Early the next morning the adventurers set out for Monte Carlo, taking only their hand-luggage. More tunnels. A compartment filled with women and children. And hot besides. But the incomparable beauty of the Riviera was a compensation. Ventimiglia, or Vintimille, has a sinister sound in the ears of the traveler, if perchance he be a man fond of his tobacco. A turbulent stream cuts the town in two. On the east side stands a gloomy barn of a station; on the other side one of the most picturesque walled towns in Europe, and of Roman antiquity. The train drew in. A dozen steps more, and one was virtually in France. But there is generally a slight hitch before one takes the aforesaid steps: the French customs. A _facchino_ popped his head into the window. "Eight minutes for examination of luggage!" he cried. He held out his arms, and Hillard piled the luggage upon him. "Come, Dan; lively, if we want good seats when we come out. We change trains." The two men followed the porter to the ticket entrance, surrendered their coupons, and passed into the customs. The porter had to go round another way. After a short skirmish they located their belongings, which unfortunately were far down toward the end of the barrier. They would have to be patient. Hillard held in his hands his return coupons to Genoa. Sometimes this helps at the frontier; and if one has a steamer ticket, better still. Inspectors then understand that one is to be but a transient guest. Among the inspectors at Ventimiglia is a small, wizened Frenchman, with a face as cold and impassive as the sand-blown Sphinx. He possesses among other accomplishments a nose, peculiar less for its shape than for its smell. He can "smell out" tobacco as a witch doctor in Zululand smells out a "devil." Fate directed this individual toward the Americans. Hillard knew him of old; and he never forgets a face, this wizened little man. "Monsieur has nothing to declare?" he asked. Hillard made a negative sign and opened his cases. With scarce a glance at their contents, and waving aside the coupons, the inspector applied the chalk and turned to Merrihew. "Monsieur has nothing to declare?" he repeated. Merrihew shook his head airily. "_Niente, niente!_" he said in his best Italian. He did not understand what the inspector said; he merely had suspicions. "Look!" suddenly exclaimed Hillard. Passing out of the door which led to liberty and to France, their luggage guaranteed by cabalistic chalk marks, were two women. One of them was veiled, the other was not. "Kitty Killigrew, as I live!" shouted Merrihew, making a dash for the door. But the inspector blocked the way, beckoned to a gendarme, who came over, and calmly pointed to Merrihew's unopened cases. "Open!" said the inspector, all his listlessness gone. He had seen people in a hurry before. "But--" Merrihew struggled to pass. "For Heaven's sake!" cried Hillard, "be patient and open the cases at once."