There they took in petrol and ate and drank. And Fairfax called for a time-table and studied it while he fed. He might have spared his labour. The table was two years old, and the pages he needed were gone. They were in the car again by six o’clock. There was pavement to come now—some of it pretty bad. Who went by Salles avoided the very worst—and tacked ten miles on to his journey. Fairfax went by Salles: it was not his car. He had his reward. The sun had retired now and was well on their right: the air was cooler, and a faint tang of salt hung in its breath: the blessed evening was coming to ease their progress. Fairfax never forgot that last long stretch. The sun was going down, and the shadows were growing long, and distance was creeping close. Ahead and on either hand the countryside was gone: Earth seemed to have thrown back to the days before she was tamed: Nature ran wild. Forest and furze and broom had the world to themselves. And the car shore them in two as a draper’s scissors shear stuff—league after shining league, with a steady snarl. Twice they met a lorry and three times a touring car and twenty carts, perhaps, in nearly a hundred miles. . . . They swept through St. Geours with twenty-five miles to go. They dropped down into Bayonne, slipped across the Adour, swung to the right at cross-roads, and followed the tram-lines out. They had to go slowly then, for the road was narrow and full. Still, they edged their way along, passing when there was room. They floated into Biarritz at twenty-five minutes past eight. . . . There was no room at the Carlton, but Lady Defoe was there, so they promised to squeeze Punch in. As a porter picked up his suit-case— “All right, sir?” queried the chauffeur. The eagerness of his tone touched Fairfax’ heart. As he gave him a note— “Thanks to you—yes,” he said, smiling. “Good night—and many thanks.” It would have been brutal to tell him anything else. * * * * * At last Punch found Athalia, by going from pillar to post. She was staying at the _Palais_, had dined out and come back to dance. They danced a few steps. Then he led her out of the ballroom and into the August night. “What is it?” she said. “He’s here somewhere. Has he spoken?” Athalia looked away. “Not yet,” she said slowly. “Not yet, but—I think he will . . . any moment, now.” Fairfax stared at the sea shifting to and fro and the line of miniature breakers curling and roaring as gently as sucking doves. He had done it—achieved his purpose. It seemed impossible that only that morning he had stood on the quay at Dieppe and gone over the car. Yet he had done so—that morning. And now—here he was at Biarritz. And there was Athalia looking at him with steady eyes. And Beringhampton had not spoken. . . . He was—in time. The tragedy of it was _he had nothing to say_.