e sent to me here, if
necessary."

Whilst the priest tore open his telegram, Fandor lit a cigarette....
By hook or by crook, he must see the contents of this telegram which
his travelling companion was reading with frowning brows. But Fandor
might squint in the glass for the reflection of the message, pass
behind the abbe to peep over his shoulder while pretending to examine
the posters decorating the garage walls: he had his pains for his
reward: it was impossible to decipher the text.... He must await
developments.

When the car was ready to start he decided to speak.

"You have not received vexatious instructions, I hope, Monsieur
l'Abbe?"

"Not at all!"

"There is always something disquieting about a telegram!"

"This one tells me nothing I did not know already--at least,
suspected! The only result is that instead of going to Havre we shall
now go to Dieppe."

"Why this change of destination?" was Fandor's mental query. "And what
did this precious priest suspect?"

The abbe was giving the chauffeur instructions.

"You will leave Rouen by the new route.... You will draw up at an
hotel which you will find on the right, named, if my memory does not
play me false, _The Flowery Crossways_."

"A pretty name!" remarked Fandor.

"A stupid name," replied the abbe. "The house does not stand at any
cross-roads, and the place is as flowerless as it is possible to be!"
There was a pause. "That matters little, however, Corporal: the
quarters are good--the table sufficient. You shall judge for yourself
now: here is the inn!"

Under the skillful guidance of the chauffeur, the car turned sharply,
and passed under a little arch which served as a courtyard entrance.
The car came to a stand-still in a great yard, crowded with
unharnessed carts, stablemen, and Normandy peasants in their Sunday
best.

A stout man came forward. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball.
This was the hotel-keeper. To every question put by the little abbe he
replied with a broad grin which displayed his toothless gums. His
voice was as odd as his appearance, it was high-pitched and quavering.

"You can give us dinner?"

"Why, certainly, Monsieur le Cure."

"You have a coach-house where the car can be put up?"

With a comprehensive sweep of his arm, mine host of _The Flowery
Crossways_ indicated the courtyard. The carts of his regular clients
were left there in his charge: he could not see why the motor-car of
these strangers could