"
An inspector had just passed my traps through with bored indifference.
I turned a huffy back on Van Blarcom and went to stand in line before
a door which harbored, I was told, a special commission for the
examination of passports and the admission of travelers into France.
Reaching the inner room in due course, I saluted three uniformed men
who sat round an unimposing wooden table, exhibited the _vise_ that Jack
Herriott had secured for me at Genoa, and was welcomed to the land. Then
I stepped forth on the platform, retrieved my porter and my baggage, and
placed myself near the door to wait until the girl should come.
I must have been a grim sort of sentinel as I stood there watching. I
knew what I had to do, but I detested it with all my heart. There was
one thing to be said for this Miss Falconer--she had courage. She was
pressing on to French soil without lingering a day in Italy, though
she must be aware that by so swift a move she was risking suspicion,
discovery, death.
As moment after moment dragged past, I grew uneasy. Would she come out
at all? Could she win past those trained, keen-eyed men? The more I
thought of it, the more desperate seemed the game she was playing.
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