small boys gathered opposite the inn and watched the stranger as he smoked cigarette after cigarette, and rushed forward at intervals to pick up, not the discarded ends, but the matches he had thrown away. After a time Maurice got the hanji to despatch one of his sons to find out if the Pasha was coming; but the youth could get no farther than the sentries at the entrance of the Seralio, who replied to his question with a threat to kick him if he was impertinent.

When George had satisfied himself that the engines were in good working order, he sought his brother.

“Well, old man,” he said cheerily, “how’s the leg?”

“Quite easy. The hakim’s ointments seem to be effective. But I’m getting very tired of this.”

“What will happen if we don’t wait for the Pasha?”

“We shall have some trouble to get out of the city. They will immediately jump to the conclusion that we are shady characters. The Pasha’s exeat is necessary. The worst of it is that if he has set his heart on this ridiculous race we shall have to waste more time. Probably he won’t be satisfied with one, but will want to keep us racing for hours.”

“Well get over that,” said George, laughing. “I’ve had an idea.”

And then he told his brother of the notion which had occurred to him as he cleaned the engines.

“A very happy thought,” said Maurice. “I’ll question our host and see how the land lies.”

Evening came, but still no Pasha; and at sunset, there being nothing else to do, the Bucklands turned in, expecting to be honoured by a visit in the morning. They had not been long asleep, however, when they were roused by the sound of shots in the street. They sprang up and ran to the hole in the floor, from which the ladder had been removed to secure their privacy. More shots were fired outside; there was a loud banging at the door and a hullabaloo of voices.

By the dim light of a small lamp the guests saw the hanji hurry to the door and throw it open. Instantly he fell forward in an attitude of supplication, to receive a cuff on the head from one of the Pasha’s guard, who entered, followed by the Pasha himself.

“Where are the Inglese effendis?” said the great man. “Acquaint them that I am come to pay them a visit.”

“Great Scott!” ejaculated George, when Maurice told him what was happening. “What a time to come! We can’t receive him here.”

“We must. Roll up these rugs and make some sort of a divan, and for goodness’ sake don’t smile; you must be as grave as a judge, or he’ll be mortally offended.”

The hanji, having placed the ladder in the hole, clambered up with a lamp and announced the august visitor, and descended again, to be soundly cuffed for being so long about it. When the Pasha mounted and entered the room, he found the two Englishmen sitting in state on what had but recently been their bed.

“A thousand regrets, Messieurs, for disturbing you,” said the Pasha, smiling affably, and seating himself on the rugs beside the Englishmen as soon as he had acknowledged their respectful salutations. “I thought it would be quite in the Frankish manner to call on you at this time; such is the custom in Paris and London, I understand, and I did not dream that you would have retired to rest so soon.”

“We are charmed to see you, excellency,” replied Maurice, “and only regret that you should have been troubled to waken our sleepy host.”

He called for coffee. After a little more polite conversation the Pasha broached the matter of the race. Maurice suggested that the starting-point should be some little distance eastward of the city, where the road was not likely to be blocked by traffic, and that the course should be to the railway line and back, a distance of about forty miles, the horseman to be allowed a fresh mount for the second half. To this proposal the Pasha assented the more eagerly because he was by nature somewhat indolent, and would be spared by this scheme the necessity of riding out to a distant winning-post. He said that he would send out swift messengers to forbid any movement of man or beast on the road until the race was over, and to arrange for a horse to be in waiting at the railway line. The hour fixed for the start was 10 o’clock next morning.

Before leaving, the Pasha wished Maurice to accept a fine Roman coin that he wore among his medals; but having no present of equal value to offer in return, Maurice gracefully declined it. The Pasha departed with his guards, and the Englishmen, relieved at having come through the interview without disgrace, unrolled their rugs and devoted themselves again to slumber.

The town was agog next morning. News of the race had penetrated everywhere, and the whole population, dressed in all their finery, wended their way from a very early hour towards the vast plain where, in the year 1389, the Turks won the great victory that established them in Europe. A company of soldiers marched with much bugling and drumming to clear the way for the Pasha, and at 11 o’clock—only an hour late, which was punctuality to a Turk—he rode out resplendent amid his staff. A great throng of boys ran after the gyro-car as it went slowly to the starting-place, a rival crowd following the horseman chosen for the contest, a lithe and sinewy Albanian arrayed in festive colours, and mounted on a superb arab.

At the starting-point the soldiers had much trouble in keeping back the immense assembly of spectators, who shouted and gesticulated in great excitement, every now and then letting off a rifle fully charged. The Englishmen wondered that no one was injured in this promiscuous firing; the expenditure of cartridges in Albania in mere festive sportiveness is enormous.

It was clear that horse and gyro-car could not start side by side, for the animal reared and plunged at the sound of the engine, evoking shrieks of mingled terror and delight from the boys. Maurice suggested that the horseman should have a hundred yards start. With the car behind him the horse would not be alarmed, though perhaps he might be spurred on by the humming sound. This plan approved itself to the Pasha, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and told Maurice in a confidential aside that, whether he won or lost, he was to be entertained at a magnificent banquet that night. The course was cleared; the competitors took their places on the road; and at the sound of a whistle, followed instantly by a wild discharge of firearms, the race began.

The horseman set off at a furious gallop. George contented himself with a moderate pace, smiling at the frenzied cries that broke from the spectators lining the road. On each side extended the plain, the soil cracked by the summer heat, the scattered hawthorn scrub burnt brown. Clouds of dust flew from the horse’s hoofs, and still denser volumes behind the gyro-car. At one spot a line of bullock-carts loaded with maize was drawn up beside the road, and the drivers burst into shouts of applause for the horseman, and derision for the gyro-car dropping behind moment by moment.

“It’s a shame to take in the Pasha; he’s a decent old boy,” said George, when, after about five miles, the spectators being now out of sight, he quickened pace.

“The King’s business must be attended to,” said Maurice sententiously; “we have wasted quite enough time.”

As the gyro-car made up on the horseman, he made desperate efforts to keep his lead. When almost upon his heels, George reduced speed, and allowed him to draw away for a few minutes; then quickened again. At length, ten miles having been covered, and all danger of pursuit being at an end, George thought it time to put in practice the idea which had occurred to him at the han. He opened the throttle, increased his speed to fifteen, twenty, thirty miles an hour, caught up the horse, and as he passed, let out a volume of smoke. Startled by the noise and the fumes, the horse broke from the control of his rider, and dashed madly across the plain. By the time that he again answered the bit, the gyro-car was far ahead, concealed in a cloud of whirling dust.

Still further increasing the speed, George drove the car over the undulating plain until suddenly the railway line came in sight. A group of horsemen were halted there, with a led horse among them. George steered a little to the left to avoid them, slackened pace when he approached the line, and when the car had bumped over the rails, set off again at full speed, heedless of the shouts of the waiting party.

“The horseman is not in sight,” said Maurice, glancing back.

“At any rate he’ll win the prize,” said George with a laugh. “I hope the Pasha will give it him.”

On they went, across the Morava river, across the main line from Salonika to Belgrade, past stockaded villages, over low dusty hills, never checking the pace until, about 5 o’clock, the domes and minarets of Sofia hove into view. Soon they entered the city, slowing down as they ran through the street. They passed shops where cheese and onions lay on open counters, larger establishments where silk hats and French gloves were on sale, dodged electric cars, and a gendarme who was too much amazed to call on them to stop.

“There’s the Italian agent,” said Maurice, indicating a frock-coated gentleman crossing the street. “He won’t recognise me.”

They drove through a crowd of wondering market-people, and finally halted at a large building, surrounded by trees, that might have passed for an English country-house.

“Here we are,” said Maurice, heaving a sigh of relief. “Now I’ll deliver my despatch, and then for a bath, a meal, and bed.”

The door-keeper stared as Maurice alighted from the car and approached him. A puzzled look appeared on his face, then a smile of recognition. He saluted; Maurice stepped into the hall. In a few minutes he returned with his chief, who listened with amazement to the outlines of his adventures. Maurice introduced him to George, who had remained in the car. Then, lifting the bonnet, George produced a soiled envelope which had lain concealed in the mechanism.

“The despatch, sir,” he said, handing the document to the agent.

CHAPTER XVI

RECONCILIATION AND REWARDS

It would be too much to say, perhaps, that the receipt of the despatch prevented a European war; but certain it is that within a few days afterwards the troops which had been mobilising on the frontier disbanded, and the British Foreign Office was credited with an unusually successful stroke of diplomacy. Among the telegrams that passed between London and Sofia was one from the Foreign Secretary warmly complimenting Mr. Buckland on his achievement, and another from the editor of a well-known paper asking for a detailed narrative, a request which, by the rules of the Service, Maurice was bound to refuse.

The Bucklands were for a week or two the lions of Sofia society. They were dined, danced, invited to receptions and reviews; George was introduced to the King, who honoured him with two words and a cigarette. Then, in response to an agitated letter from the Honourable Mrs. Courtenay-Greene, he one day left by train for Constantinople, the gyro-car being conveyed on a truck, and thence returned home by steamer.

He had just come down from Cambridge for his first vacation when he received a letter from Maurice that threw Mrs. Courtenay-Greene into a fresh state of agitation. His leave having been cut short in the summer, Maurice had been recompensed with a fortnight at Christmas, and had decided to avail himself of this opportunity to revisit the hospitable Albanian and reward him, or, if his pride forbade the receipt of pecuniary compensation for the losses he had suffered, to thank him in person for the services he had rendered. George at once announced his intention of joining his brother, and despatched a telegram asking where they could meet. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene protested against being left to spend Christmas without her nephew’s society, but George was determined, averring that Christmas in Albania would be much better fun than in London. Sheila called him a pig, but in the next breath said he was quite right, and she only wished she could go too.

The brothers met at Trieste, went thence to Scutari by steamer, and engaging a trustworthy guide, set off on horseback for Giulika’s dwelling in the hills.

It was a bright, cold afternoon when they jogged along the high road from Elbasan. The weather for the last week had been rainy, and George was aware for the first time that mud is not at its worst in London. On the low ground the road was sometimes impassable, and the riders had to pick their way where the mud was at least fathomable. When they came into the hills they found that their journey was scarcely less dangerous than it had been in summer with the gyro-car, for the horses slipped often on the rocky, frosted track, and the riders had to dismount and lead them.

They had nearly arrived at the path leading from the road to Giulika’s little village, and were resting at the top of a steep ascent, admiring the scene of wild grandeur outspread before them, when suddenly their ears were caught by the sound of a shot.

“Blood, excellency,” said their guide with a careless shrug.

They lifted the field-glasses which were slung over their shoulders, and scanned the surrounding country. For some time they saw nothing but the rocks and crags, the dark fir forest below, the snow-clad peaks above. But presently there were more shots, and now they descried, far away, but in the direction of the road they were travelling, several puffs of smoke. Then, a sunbeam lighting the spot, they saw four men crouching behind some rocks, with rifles in their hands.

“I say, Maurice,” said George, “do you see that one of those fellows is a European?”

“D’you think so?”

“I am sure of it. I can’t see his features, but he’s a European by the cut of him. I suppose he’s a traveller attacked by brigands. Hadn’t we better lend a hand?”

“I think you’re right,” said Maurice, after a long look through his glass. “There are some Albanians creeping round the hill above them to take them in the flank.”

“Yes; I see their white caps. Come on. There are not too many of them for us to tackle. The traveller is probably an Englishman; no one else would tour in Albania at this time of year.”

They had dismounted to rest their horses after the climb. Springing to their saddles, they rode down the hill as fast as they dared, in spite of the expostulations of their guide, who declared in much agitation that it would be fatal to intervene between Albanian mountaineers and “blood.”

There was a cessation of the firing. In a few moments the combatants were concealed from view by the craggy cliffs; but hurrying on, the riders came on the scene at a moment when the European and the two Albanians with him were hard pressed by a dozen men, who had surrounded them, and were on the point of charging home. Letting out a shout, Maurice fired his revolver, and with George at his side dashed to the rescue.

The attacking party paused in astonishment. At the same moment the European, whose back had hitherto been towards the riders, turned his head.

“By gum!” ejaculated George.

It was Slavianski. His glance was but momentary; he turned about to face his enemy, and the Bucklands noticed that in spite of the peril of his situation he appeared quite unperturbed. His right arm had been wounded; he grasped his revolver with his left hand, and his mouth was set with grim determination. But just as Maurice and George sprang from their horses he swayed, staggered, and fell to the ground. And then from beyond the rocks rushed Giulika, Giorgio, Marko, and the other men of his household. Maurice shouted to them to halt, not before two or three shots had been exchanged between them and Slavianski’s escort.

Hostilities ceased. While some of the men kept a watch on Slavianski, Giulika warmly greeted his former guests.

“Welcome, excellencies,” he said. “You are come in time to see vengeance taken on your enemy and mine.”

“How does he come here?” asked Maurice.

“The Austrian dog, when running down the steep path towards the Drin that day, fell and broke his thigh,” answered the old man. “We did not learn of it until the other day. He has been laid up ever since in the house of a man of Trebischte, who is a famous bone-setter. But it was a bad case, and needed much time, and only now is the cure complete, and one leg will always be shorter than the other.

“A few days ago we learnt by examining the breastbone of a black cock, one of my own breeding, that an enemy would fall into our hands, and we made besa with Leka until this happy event should come to pass. And lo! one told me that the man from Trebischte was taking to Durazzo the Austrian who burnt my kula when he found that you had escaped; and we made an ambush for him here, and we have him, and now he shall die.”

“Let me have a word with him,” said Maurice.

Slavianski was seated on a rock. His escort of two were amicably chatting with Giulika’s party. Maurice, as he went up to him, was struck by his worn and haggard appearance.

“I hear you had an accident, Monsieur le Comte,” he said in French.

“Precisely, Monsieur,” replied Slavianski. “My thigh was broken, and the healing has been long, though the limb was set with marvellous skill by the Albanian yonder. I am not so young as I was.”

“And Major Rostopchin?”

“Is doubtless enjoying himself, Monsieur. He has apparently forgotten me. He left me, intending to make his way with the third member of my party to Trieste.”

“I am sorry to see you in such a plight,” said Maurice, “but, of course, you are in no danger now. My friend Giulika will not be implacable.”

“I am not sure that I thank you, Monsieur,” said the Count bitterly. “I am lamed for life; my failure in that little business in the summer has discredited me with—you know whom; and a bullet through the head would be an easy way out of a hopeless situation. But I should have killed a few of these ruffians first.”

“It was evidently a mistake to burn the kula, Monsieur——”

“But they killed my man,” interrupted the Count. “The mistake was in turning aside on the road to Castellane. If I had got into Brindisi before you it would have been all up with you.”

“Perhaps,” responded Maurice with a smile. “By good luck and my brother’s ingenuity I managed to score a point, and I bear you no grudge. The thing now is to secure your safety. We have come to compensate the old man for the losses his loyalty to us entailed, and I daresay we can persuade him to let bygones be bygones. You had better accompany us to the kula, I think.”

He returned to Giulika, and after a short conversation the old man gave orders to Giorgio and Marko to bring the Count to the kula. The whole party set off, and, striking up the bypath, soon came to the village. The evidences of Slavianski’s vengeance were manifest. The kula was a mere shell. The interior had been burnt out, with all the old man’s furniture and stores. He could not hope to repair the damage until he had reaped the crops of several years. Since the destruction of his property he and his family had lived in the houses of neighbours. The Englishmen were invited to enter one of these, Slavianski being left outside in charge of the young men.

Giulika entertained his guests with the same kindly hospitality as on their former visit. He did not speak of his misfortunes, but begged to have a fall account of their adventures after leaving him at the Drin. Nothing more delighted him than the story of the race at Prizren, and he laughed heartily at the thought of the Pasha’s disappointment when the horseman returned alone.

Maurice had to exercise much circumspection in broaching the object of his visit. The old man was restive at the least suggestion that he should take a reward for his services, or even accept compensation for the losses he had suffered.

“Shall I be paid for keeping my honour unstained?” he said.

“That is not the way to look at it,” replied Maurice. “Your honour was concerned with protecting us as individuals, but through us you were doing a service to our King, to your own Sultan, and to the people of this country and of others. It is on their behalf that I come to you. If I had not succeeded in reaching Sofia, there might have been war.”

“Well, we are ready,” said the old man with a smile. “We are a free people; we obey none unless we choose; but if there is a war, we flock like butterflies.”

Finding that he was on the wrong tack, Maurice tried again. After a long argument he persuaded Giulika that the King’s honour demanded that he should make some recognition of the services rendered to him by a stranger, and assured the old man that he durst not return to England with the money he had brought. Giulika agreed that if the King’s honour was involved, it would not become him as an honourable man to do anything to smirch it, and consented to accept a sum that would enable him to rebuild his kula and replace the weapons and furniture he had lost.

Having succeeded on this point, Maurice turned to the question of Slavianski. In this, too, he found that “honour” was a good card to play. He pointed out that the Austrian had been entrusted with the duty of obtaining a paper on which his Government set much store; that he had soiled his honour by his failure; and that, by the traditional laws of Lek, the slaying of his man while asleep demanded blood. In this regard the vengeance taken by Slavianski had been moderate. He reminded Giulika that the Austrian was ill and weak, incapable of doing further harm, and for ever disgraced with his employers. By harping on this string Maurice in course of time aroused in the old man’s breast a feeling of sympathy for the Austrian, and he at last declared that he might go free.

While they were talking, a young man entered whom Maurice recognised as Leka, the man who had wounded Giorgio.

“Welcome, excellency,” said the man. “I am glad to see you again.”

“Is there still blood between you and Giorgio?” asked Maurice.

“Why, yes, excellency, there must be. We have besa just now; but when Christmas is past he must look out.”

Giulika explained that, except during besa, Giorgio never left the house unless accompanied by his mother or sister, whose presence protected him from the attack of his enemy.

“And how long is this to last?” asked Maurice.

“Until Giorgio is killed, excellency,” said Giulika simply.

“But why not pay blood-gelt, and end the feud?”

“Giorgio is the innocent one,” replied the old man, indignantly. “He was falsely accused: why should we pay? Besides, we have no money: there are too many to be paid. Leka must have one purse, and the elders of the village another, or else an ox; and the Sultan’s officer another, but we never pay him unless we can help it. Still, we have not money enough for the others, so it is useless to speak of it.”

Inquiry elicited the fact that the total amount came to about £25 in English money.

“It is a pity that two such brave men should be enemies,” said Maurice.

“We are not enemies,” said Giorgio, quickly: “there is only blood between us. In besa we hunt together and are very good friends.”

“Well, I have some money that is lying idle,” said Maurice. “It cannot be better employed than in removing the blood between you. Will you let me have the pleasure and the honour of settling your feud?”

“It is good of you, excellency,” said Giulika. “I think myself that it is foolish that there should be blood between two such fine young men, and if Leka’s honour is cleaned they will be like brothers.”

“I am ready, excellency,” said Leka. “It is a pity I did not kill Giorgio when I shot at him, and then you would have kept your money.”

Maurice smiled as he handed over the necessary piastres. When the payment had been made, Leka and Giorgio kissed each other, and the former promised to buy a new rifle for his friend.

The Bucklands spent Christmas with their Albanian friends, accompanying them for ten miles over the hills to a little church. It was packed with people in bright costumes; a week’s besa had been sworn, so that all the blood foes of the neighbourhood could meet as friends. Hundreds of rifles were stacked against the wall outside. After service there was a wild rush for these, and a shooting competition began, the spectators firing off their rifles out of sheer high spirits. Shots were fired again as the assembly broke up and returned to their several villages, to resume their feuds on the morrow.

Next day the Bucklands started for Scutari, accompanied by Slavianski, for whom a mule had been provided. At Scutari they parted. Maurice had thought of warning the Austrian not to set foot in England again, but the man was so much broken down with illness that he forbore to increase his bitterness of spirit.

He saw him only once again. The course of promotion brought Maurice at length to Vienna. He was one day entering a club with an Austrian officer with whom he was on friendly terms. The door was opened by a man who had once been handsome, but was now worn and haggard, and walked with a limp. He started as he saw Maurice, hesitated a moment, and raised his hand to the salute.

“He knows you?” asked the officer in surprise.

“Yes,” replied Maurice. “I met him during a little trip I made a few years ago in a gyro-car.”

THE END.

BRADBURY, AGNEW & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE

Transcriber’s Notes

In several cases, obvious errors in punctuation have been fixed.

The page number for Chapter IV in the Table of Contents was corrected from 68 to 63.

Page 65: “for the first time is brother’s” changed to “for the first time his brother’s”

Page 126: “who call upon Allah” changed to “who called upon Allah”

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Table of Contents

HERBERT STRANG’S ROMANCES

KING OF THE AIR: or, To Morocco on an Airship

LORD OF THE SEAS: the Story of a Submarine

SWIFT AND SURE: the Story of a Hydroplane

JACK HARDY: a Story of the Smuggling Days

THE CRUISE OF THE GYRO-CAR

PREFACE

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Chapter I INTRODUCES THE GYRO-CAR

Chapter II UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS

Chapter III THE YELLOW CAR

Chapter IV RUNNING THE PLANK

Chapter V ACROSS THE ALPS

Chapter VI A NARROW MARGIN

Chapter VII AN ACT OF WAR

Chapter VIII A ROMAN ROAD

Chapter IX THE HONOUR OF AN ALBANIAN

Chapter X SOME RIDDLES AND A NURSERY RHYME

Chapter XI IN THE SMALL HOURS

Chapter XII THE SWAMP

Chapter XIII A LANDSLIP IN THE HILLS

Chapter XIV A RUSH THROUGH THE RAPIDS

Chapter XV THE END OF THE CRUISE

Chapter XVI RECONCILIATION AND REWARDS

Transcriber’s Notes

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