"The machine? There's nothing to do with that. I'll leave it--"

"Not only the machine--we'll leave something else here."

Her puzzled glance questioned.

"Our ident.i.ties--we'll leave them here, too, if you please," he replied. "The person by the name of Hermia Challoner from this point simply ceases to exist--"

"She does. She ceased to exist ten minutes ago," she laughed joyfully.

"And John Markham?"

"Is Philidor, portrait artist, by appointment to the proletariat of France, at two francs the head."

"Delicious! And I--?"

"You? You'll have to be my--er--sister."

"Oh, never! I simply _won't_ be your sister. That's entirely too respectable. A pretty vagabond you'll have me! You'll be giving e a green umbrella and a copy of Baedeker next. I'll be something devilish and French or I'll be Hermia. Yvonne--that's my name--Yvonne Deschamps, _compagnon de voyage_ of the Philidor aforesaid."

"No," he protested.

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "I don't like the idea," he said thoughtfully.

"But I insist."

He looked down at her for a moment, measuring her with his eye, and then smiled and shrugged a shoulder with an air of accepting the inevitable. And then as the thought came to him.

"Your car--could the wreck be identified?"

"Its number. We must find that and destroy it."

They went down the hill together and, eyed by the curious peasants, sauntered down the track where Markham, after some searching among the bushes, found the number of the machine still clinging to the ruins of the radiator. This he unstrapped and slipped into his knapsack, presently joining Hermia, who was making her peace with the gate-keeper.

"Two tires, one wheel--the speedometer," she was saying in French. "I will leave them for you to sell, Madame, if you can. And Monsieur--he may have whatever else is left. That is understood between you, and these gentlemen will bear witness. As for me--never will I ride in an automobile again. If it pleases you, say nothing more of this than may be necessary. Adieu, Madame et Monsieur."

There were offers of conveyance to Evreux (for a consideration), which Markham refused, an the two companions took to the road and soon pa.s.sed out of sight, leaving the group of peasants staring after them, still mystified as to the whole occurrence and wondering with Norman stolidity whether Hermia was mad or just a fool.

As Hermia followed Markham over the ridge and down the long slope that led to Vagabondia a deep-drawn breath of delight escaped her.

The gray road descended slowly into a valley, already filled with the long shadows of the afternoon-a valley of ripening crops laid out in lozenges of green and purple and gold, like a harlequin suit, girdled at the waist by the blue ribbon of the river, a cap of green and purple where a clump of young oaks perched jauntily on the bald contour of the distant hilltop; above, a sky of blue flecked with saffron and silver like a turquoise matrix--against which the tall poplars marched in stately procession, their feathery tops nodding solemnly at the sun.

It was curious. From a car the landscape had never looked like this.

Indeed, when she was motoring, Hermia never saw anything much but the stretch of road in front of her, its "thank ye marms," its ditches and its speed signs.

She glanced up at Markham, who strode silently beside her, his pipe hanging bowl-downward from his teeth, his lips smiling under the shadowy mustache, his eyes blinking merrily at the sky. She guessed now at the reason for the serenity in his face, as to which she had been so curious. It was the reflection of the wide blue vault above him, the quiet river and the dignity of the distances.

Hermia paused and drank the air in gulps.

"Vagabondia! You've opened its gates to me, John Markham."

He looked around at her in amus.e.m.e.nt.

"There are no gates in Vagabondia, Miss Challoner."

"Miss Challoner!" she reproved him.

"Hermia, then. Do you realize, you very mischievous young person, that this is precisely the fourth time that you and I have met?"

"I shall call you John, just the same," she announced.

"By all means, or Philidor--anything else would be rather silly--under the circ.u.mstances. You aren't regretting this madness? There's still time to reconsider."

"No," promptly. "I've burned my bridges. _En avant, Monsieur_."

The next rise of land brought into view the houses of a small town huddled among the trees along the river bank. They were still on the main line of communication between Paris and the Coast, and here perhaps they would find a telephone or telegraph office. Hermia made a wry face.

"I didn't know there were any telephones in Vagabondia."

"There aren't. We haven't reached there yet." He glanced at her modish French suit and hat and down at the English leather traveling case she was carrying.

"If you think you look like a vagabond in that get up you're much mistaken," he laughed.

"I don't. I know I don't," looking ruefully at her clothes. "But I will before long. You'll see."

The village upon closer inspection achieved a dignity which the distance denied it. There was a row of small shops, a _bra.s.serie_ and an inn, all slumbering under the shadows of a grove of trees. The road became a street. Upon their left a gate into an open-air cabaret under the trees next to a wine shop stood invitingly open, and the pilgrims entered. There were wooden tables and benches upon which sat some workmen in their white smocks drinking beer and discussing politics.

The proprietor of the place, a motherly person, took Markham's order and went indoors, presently emerging with a try which bore a pitcher of cider, a wonderful cheese and a tower of bread, all of which she deposited before them. She only glanced at Markham, for she was used to the visits of traveling craftsmen along the highway--but she studied Hermia's modish frock with a critical eye. After the first polite greetings she lingered nearby, her curiosity getting the better of her discretion.

"Monsieur and Madame are stopping at the Inn?" she asked at last.

Markham smiled. It was the curiosity of interest rather than intrusiveness.

Monsieur and Madame had not decided yet. Was the inn a good one?

Very good. Monsieur Duchanel, a cousin of hers, took great pride in receiving guests who knew good fare.

All the while she was appraising with a Norman eye the value of the feather in Hermia's hat.

"We thought of going on to Boisset," Markham went on. "Perhaps it is too far to reach by nightfall."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_, yes--if one is walking--ten kilometers at the least.

Did Monsieur and Madame desire a carriage?"

"No, perhaps after all we will stay here."

This wouldn't do at all. To be taken for persons who were accustomed to the excellences of French cuisine was not Hermia's idea of being a vagabond. She had been studying the face of their hostess and came to a sudden resolution. Here was the person who could, if she would, complete her emanc.i.p.ation. Turning to Markham she said smoothly in French:

"Will you go on to the Inn and see if you can find accommodations? In the meanwhile I will stay here and talk with Madame."