It took him about twenty minutes of uneventful walking to arrive at the spot where the highway branched. The light had faded now and in the semi-darkness he moved a few yards down the road and stood listening. About fifty yards below on the right was the bar and the hotel, but not a single flicker of light could he see from any one of the windows. He still waited and listened intently. He had expected to hear the distant voices or footsteps of his pursuers returning, but he heard nothing. Behind him was a fairly constant progress of motor cars and other vehicles but from the hotel itself or its immediate environments there came no sound at all. The possession of that hard little object which he drew now from his pocket lent him a courage which otherwise he might certainly not have possessed. He moved slowly through the obscurity down the lane. With every step the darkness seemed to become more intense, owing to the sharp slope on his left and the thickly growing pines which threw a shadow over the road. He reached the hotel. To all appearance it was entirely deserted. He passed on to the bar. Every light in it was extinguished. There were no signs of any movement, no sound of voices. He stepped cautiously over a low hedge and made his way around towards the back. Suddenly he stopped short and cowered beneath a mimosa tree. There were footsteps close at hand, the crash of a small gate. Some one flung open a door and a light streamed out into the darkness. He heard a rough, unfamiliar voice ask an eager question which, so far as he could understand it, referred to him.
“Any luck?”
“No.”
“Blast! Half a dozen guns and you never put his light out!”
“We never saw him,” a surly voice replied.
There were more oaths, more footsteps, a slamming of doors, the hum of many voices. In face of that frantically expressed wish for his decease, Roger stepped warily back into the road and, after a brief period of hesitation, returned cautiously to where it rejoined the Corniche. Here, in the lights of the motor cars flashing by every few minutes, he felt a sense of security. In the shadow of that hotel all the old presentiment that evil was afoot had seized him. The mistral was dying down. A small clump of cypresses on his right stood stark against the sky. The front of the hotel was lifeless. Was he, Roger asked himself, obeying an instinct of cowardice by resting there, or inspiration? Inspiration without a doubt. Excitement was alive again in his pulses. A slim, dark figure had emerged from the hotel and was coming towards him with incredible swiftness.
CHAPTER XI
With every flying footstep the approaching figure gained outline and distinctness. A woman! No, a girl, dressed from head to foot in black. Once she paused to look over her shoulder. Then she came on faster than ever, and from the ease of her movements and the unhampered grace of them, Roger judged that she was scantily dressed.
When she saw him, she threw up her arms and he thought that she would have screamed.
“Who are you? You are one of them!” she cried.
“I certainly am not,” he assured her. “I was wondering what was going on down there.”
She shivered violently and caught hold of his arm. She threw her head back and looked up at him. She was amazingly attractive in the way of the Niçoise—large soft eyes, full lips and clear complexion.
“Don’t ask,” she begged. “It is all horrible. Get me to Nice, I implore you. I can leave at nine for Marseilles. Oh, Monsieur, you will be kind.”
Roger had no idea of being anything else and fate was certainly with him, for at that moment a P.L.M. bus, half full, came lumbering around the corner. He hailed it and half lifted her in. From the doorway he cast one glance behind. The front of the hotel and bar were still black and obscure but on the bushes and stunted trees in the garden behind shafts of moving light were playing. What was going on there, Roger wondered. The girl knew!
The girl knew—but would she tell? For the first quarter of an hour she was absolutely silent. She clung to her companion almost passionately. The people in the bus, taking them for lovers, looked away with smiles and whispers. Her fingers dug into his arm and her head was never far from his shoulder. By degrees the terror seemed to fade from her luminous eyes. Once she almost smiled at him. As the lights of Nice greeted them, she sat up, her fingers strayed around her hair and she straightened her hat. Then she returned to the shelter of Roger’s arm, leaning back, somewhat to his embarrassment, as though it were her natural place.
“The good God be thanked for you!” she murmured. “You are strong and you speak French. You are my protector.”
Roger coughed a little uneasily. So far as her sex was concerned, he had his own plans.
“Protect you from what?” he demanded. “What was going on in that house?”
She shuddered, but for the moment made no reply. She drew a little closer to him. He remained firm, however.
“You must tell me what is going on in there,” he insisted. “Was any one being ill treated? It may be necessary to telephone to the police.”
She shook her head.
“Not the police,” she protested emphatically. “It is not a matter for the police.”
“But I am convinced that the people in that house are a bad lot,” he told her. “I blundered in and they would have shot me if they could. They evidently had some mischief on to-night. Look how terrified you were when I found you.”
“I was terrified for fear I should not get away,” she said simply. “Now that I have found you, I am happy. We are here amongst the lights.”
“But what am I to do with you?” Roger asked. “I live at Monte Carlo. To tell you the truth, I still have a feeling that I ought to do something about that hotel.”
She waved to the conductor and stopped the bus. They were at the commencement of the Promenade des Anglais, opposite a straggling line of restaurants with outside tables upon the terrace. She led the way to one of them, but she would have nothing to do with the al fresco portion. She passed swiftly through to the almost empty interior and chose a secluded corner table.
“Am I not terrible?” she asked, her arm stealing once more through his and her lips pouting most provocatively an inch or two away. “I am hungry. After all I have been through, I am starving.”
“Come to think of it, so am I,” Roger assured her, reaching for the menu.
“And I am thirsty.”
Here Roger became even more enthusiastic. Afterwards he reflected that it was seldom he had enjoyed a couple of cocktails so thoroughly, nor was his companion far behind him in appreciation. Then they washed and he telephoned for his car. The horrors of little over an hour ago seemed immensely exaggerated.
“And now,” he insisted, when the sole was served and wine was in their glasses, “your name, please.”
“Marie Louise. And yours?”
“Roger. Now tell me, if you please, the story of the hotel.”
Her pretty face was puckered with perplexity.
“It is more difficult than I thought,” she confessed.
“Why?”
“Because I am not quite sure whether afterwards you will think that I am nice. I am not really honest.”