o careful.
Alphonse, in his zeal, would have written himself down an Englishman
had I not remonstrated, and told him that the ordinary housefly could
have in its mind no doubt as to his nationality. So he borrowed the
name of a friend who had gone to Pondicherry. Our orders were to keep
within the hotel garden, and thus in masterly inactivity we passed the
afternoon and evening. The heat was intense, and the gay town
deserted. Indeed, one half of the shops were closed.

I went to bed early, and was already asleep when a great rapping
aroused me. It was Sander's colleague, who came into my room, and
dismissed the waiter who had brought him thither. Alphonse, aroused by
the clamour, appeared on the scene, making use of a door of
communication connecting our rooms.

"Quick, Messieurs!" the man said. "Into your clothes. I will tell you
my news as you dress. My man," he went on, acting valet as he spoke,
"has left by the night diligence for St. Martin Lantosque. But, tell
me, are these gentlemen good for forty miles on horseback to-night?"

"Are we men?" retorted Alphonse, in response, as he wrestled with his
shirt collar, "or are we schoolgirls? Tell me that, Mr. the Policeman!"

"You can only hope to do it on horseback," continued the man. "It is
sixty kilometres, and for thirty of them you mount. No carriage
ascends at the trot. The diligence is the quickest on the road. It
proceeds at the trot where the hired carriages go at a snail's pace.
You hire horses--they are your own. You beat them--_hein_!"

And he made a gesture descriptive of a successful and timely arrival.

"It is my custom," he went on, confidentially, "to make sure that my
patients are comfortably in bed at night. I go this evening to the
Chapeau Rouge--Monsieur knows the house--facing the river; wine
excellent--drainage leaves to be desired. Well, I find our friend is
absent--has taken his luggage. He has vanished--_Pfui_! I know he is
safe at eight o'clock--at ten he is gone. There are no trains. This
man wants to get to Italy, I know. There is no boat. One way remains.
To take the diligence to St. Martin Lantosque, five miles from the
frontier, at the head of the valley of the Vesubie--to walk over the
pass; it is but a footpath, and now buried under the snow--to reach
the wildest part of northern Italy, and, if the good God so will it,
arrive at Entraque. Thence by way of Cuneo and Savona one takes the
train to Genoa. I inquire at the diligence o