I was tortured with doubts, unable to decide for the best, and
at last, from sheer inability to choose, resolved to adhere to my
original plan of travelling south.
I would at least go to Marseilles, which I could reach that very
night, and once there would be guided by circumstances, seeking only
to control them to the extent of reporting my whereabouts to Henriette
at Fuentellato, and to the Colonel via London as arranged.
This as it proved was the very wisest course I could have adopted, as
will presently appear.
I was doomed to a long wait at Culoz. There was no train due westward
till 12.40, and I had to put in nearly three solid hours, which I
spent in wandering into the village, where I found an unpretending
_auberge_ and a rather uneatable breakfast.
Everywhere I was met with wearisome delays. A slow train to Amberieu,
a still slower cross journey to Lyons, which I did not reach till
nearly 4 P.M., and learnt that another hour or more must
elapse before the departure of the next Marseilles express.
The journey seemed interminable, but just as I was losing all
patience, I received a fillip that awoke me to alertness, and set all
my nerves tingling.
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