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Corcoran looked at it closely, but the lights were in his face and he could distinguish only the pale blots of four faces which returned his insistent stare. When the taxi had driven off and toiled a mile uphill in the face of the sweeping wind, he saw the lamps of the other car emerge from the village and follow. In a low voice he called Nosby’s attention to the fact—whereupon Nosby leaned forward nervously and tapped on the front glass.

“Piu presto!” he commanded. “Il sera sono tropo tarde!”

Corcoran translated the mutilated Italian and then fell into conversation with the chauffeur. Hallie had dozed off to sleep with her head on her mother’s shoulder. It might have been twenty minutes later when she awoke with a start to find that the car had stopped. The chauffeur was peering into the engine with a lighted match, while Corcoran and Mr. Nosby were talking quickly in the road.

“What is it?” she cried.

“He’s broken down,” said Corcoran, “and he hasn’t got the proper tools to make the repair. The best thing is for all of you to start out on foot for Agropoli. That’s the next village—it’s about two miles away.”