CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

      The blue envelope!

      Fawley threw down the tennis racquet he had been carrying, turned the key in the lock of his sitting room door at the Hôtel de France and moved swiftly to the writing table on which the letter had been placed. He tore it open, read it very deliberately—for it was in a somewhat curious cipher which he had only just committed to memory—and then, lighting a match, watched it slowly consume to ashes. Afterwards he lingered for a few minutes on his balcony, looking up towards the misty peaks eastwards of Mont Agel. He no longer regretted the fortnight’s idleness, the nonappearance of Krust, the almost stagnant calm of his days. He had thoroughly established himself as a leisure-loving American with a passion for games. He now busied himself at the telephone, cancelling a few social engagements, for Fawley, reserved though he was by habit, was a man always sought after.

      “A few days’ golf up at Sospel,” he told every one, after he had packed his clothes.

      He wondered a little grimly whither those few days’ golf would lead him. Perhaps to the same place as Joseffi, who had been found in the gardens with a bullet through his heart and a revolver by his side, but who had never been known to enter the Casino in his life.

      “You are not leaving us, sir?” the valet de chambre enquired, as he answered the bell.

      “Only for a few days,” Fawley assured him. “I am keeping on my rooms.”

      “You are not leaving us, Major Fawley, I trust,” the smiling and urbane manager asked him in the hall.

      “Only for a few days,” Fawley repeated. “I am going to explore your

      hills and try another golf links. Back about Sunday, I should think. Keep my letters.”

      “I wish you a pleasant and successful expedition,” the manager remarked, with a final bow.

      Fawley’s smile was perhaps a little enigmatic. He waved his hand and drove off without further speech.

      * * * * *

      Fawley, some five days later, driving his high-powered Lancia car through one of the many passes of the lesser Alps between Roquebrune and the frontier, suddenly swung around a corner to find himself confronted by a movable obstruction of white freshly painted rails and an ominous notice. A soldier in the uniform of the Chasseurs Alpins stepped forward, his rifle at a threatening angle.

      “There is no road this way, Monsieur,” he announced curtly.

      Fawley, who had brought his car to a standstill, leaned forward and produced a map. He addressed the soldier in his own language.

      “My young friend,” he protested, “I fancy that you are mistaken. You have blocked the wrong road. This is clearly marked in the latest edition of the issued maps as a Number Two road between Hegel and the village of Les Estaples.”

      “Your map is of no consequence,” the man replied. “This road was taken over by the military some time ago. There is no passage here for civilians.”

      A sergeant, who had been sitting on a rock amongst the sparse pine trees smoking a cigarette, scrambled down to them.

      “What is the trouble?” he demanded.

      “Monsieur desires to use this route,” his subordinate confided. “I have told him that it exists now only for military purposes. He must return the way he came.”

      “C’est exact,” the sergeant declared. “Where were you bound for by this route, Monsieur?”

      Fawley leaned from his seat.

      “I have been told,” he replied confidentially, “that your army is thinking of erecting military works here. I wish to discover how far that is the truth.”

      The sergeant stared at him. So did the private. So did the young lieutenant, who had just ridden up on a high-spirited horse in time to hear the end of the sentence.

      “What is the reason for Monsieur’s desire to gain this information?” he asked, wheeling around so that he completely blocked the road.

      “I might reply that that is my affair,” Fawley declared. “I really do not see why I should be questioned in this fashion. I have a map in my hand which clearly indicates this as a public thoroughfare.”

      The lieutenant made a sign. The sergeant mounted on one footboard, the private on the other.

      “Go backwards in reverse,” Fawley was ordered. “Take the narrow turning to the right about thirty metres back.”

      “Where will it lead me?” Fawley asked doubtfully.

      “You will find out when you get there,” was the curt reply. “If you hesitate, I shall have to ask you to consider yourself under arrest.”

      Fawley, grumbling to himself all the time, obeyed orders. He found himself, after a climb of a couple of kilometres along a road which commenced in villainous fashion, but whose latter portion was smooth and beautifully engineered, in front of a recently built, white stone house, around which a considerable clearing had been made. A sentry stood in front of the door. The lieutenant who had galloped on ahead had disappeared into the house. Fawley rose to his feet.

      “Is this where I get out?” he asked.

      “On the contrary, you remain where you are,” the sergeant replied gruffly. “Our lieutenant is now interviewing the commandant.”

      Fawley lit a cigarette and gazed down the avenue of fallen pines to the broken country beyond, the bare peaks fading into the mist with the background of snow-capped ridges incredibly near.

      “A trifle wild here,” Fawley remarked. “You seem to have cut down a great many trees. You use a lot of timber in the army, I suppose.”

      The sergeant maintained a scornful silence. The private grinned. The horizon was suddenly blurred. A few flakes of sleet began to fall.

      “Any objection to my putting up the hood?” Fawley asked, shivering.

      The sergeant pointed to the house.

      “You will be warm enough in there,” he said. “Monsieur le Lieutenant is coming to fetch you.”

      The lieutenant approached them and motioned Fawley to descend.

      “Colonel Dumesnil would like a word or two with you, Monsieur,” he announced. “Will you be so good as to come this way. Sergeant!”

      The sergeant’s instructions were unspoken but obvious. He walked by Fawley’s side and the steel of his unsheathed bayonet was very much in evidence. Fawley turned up his coat collar and swore softly.

      “I shall never find my way down through this labyrinth of passes, if you keep me here much longer,” he grumbled. “Why does your commandant wish to speak to me?”

      “That you will soon discover,” the lieutenant answered shortly. “Let me advise you to answer his questions politely and without complaint. The colonel is not noted for his good temper. This way, please.”

      Fawley was ushered into what might have been an orderly room. Colonel Dumesnil looked up from his task of studying a pile of maps and watched the newcomer keenly. The former was a short man, whose spurred riding boots scarcely reached the floor, but his face was stern and his steel-grey eyes and tone were alike menacing.

      “Will you explain, sir, what you are doing on a military reservation?” he demanded.

      “I was following a road which is marked on my map as an ordinary civilian thoroughfare,” Fawley explained. “I had a perfect