He jumped down, and bent over it: sure enough, the patch had been brushed and smoothed with a bough.
He hurried the car back to the corner of the road, and by entreaties, persuasion, cajoling, a five-franc piece, and even--great concession!--a kiss, he wrung from the little shepherdess a promise that she would wait till dark if need were, stop every motor-car that came from the direction of the frontier, and say, "The kidnappers have gone up this road." He was assured that his father would borrow or hire a motorcar, and follow in it.
Then he turned the car for Camporossa.

Three hundred yards up the road he came to another patch of dust, and saw the wheel-tracks of the carriage deep and plain.

He sent along the car as hard as he dared, for, as the road grew steeper along the hillside, it grew stonier and stonier, thanks to its serving, like most Italian hill roads, as a watercourse to carry off the rain from the hills.

A very slow and painful jolting brought him among the olive groves of Camporossa and into that little town.
He stopped before the little Inn, and was served with milk and bread and fruit.

As he ate and drank, he was all affability and information to the group of the curious who gathered round the car.