The Spy Paramount by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Down on the coast, the marvellous chain of lights along the Promenade des Anglais and the illumination of Monte Carlo shone pale in the steady moonlight, but up in the clefts of the mountains by the straggling frontier line, the mists were rolling, and at the best there were occasional glimpses of a vaporous twilight. From down in the deep valleys came the booming of a dying mistral. Stars were few--only the reflection of a shrouded moon wrapped at times in a sort of ghostly illumination the white-topped caps of the distant mountains. Berati shivered in his fur coat, as he leaned back in the open touring car. Fawley, pacing the road, continually glanced skywards. The two other men--one a staff officer of the Italian flying command, the other a field marshal of the army--scarcely took their eyes from the clouds. In the distance was a small escort of Chasseurs Alpins. They stood like dumb figures at the bend of the curving road, veritable gnomes of the darkness in their military cloaks and strange uniform. There was no need for silence but no one spoke. It was Berati at last who broke through the tension.

"It is the hour?" he asked.