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.”