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"During the journey, now, did you have any conversation with this Quadling?" "None. He kept very much to himself." "You saw him, I suppose, at the restaurants?" "Yes, at Modane and Laroche." "But did not speak to him?" "Not a word." "Had he any suspicion, do you think, as to who you were?" "Why should he? He did not know me. I had taken pains he should never see me."
Afterwards, on my return, when a little passport irregularity kept me for half a day in Modane, I went for a walk with him along the winding pass road that goes down into France. "You see hundreds and hundreds of new Fiat cars," he remarked, "along here going up to the French front." But there is a return trade. Near Paris I saw scores of thousands of shells piled high to go to Italy....
So we three stood on the platform, at the station at Modane, in Savoy, a few hundred yards from the Italian border, one fair autumn day, and our heavy clothes two Red Cross uniforms and a pea-green hunting suit, made us sweat copiously and unbecomingly.
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