They had almost reached the bridge and were slowing down when Benton,
scanning the road, empty in the moonlight, grasped for the first time a
definite suspicion of what had happened.
"Cara!" he shouted. "Good God, where is she?"
The chauffeur leaned over and shouted into his ear. "I'm telling you,
sir. The lady's in that other car--with that other edition of you. And,
sir--beggin' your pardon--they're beatin' it like hell!"
Benton's only answer was to feed gas to the spark so frantically that
the car seemed to rise from the ground and shiver before it settled
again. Then it shot forward and reeled crazily into a speed never
intended for a curving road at night.
The moonlight fell on a gray streak of a car, driven by a maniac with a
scarf blowing back from a turban over two wildly gleaming eyes.
Back at "Idle Times" a Capuchin monk, wandering apart from the dancers
in consonance with the austere proclaiming of his garb, was studying the
frivolous gamboling of a school of fountain gold-fish in the
conservatory. He looked up, scowling, to take a note from a servant.
"Colonel Von Ritz said to hand this to the gentleman masquerading as a
monk," explained the man.
"Von Ritz," growled the monk. "He annoys me."
He impatiently tore open the letter and scanned it. His brows contracted
in astonished mystification, then slowly his eyes narrowed and kindled.
The scrawl ran: "Your Highness: If you see neither Mr. Benton, masquerading as an Arab,
her Highness, the Princess, nor myself in ten minutes from the time of
receiving this, take the car which you will find ready in the garage. My
orderly will be there to act as your chauffeur. Follow the main road to
the second village. Turn there to the right, and drive to the small
bay, where you will find me or an explanation. I have been conducting
certain investigations. The affair is urgent and touches matters of
great import to Europe as well us to Your Highness."