THE BLACK GHOST
OF THE HIGHWAY
BY
GERTRUDE LINNELL
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
NEW YORK · TORONTO
1931
LINNELL
THE BLACK GHOST OF THE HIGHWAY
COPYRIGHT · 1931
BY LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
FIRST EDITION
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FOR E. B. S.
THE BLACK GHOST
OF THE HIGHWAY
CHAPTER I
The roads at the crossing were wide andsmooth, with cool woods on either side,but beyond them to the left rose the high, jagged,yellow-and-black mass of the mountains, bareon their upper reaches, and wooded in the shelterof the valleys, a splintered peak or two farthestinland showing snowcapped even in August.They dominated the narrow strip of fertile, hillyland between them and the sea, abrupt, savage,Central European. One of the roads led upthrough a cloven valley and was engulfed in it,the other ran more levelly along the sea coast.John stopped while we stared. It was not thefirst time that we had stopped in the last few daysjust to look at a landscape. The whole journeythrough these lands of astounding languages andsuddenly varying costumes had been painted inopalescent sunlight and vivid shadows, but sincemorning we had been nearing the mountains.Now we found ourselves under them, but not yetin them, and two roads, equally wide and enticing,led forward to unmarked destinations.
“It’s the road to the left,” I said, looking at themap. “It seems to branch off about here, but itmight be a little farther on. It’s hard to tell withno markers.”
“Anyway, let’s not take it,” John objected.“Why pass up another day or so of driving?You never know what you may find if you don’tknow where you’re going.”
I agreed.
“Helena doesn’t expect us any particular day,so that’s all right,” I said. “Let’s take the wrongroad.”
It was a very long and beautiful wrong road.The mountains changed their angles, but did notmove from their commanding position to our left.The sea became bluer, the sun climbed higher,and then presently, we were turning inland.We passed only small villages, or isolated farms,their buildings connected, in true Central-Europeanfashion, by a series of little walledcourts, where pigs and chickens, cows, human beings,dogs, donkeys, and even mules and horsesmingled but did not stop. With firm faith inthe brakes of passing cars they overflowed intothe highway. John dodged them all expertly,having had almost a week of practise at it, andpresently we came suddenly to a customs housewith a barrier across the road.
“This must be the Alarian frontier,” John said.“There’s always something at the end of a road.Shall we go through?”
“Why not?” I said. “We’re here, and we canget back to Helena’s across the mountains.There’s a rather famous Pass. Handsome scenery.”
“There are no shortcuts to beauty,” he proclaimed,grinning. “The farther we go the betterit gets. Where’s your passport?”
The inspector peered into the tonneau of ourcar, and seemed pained by the number of tightlystrapped pieces he saw there. He gratefully accepteda pair of cigars from me, and then dutifullyread our names with a thick accent, so thatJohn bec