“When you have your picture taken and affixed to it, all you have to do is to damp the paper slightly and impress this stamp.  It will then defy detection.”

“Where on earth did you get this from?” asked Hugh, noticing that it was a replica of the United States consular seal.

The man smiled, replying: 

“They make passports of all countries in Spain.  You pay for them, and you can get them by the dozen.  The embossing stamps are extra.  There is a big trade in them now owing to the passport restrictions.  Besides, in every country there are passport officers who are amenable to a little baksheesh!” And he grinned.

What he said was true.  At no period has it ever been more easy for a criminal to escape than it is to-day, providing, of course, that he is a cosmopolitan and has money.

Hugh took the passport and the disc, adding: 

“How am I to repay you for all this?”

“I want no payment, signore.  All I ask you is to conform to the suggestions of the worthy Signore Ravecca and his good wife here.  You are not the first guest they have had for whom the police searched in vain.”

“No,” laughed the old woman.  “Do you recollect the syndic of Porticello, how we had him here for nearly three years, and then he got safely away to Argentina and took the money, three million lire, with him?”

“Yes,” was the man’s reply.  “I recollect it, signora.  But the Signore Inglese must be very careful—­very careful.  He must never go out in the daytime.  You can buy him English papers and books of Luccoli, in the Via Bosco.  They will serve to while away the time.”

“I shall, no doubt, pass the time very pleasantly,” laughed Hugh, speaking in French.

Then the old crone left them and returned with two cups of excellent cafe nero, that coffee which, roasted at home one can get only in Italy.

It was indeed refreshing after that long night drive.

Hugh stood there without luggage, and with only about thirty pounds in his pocket.

Suddenly the man who had driven him looked him curiously in the face, and said: 

“Ah!  I know you are wondering what your lady friend in Monte Carlo will think.  Well, I can tell you this.  She already knows that you have escaped, and she had been told to write to you in secret at the Poste Restante at Brussels.”

Hugh started.

“Who has told her?  Surely she knows nothing of the affair at the Villa Amette?”

“She will not be told that.  But she has been told that you are going to Brussels, and that in future your name is Monsieur Godfrey Brown.”

“But why have all these elaborate arrangements been made for my security?” Hugh demanded, more than ever nonplussed.

“It is useless to take one precaution unless the whole are taken,” laughed the sphinx-like fellow whose cheerful banter had so successfully passed them through the customs barrier.