He stood in a bedroom, holding in his hand a glass of he knew not what beverage.  Before him was a waiter, to whom—­very much to his own surprise—­he discoursed fluently in French, or something meant for that tongue.  That it was more than sixty hours since he had slept; that he had started from London at a moment’s notice; that the Channel had been very rough for the time of the year; that he had never been in this part of France before, and hoped to see a good deal of the Pyrenees, perhaps to have a run into Spain; that first of all he wanted to find the abode of an English lady named Mrs. Cap—­Cop—­he couldn’t think of the name, but he had written it down in his pocket-book.

The door closed; the waiter was gone; but Warburton still talked French.

“Oui, oui—­en effet—­tres fatigue, horriblement fatiguee!  Trois nuits sans sommeil—­trois nuits—­trois!”

His clothes fell in a heap on the floor; his body fell in another direction.  He was dead asleep.

CHAPTER 37

Amid struggle and gloom the scene changed.  He was in Kew Gardens, rushing hither and thither, in search of some one.  The sun still beat upon him, and he streamed at every pore.  Not only did he seek in vain, but he could not remember who it was that he sought.  This way and that, along the broad and narrow walks, he hurried in torment, until of a sudden, at a great distance, he descried a figure seated on a bench.  He bounded forward.  In a moment he would see the face, and would know—­

When he awoke a sense of strangeness hung about him, and, as he sat up in bed, he remembered.  This was the hotel at St. Jean de Luz.  What could be the time?  He had no matches at hand, and did not know where the bell was.  Looking around, he perceived at length a thread of light, of daylight undoubtedly, which must come from the window.  He got out of bed, cautiously crossed the floor, found the window, and the means of opening it, then unlatched the shutters which had kept the room in darkness.  At once a flood of sunshine poured in.  Looking forth, he saw a quiet little street of houses and gardens, and beyond, some miles away, a mountain peak rising against the cloudless blue.

His watch had run down.  He rang the bell, and learnt that the hour was nearly eleven.

“I have slept well,” he said in his Anglo-French.  “I am hungry.  Bring me hot water.  And find out, if you can, where lives Mrs. Coppinger.  I couldn’t remember the name last night—­Mrs. Coppinger.”

In half an hour he was downstairs.  The English lady for whom he inquired lived, they told him, outside St. Jean de Luz, but not much more than a mile away.  Good, he would go there after lunch.  And until that meal was ready, he strolled out to have a look at the sea.  Five minutes’ walk brought him on to the shore of a rounded bay, sheltered by breakwaters against Atlantic storms above a sandy beach lay the little town, with grassy slopes falling softly to the tide on either hand.