The Car of Destiny
would hardly be worth his while—”
“I wouldn’t bet much on that,” said Dick.
“Let’s rush it,” said I.
“Too risky. You’d feel such a limp ass to be detained by a fat policeman
at the door of Spain, while Carmona and Lady Monica went through, and
disappeared.”
“I’d shoot the fat policeman first.”
“There you are, being Spanish again, just when you ought to develop a
little horse-sense.”
This put me on my mettle, and in two minutes I had thought out a plan,
while Dick whistled and reflected.
It was rather an odd plan, and could only be carried out by the aid of
another. But that other had never failed me yet, when loyalty or devotion
were needed; and I had not got out half the suggestion when he understood
all, and begged to do what I had hardly liked to ask.
We took exactly eight minutes, by Dick’s watch, in making arrangements to
meet an emergency which I hoped might not arise if our speed were good and
our luck held.
Already Hendaye, the last French town, was but just beyond our sight. We
ran through it at high speed, passed on through little Béhobie; and next
moment our tyres were rolling through a brown mixture of French and
Spanish mud on the international bridge that crosses the swirling Bidasoa.
We had passed from Gaul to Iberia. At the central iron lamp-post, carrying
on one side the “R.F.” of France, on the other the Royal Arms of Spain, I
lifted my cap in salutation to my native land, just where, had I been an
Englishman, I should have lifted it to memories of grand old Wellington.
The broad river was rushing, green and swift, down to Fuenterrabia and the
sea, eddying past the little Ile des Faisans, where so much history has
been made; where Cardinals treated for royal marriages; where Francis the
First, a prisoner, was exchanged for his two sons. We were across the
dividing water now, in Irun, and on Spanish soil. High-collared Spanish
soldiers lounging by their sentry boxes, looked keenly at us, but made no
move, little guessing that the accused bomb-thrower of Barcelona was
driving past them through this romantic gate to Spain. We turned abruptly
to the right, and, hoping still to escape trouble, pulled up at the
custom-house.
To hurry a Spanish official, I had often heard my father say, in old days,
is a thing impossible, and we avoided an air of anxiety. The three men in
the big red car appeared to desire nothing better than to linger in the
society of the _douaniers_. Nevertheless, the chauffeur was as brisk in
his movements as he dared to be.
He it was who jumped from the tonneau, and in passable Spanish asked our
inquisitor which, if any, of our suit-cases he wished to open. At the same
instant a propitiatory cigarette was offered and accepted.
Carefully the overcoated man selected with his eye a piece of luggage on
the car roof. Luck was with us. It was the one easiest to unlock.
In the twinkling of an eye (an American, not a Spanish eye), the thing was
down and in the office. The _douanier_ was about to inspect, in his
leisured way, when a peasant entered with some bags to be weighed.
Naturally the official fell into chat with the new-comer, and it was
necessary to remind him that we had the right of precedence. Every moment
was of importance, for already there was time for a telegram to have
arrived. Presently there would be time for its instructions to be acted on
as well. And at this moment I realized, as I had not fully realized
before, all that it would mean to me of humiliation and defeat to fail
ignominiously on the threshold of my adventure.
It was hard to show no impatience as the _douanier’s_ lazy,
cigarette-stained hand wandered among the contents of the suit-case. When
any article puzzled him, he paused; another precious minute gone. But
eventually, having had a safety-razor explained, he was satisfied with the
inspection of the luggage, and indicated that it might be replaced. Then
came the question of the deposit of money for the car, on entering Spain.
Very carefully did the imperturbable official examine each Spanish
bank-note we tendered; laboriously did he make out the receipt. Had he
meant to detain us, his movements, his words, could not have been more
deliberate. How I had longed to hear again the Spanish language spoken by
Spaniards in Spain, yet how little was I able to appreciate the fulfilment
of my long-cherished wish! At last, however, every formality was complied
with, and we were free to go.
With all speed we took our man at his word. The leather-coated,
leather-legginged chauffeur set the engine’s heart going in time with his
own, flung himself into the tonneau, and had not shut the door when Waring
slipped in the clutch, muttering “Hooray!”
Another second and we should have been beyond recall; but hardly was the
brake off than it had to go crashing on again to avoid running over a
sergeant and two soldiers who rushed up and sprang in front of us, puffing
with unwonted haste.
In his hand the sergeant held an open telegram.
“You speak Spanish?” he panted.
“A little,” said Dick. “French better.”
“I have no French, señor,” replied the sergeant, “But my business is not
so much with you as with this gentleman,” he glanced at the telegram, “in
the grey coat with the fur collar, the grey cap, the goggles in a grey
felt mask, the small dark moustache, the grey buckskin gloves.” (Carmona
had noticed everything.) “Our instructions are to prevent the Marqués de
Casa Triana from going into Spain.”
“Casa Triana? What do you mean?” cried Dick. Then he laughed. “Is the
person you’re talking about a Spaniard?”
“He is, señor.”
Dick laughed a great deal more. “Well, I guess you’ll have to look
somewhere else. There’s a mistake. The gentleman in the grey coat and all
the other grey things has hardly enough Spanish to know what you’re
driving at.”
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and looked determined. “There is no
mistake in my instructions, señor. I am sorry, but it is my duty to detain
that gentleman. If there is an error there will be apologies.”
“I should say there jolly well was an error,” sputtered Dick, in his wild
combination of Spanish and English and American. “George, show your card.
He thinks you’re a Spaniard, who’s ‘wanted.’ ”
The gentleman in the grey coat showed the visiting cards of Mr. George
Smith, and the Spanish soldier examined them gloomily. “Anybody might have
these,” said he, half to us, half to a group of his countrymen. “Señor, I
must reluctantly ask you to descend and to come with me. It will be much
better to do so quietly.”
“Of all the monstrous indignities,” shouted Dick. “I’m a newspaper
correspondent on a special detail. I’ll wire the American minister in
Madrid, and the English Ambassador too. I’ll—”
But the gentleman in the grey coat had obeyed the sergeant. He had also
taken off his goggles.
“It will be all right in a few hours, or a few days,” said he in English.
“You must go on. Don’t worry about me.”
“Go on without you?” echoed Dick, breaking again into astonishing Spanish
for the benefit of the official. “Well, if you really don’t mind, as I’m
in the dickens of a hurry. You can follow by train, you know, as soon as
you’ve proved to these blunderers that you’re George Smith.”
“If you are Señor George Smith, you will be free as soon as the photograph
of the Marqués de Casa Triana has been sent on by the police at Madrid,”
said the sergeant. “If not—” he did not finish his sentence; but the break
was significant. And the soldiers closed in to separate the alleged George
Smith from his companions of the car, lest at the last moment they should
attempt a rescue.
“We’ll make them sorry for this, George,” said Dick. “But as we really
can’t do much for you here, we’ll get on somewhere else, where we can.”
“I must ask also for the name of the owner of this automobile, and for
that of his chauffeur,” insisted the sergeant, “before I can let you go.”
“Oh, all right,” said Dick, crossly, producing his passport, and cards
with the names of the papers for which he had engaged to correspond.
“Ropes, fork out your credentials.”
The chauffeur brought forth his French papers, and pointed to the name of
Peter Ropes. The sergeant industriously wrote down everything in his
note-book, a greasy and forbidding one.
“It is satisfactory,” he said with dignity; “you can proceed, señores.”
The engine had not been stopped during the scene; and as the gentleman in
the grey coat was marched off to the guard-house with a jostling Spanish
crowd at his heels, the red car in which he had lately been a passenger
slipped away and left him behind.
Through the streets of Irun it passed at funeral pace, as if in respect
and regret for a friend who was lost; but once out in the green,
undulating country beyond, it put on a great spurt of speed, after the
chauffeur had scrambled into the front seat.
“Great Scott, but I’m as hot as if I’d come out of a Turkish bath,”
growled Dick.
“It was a warm ten minutes,” said I. “Poor old Ropes—bless him!” And I
sent back a sigh of gratitude to the staunch friend in my grey overcoat,
cap, goggles, and gloves, to whose loyalty I owed freedom.
VIII
OVER THE BORDER
Here I was in Spain, my Spain—thanks to Ropes; and, again thanks to him,
probably out of danger from Carmona’s suspicions for some time to come,
barring accidents.
He would make inquiries at Irun when he arrived there, and learning that
the obnoxious person had been detained according to information received
from him, would pass on triumphantly. Even when fate brought his car and
ours together, as I hoped it often would, a sight of the two remaining
travellers, the American automobilist and his hideously-goggled chauffeur,
would cause him amusement rather than uneasiness.
He would say to himself that, so far as he was concerned, no harm had been
done, even if no good had been accomplished; for if the banished passenger
were indeed Casa Triana, he had done well to get rid of him. If, after
all, his quick suspicion had been too far-fetched, and he had caused the
arrest of an innocent tourist, that tourist would never know to whom he
owed his adventure, and would be powerless to trouble the Duke of Carmona.
As for Ropes, when the photograph taken of me years ago by the police in
Barcelona should reach the police in Irun, it would be seen that two young
men who are twenty-seven, tall, slim, and have dark moustaches, do not
necessarily resemble each other in other details. Mr. George Smith would
be generously pardoned for having occupied the attention of the police in
place of the Marqués de Casa Triana, and he would be free to rejoin his
fellow-travellers.
During the three or four minutes of discussion we had had before making
the “quick change” which transformed master into man, we had arranged to
communicate with Ropes by means of advertisements in _La Independencia_.
We would forward money in advance to that journal, enough to pay for
several advertisements, and could then telegraph our whereabouts at the
last minute, whenever the movements of Carmona’s car gave us our cue.
This was the best arrangement we could make in a hurry, and when we had
time to reflect, it did not seem to us that, in the circumstances, we
could have done better.
And so, come what might, the outlaw had crossed the border, and was in the
forbidden country of his hopes and heart.
In spite of compunction on Ropes’ account, I was happy, desperately happy.
I was free to watch over the girl I loved and who loved me; and I was
drinking in the air of the fatherland. It did actually seem sweeter and
more life-giving than in any other part of the world.
Dick laughed when I mentioned this impression, and said I ought to try the