and remained leaning against the wall of a bridge. Underneath was a cold, foaming current. Suddenly a car approached the bridge, slowed down and then stopped. Out of it sprang a man in a leather coat who came up to Prokop. “Where are you going?” It was Mr, d’Hémon, with goggles over his Tartar eyes and looking like an enormous shaggy beetle. “"I’m going to Balttin; they’re looking for you.”
“How far is it to Balttin?” whispered Prokop.
“Forty kilometres. What do you want there? They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest. Come along. I’ll take you away.”
Prokop shook his head.
“The Princess has left,” continued Mr, d’Hémon quietly. “Early this morning, with Uncle Rohn. Chiefly so that she should forget . . . a certain unpleasant experience in connection with running over somebody.”
“Is he dead?” breathed Prokop.
“Not yet. In the second place, the Princess, as you possibly know, has consumption seriously. They’re taking her to somewhere in Italy.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
Prokop stood up, swaying. “In that case
“Will you come with me?”
“I don’t . . . know. Where?” “Where you like.” “I should like to go . . . to Italy.”
"Come along.” Mr, d’Hémon helped Prokop into the car, threw a fur rug over him and slammed the door to. The car started off.
And again the countryside began to unroll itself,
