In the darkness the car went swiftly through Mentone and along the steep winding road which leads around the rugged coast close to the sea--the road over the yellow rocks which Napoleon made into Italy.
Presently they began to ascend a hill, a lonely, wind-swept highway with the sea plashing deep below, when, after a sudden bend, some lights came into view. It was the wayside Italian Customs House.
They had arrived at the frontier.
Hugh, by the aid of a flash-lamp, had put on a grey moustache and changed his clothes, putting his own into the suit case wherein he had found the suit already prepared for him. He had wrapped himself up in a heavy travelling-rug, and by his side reposed a pair of crutches, so that when they drew up before the little roadside office of the Italian dogana he was reclining upon a cushion presenting quite a pathetic figure.
But who had made all these preparations for his flight?
He held his breath as the chauffeur sounded his horn to announce his arrival. Then the door opened, shedding a long ray of light across the white dusty road.
"Buona sera, signore!" cried the chauffeur merrily, as a Customs officer in uniform came forward. "Here's my driving licence and papers for the car. And our two passports."
The man took them, examined them by the light of his electric torch, and told the chauffeur to go into the office for the visas.
"Have you anything to declare?" he added in Italian.
"Half a dozen very bad cigarettes," replied the other, laughing. "They're French! And also I've got a very bad cold! No duty on that, I suppose?"
The officer laughed, and then turned his attention to the petrol tank, into which he put his measuring iron to see how much it contained, while the facetious chauffeur stood by.
During this operation two other men came out of the building, one an Italian carabineer in epaulettes and cocked hat, while the other, tall and shrewd-faced, was in mufti. The latter was the agent of French police who inspects all travellers leaving France by road.
The chauffeur realized that the moment was a critical one.
He was rolling a cigarette unconcernedly, but bending to the Customs officer, he said in a low voice: "My padrone is an Americano. An invalid, and a bit eccentric. Lots of money. A long time ago he injured his spine and can hardly move. He fell down a few days ago, and now I've got to take him to Professor Landrini, in Turin. He's pretty bad. We've come from Hyeres. His doctor ordered me to take him to Turin at once. We don't want any delay. He told me to give you this," and he slipped a note for a hundred lire into the man's hand.