He darted forward and, as the car started, slipped aboard the rear platform.
"Where to, monsieur?"
"The station."
"Four sous."
Tod pulled his cap low over his eyes, turned his coat collar up, and slouched into a seat as though he were cold. For the present at least he was safe.
As the little street car passed the Arc de Triomphe and turned into the Boulevard de la Paix, he was arguing to himself. What should he do? Suppose Mr. Swickard and Hawkes were going north to Paris. Should he follow? He had a handful of francs in his pocket, but that would not take him far. If he could only get hold of Jarvis, talk to him. But that was an impossibility; he must decide for himself. He must watch his step, too. While Mr. Swickard probably would not recognize him, Hawkes most certainly would.
Abruptly the tram swung round a corner and the conductor shouted: "Le gare!" Tod waited. Would the two men descend? He peered through the glass toward the front.
Jasper Swickard and the mate stepped to the ground. They paused for a second, talking, then Hawkes shook hands and swung himself aboard another tram-car going back toward the city. Mr. Swickard went swiftly forward to the large station which blazed with light.
Tod's fingers curled inside his pockets. Should he follow Hawkes? No; Swickard was bigger game. Realizing that he was now safe from detection, he jumped to the ground and hurried after the manager. Through the bustling throng at the great entrance they went. Jasper Swickard stopped at a window, passed a handbag to a porter, and went to the right toward the gate of the departure platform.
With eager eyes Tod looked through the iron grilling. Where was the man going? If he had stopped at the ticket window, the name of his station might easily have been overheard; but there he was with the porter leading him to a long train standing waiting, its engine ready for its journey. Despair clutched his heart. Must he stand there and watch the man vanish to the north in the night? Perhaps he knew where Neil was; perhaps he was even going there. Neil might easily be a prisoner in some remote hamlet in the mountains. Jasper Swickard must be followed —he must!
Already the porter was returning through the gate. Tod stopped him. "Oh, monsier," he asked in bad French, "where is that train going?"
"You are English?" smiled the porter. "That is the express, bound for the Riviera and Italy."
Italy! Of course. To Genoa, where the Araby was bound.
"And the American?" Tod hurried on. "Does he go to Genoa?"
"Name of a name of a name! Am I to keep track of every traveller in the station? That man? Bah, he gives no gratuity like other Americans! His ticket says Cannes."
"Cannes. Where is that?"
"Mon Dieu! Do you not know the great winter resort on the coast? It is halfway to the border— three hours distance. The express leaves at once."
With a muttered word of thanks, Tod rushed back to the ticket window. "One to Cannes," he gasped.
"Second class, monsieur?" asked the man in excellent English.
"Is there a third?"
"Yes, monsieur."
A moment later Tod was darting through the iron gate to the departure platform. He heard the guard slamming the compartment doors. The rear cars were marked third class, and to these the boy ran.
"Vite! Vite!" The guard motioned him in.
He dropped on to a wooden seat. The slamming of doors went down the line of coaches. A trumpet shrilled. The train started.
Wide-eyed, Tod watched from the narrow window as the express swung round the lights of the city and headed down the Mediterranean shore for Italy. What lay ahead of him? Was he a fool to be leaving on this wild-goose chase? What did he know of France? Very little indeed. But for Neil, for Jar-vis, he must go on. In Mr. Swickard, he divined, lay the key to the enigma.
He settled himself in the seat, surveying for the first time his strange surroundings. He was in an oblong compartment running across the train, a meagre box with two wooden benches facing each other. Although there were seats for eight, only three other people occupied the compartment. One was a petty naval officer who, he soon learned, was returning to his ship at Toulon; the other two were an old peasant couple bound home to Villefranche. Tod, striking up a conversation with the sailor, could not repress a smile at the broken English the man spoke; then, as it occurred to him that the French which he himself spoke was little better, he sobered. From this curious conversation he soon learned much about the district that runs along the matchless shore of the Mediterranean from Marseilles to Genoa, the French Cote d'Azure and the Italian Riviera. It was the playground of the world, the home of retired princes and money kings, a leisured class that spent much of its time in the gambling halls of Monte Carlo.
At Toulon the sailor left. As the express once more swung along into the open country, Tod could see the lights of his ship winking in the harbour. The old couple opposite now brought forth diminutive pillows from their bag and, turning down the electric bulb until it was a sombre glow, proceeded to go comfortably to sleep. Tod nodded also.
He awoke with a start to find the train drawing into the bright light of a large station. He put his head from the window and read the name—Cannes. Seizing his cap, he opened the door and stepped to the platform. Slowly he strolled forward, his eyes upon the first-class coaches. In vain he waited for the familiar figure of Jasper Swickard to descend. As the moments passed, as the new travellers took their places and still no American did he see, his fears began to mount. Had he allowed his quarry to escape while he slept?
If he could only get inside a first-class coach! Unlike the cheaper coaches, however, only one door was visible at each end, and these were guarded by men in uniform. Tod, feeling that, at least, he had little to lose, approached the conductor nearest him.
"Monsieur," he said, "I thought I saw a friend of mine buy a ticket in Marseilles for Cannes. He is an American, smooth-shaven, dark, in your coach."
"Oh, that American. No; he is within. He decided to go on to Monte Carlo. He likes a game, he says, now and then." The man smiled.
With relief, Tod turned away. The game that Jasper Swickard was playing was a bigger game than any played at Monte Carlo that night. He hurried back to the rear of the train and regained his seat in the third-class compartment.
Once more the express sped on through the night. This time, however, there was one person who did not nod in his seat; this time, Tod told himself, he would be ready. Mr. Swickard's change of plan might signify that he would again alter his course.
Half an hour later, the train slowed down as it approached what in the darkness appeared an unimportant fishing village along the shore. A small wayside station, open to the night, stood by the tracks. Across a clump of roofs Tod saw dim moonlight playing on the sea. Unexpectedly, he started. A lone figure with a black bag had descended from the first-class coaches and was walking quickly toward the station.
As the train began to move, the boy jumped for the other side of the compartment. Stumbling over the outstretched feet of the peasants, he threw open the door and flung himself into the darkness. Headlong, he plunged down into soft earth. He picked himself up and watched the lights of the express disappear in the night toward the Italian border. Somewhere in the village a clock struck one.
Across the tracks Mr. Swickard was entering the station. Tod waited until he had passed beyond, then cautiously followed in the moonlit gloom. A single electric globe above the little entrance illumined a sign which read: Antibes. A strange village. A strange country. A wave of intense loneliness swept over him. He was far from friends and home, in a lonely hamlet of which he had never heard, and following his enemy. Yes; Jasper Swickard would bear watching. A ticket for Cannes, then another for Monte Carlo, only to descend at this deserted spot where doubtless only fishermen dwelt!