The monster of Grammont

The bronzed, healthy-looking driver of the Bentley car put his foot harder on the accelerator pedal, and averted his head to hear the crackle of the exhaust as the sleek automobile sped along the undulating tree-lined Route Nationale. For the past three hours that white, arrow-like road had held his eyes, and he was “killing” it as fast as safety would permit, for main routes at the best were inclined to be monotonous.While the speedometer needle wavered between the sixties and seventies his travelling companion was endeavouring to find their exact position on a large-scale French road map, a feat of considerable difficulty for which the execrable road surface was largely responsible.“Steady, old man!” he said, as the wheels struck a deep cassis, causing a jarring of springs and a slight dither in the steering. “This isn’t Brooklands.”“It’s about as unlovely. We’ll cut off at the next turning.”Speed was reduced as bad pavé was encountered on the outskirts of a straggling village. It was exactly like a dozen others passed through that morning—two rows of tall, bare houses, with lime-washed walls and green shutters, a café, a comestible, and a pump surrounded by ample troughs, at which a few women were engaged in washing clothes. At the far end were two garages, each provided with a red petrol-pump bearing the familiar word “Essence,” the price in the one case being ten francs, and in the other ten francs fifty centimes, for what was precisely the same brand of fuel.