Daylight came at
four; he saw the sun rise for the first time in his life. He neither
enjoyed nor appreciated the novelty. Never had he witnessed anything so
mournfully depressing as the first grey tints that crept up to mock him
in his vigil; never had he seen anything so ghastly as the soft red glow
that suffused the morning sky.
"I'll sleep all day if I ever get into that damned bed," he said to
himself, bitterly wistful.
The Customs officers had eyed him suspiciously at the border. They
evidently had been told of his strange madness in refusing to occupy the
berth he had paid for. Their examination of his effects was more
thorough than usual. It may have entered their heads that he was
standing guard over the repose of a fair accomplice. They asked so many
embarrassing and disconcerting questions that he was devoutly relieved
when they passed on, still suspicious.
The train was late, and at five o'clock he was desperately combating an
impulse to leave it at Strassburg, find lodging in a hotel, and then,
refreshed, set out for London to have it out with the malevolent
Medcroft. The disembarking of the venerable mourners, however, restored
him to a degree of his peace of mind. After all, he reviewed, it would
be cowardly and base to desert a trusting wife; he pictured her as
asleep and securely confident in his stanchness. No: he would have it
out with Medcroft at some later day.
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