All at once he struck the railing with the energy of a man who has a new inspiration.  “By George!” he said, half aloud, “that’s an idea—­that’s certainly an idea!  I wonder if....  The Indiana sailed last week ... it ought to be the turn of the Louisiana the day after to-morrow.  By George, I believe I could make it if ...”

He hurried back to the bench where Ashley was still sitting.  The latter was upright now, his arm stretched along the back.  He had lit a cigarette.

Davenant approached to within a few feet.  “Look here, Colonel,” he said, gently, “we’ve got to forget this evening.”

It was a minute or two before Ashley said:  “What’s the good of forgetting one thing when there are so many others to remember?”

“Perhaps we can forget them, too—­one by one.  I guess you haven’t understood me.  I dare say I haven’t understood you, either, though I think I could if you’d give me a chance.  But all I want to say is this, that I’m—­off—­”

Ashley turned quickly.  “Off?  Where?”

“Where we’re not likely to meet—­for some little time—­again.”

“Oh, but I say!  You can’t—­”

“Can’t what, Colonel?”

“Can’t drop—­drop out of the running—­damn it all, man! you can’t—­you can’t—­let it be a walk-over for me—­after all that’s—­”

“That’s where you’ve made your mistake, Colonel, I guess.  You thought there was—­was a—­a race, so to speak—­and that I was in it.  Well, I wasn’t?”

“But what the deuce—?”

“I not only wasn’t in it—­but there was no race.  There never was.  It was a walk-over for—­for some one—­from the start.  Now I guess I’ll say good night.”

He turned away abruptly, but, having taken a few steps, came back again.

“Look here!  Let’s have a cigarette.”

Ashley fumbled for his case, opened it, and held it up.  “I say, take two or three.”

As Ashley lifted the one he was smoking to serve as a light Davenant noticed that the hand trembled, and steadied it in the grasp of his own.

“Thanks; and good night again,” he said, briefly, as he strode finally away into the darkness.

XX

It was not till the motor had actually got out of Havre and was well along the dusty white road to the chateau that Davenant began to have misgivings.  Up to that point the landmarks—­and and the sea-marks—­had been familiar.  On board the Louisiana, in London, in Paris, even in Havre, he had felt himself on his accustomed beat.  On steamers or trains and in hotels he had that kind of confidence in himself which, failing him somewhat whenever he entered the precincts of domestic life, was sure to desert him altogether now, as he approached the strange and imposing.

“Madame est a la campagne.”

A black-eyed old woman had told him so on the previous day.  For the instant he was relieved, since it put off the moment of confronting the great lady a little longer.