so that when we started to climb the mixture was too rich and we were smothered. The only way to keep any speed was to throw out the clutch and let the motor spin going down hill, and this practice is not the best in the world for the motor. Presently I heard from Rosalie on the subject.
"You'll soon heat up if you keep on doing that," said she through the tube, "Reach down and cut off the essence from the reservoir when you go down hill."
That was sound doctrine, and I acted on it, though from this point on the road mounts pretty steadily until you get to Rocquencourt. As we passed the old soldiers home I noticed that it was about five minutes to one. Rather to my surprise we found more motors on this road than before we had reached the crossroads. Three handsome cars had passed us, and presently a fourth—a big, heavy limousine—went lumbering by.
"That was Orelovna, the Russian dancer," said Rosalie's voice in the tube at my ear. "The man with her was the Grand Duke Alexander. Those people in the torpilleur that passed a moment ago were of the Comédie Française—at least I recognised Martet, and I think the man driving was Parodi."
That was all I needed to know. The whole mystery was cleared up in a flash. Just before you get to Rocquencourt, as you may remember, the road passes between two big estates surrounded by heavy walls that inclose park, chasse and farms. One of these, I remembered, had been rented by a retired millionaire banker of Frankfort, a Baron von
