And from Hendaye the train brought him back to St. Jean de Luz.  Before going to bed, he penned a note to Mr. Coppinger, saying that he was Unexpectedly obliged to leave for England, at an early hour next day, and regretted that he could not come to say good-bye.  He added a postscript.  “Miss Elvan will, of course, know of her sister’s marriage to Norbert Franks.  I hear it takes place to-morrow.  Very good news.”

This written, he smoked a meditative pipe, and went upstairs humming a tune.

CHAPTER 38

Touching the shore of England, Will stamped like a man who returns from exile.  It was a blustering afternoon, more like November than August; livid clouds pelted him with rain, and the wind chilled his face; but this suited very well with the mood which possessed him.  He had been away on a holiday—­a more expensive holiday than he ought to have allowed himself, and was back full of vigour.  Instead of making him qualmish, the green roarers of the Channel had braced his nerves, and put him in good heart; the boat could not roll and pitch half enough for his spirits.  A holiday—­a run to the Pyrenees and back; who durst say that it had been anything else?  The only person who could see the matter in another light was little likely to disclose her thoughts.

At Dover he telegraphed to Godfrey Sherwood:  “Come and see me to-night.”  True, he had been absent only a week, but the time seemed to him so long that he felt it must have teemed with events.  In the railway carriage he glowed with good fellowship toward the other passengers; the rain-beaten hop-lands rejoiced his eyes, and the first houses of London were so many friendly faces greeting his return.  From the station he drove to his shop.  Allchin, engaged in serving a lady, forgot himself at the sight of Mr. Jollyman, and gave a shout of welcome.  All was right, nothing troublesome had happened; trade better than usual at this time of year.

“He’ll have to put up the shutters,” said Allchin confidentially, with a nod in the direction of the rival grocer.  “His wife’s been making a row in the shop again—­disgraceful scene—­talk of the ’ole neighbourhood.  She began throwing things at customers, and somebody as was badly hit on the jaw with a tin of sardines complained to the police.  We shall be rid of him very soon, you’ll see, sir.”

This gave Warburton small satisfaction, but he kept his human thoughts to himself, and presently went home.  Here his landlady met him with the announcement that only a few hours ago she had forwarded a letter delivered by the post this morning.  This was vexatious; several days must elapse before he could have the letter back again from St. Jean de Luz.  Sure that Mrs. Wick must have closely scrutinised the envelope, he questioned her as to handwriting and postmark, but the woman declared that she had given not a glance to these things, which were not her business.  Couldn’t she even remember whether the writing looked masculine or feminine?  No; she had not the slightest idea; it was not her business to “pry” and Mrs. Wick closed her bloodless lips with virtuous severity.