As he approached the consigne, he looked along the platform, and there, sure enough, was the same woman on the watch, though she pretended to be without the slightest interest in his movements.

Hugh put on his coat, and, carrying his bag, placed it in the car.

“You have your orders?” asked Hugh.

“Yes, m’sieur.  We are to go to Cette with all speed.  Is not that so?”

“Yes,” was Hugh’s reply.  “I will come up beside you.  I prefer it.  We shall have a long, dark ride to-night.”

“Ah! but the roads are good,” was the man’s reply.  “I came from Cette yesterday,” he added, as he mounted to his seat and the passenger got up beside him.

Hugh sat there very thoughtful as the car sped out of the city of noise and bustle.  The man’s remark that he had come from Cette on the previous day gave colour to the idea that no net had been spread, but that the stranger was acting at the orders of the ubiquitous Sparrow.  Indeed, were it not for the strange glance the undersized little man had given to the passer-by, he would have been convinced that he was actually once again under the protection of the all-powerful ruler of the criminal underworld.

As it was, he remained suspicious.  He did not like that woman who had watched so patiently his coming and going at the station.

With strong headlights glaring—­for the night was extremely dark and a strong wind was blowing—­they were soon out on the broad highway which leads first across the plain and then beside the sea, and again across the lowlands to old-world Arles.

It was midnight before they got to the village of Lancon, an obscure little place in total darkness.

But on the way the driver, who had told Hugh that his name was Henri Aramon, and who insinuated that he was one of The Sparrow’s associates, became most affable and talkative.  Over those miles of dark roads, unfamiliar to Hugh, they travelled at high speed, for Henri had from the first showed himself to be an expert driver, not only in the unceasing traffic of the main streets of Marseilles, but also on the dark, much-worn roads leading out of the city.  The roads around Marseilles have never been outstanding for their excellence, and after the war they were indeed execrable.

“This is Lancon,” the driver remarked, as they sped through the dark little town.  “We now go on to Salon, where we have a direct road across the plain they call the Crau into Arles.  From there the road to Cette is quite good and straight.  The road we are now on is the worst,” he added.

Hugh was undecided.  Was the man who was driving him so rapidly out of the danger zone his friend—­or his enemy?

He sat there for over an hour unable to decide.

“This is an outlandish part of France,” he remarked to the driver presently.

“Yes.  But after Salon it is more desolate.”

“And is there no railway near?”