When the train started again he tried to sleep, but his brain was too excited. He had not slept for three nights. Yet the feelings of prostration that had come upon him just before Lizzie’s death had passed away, giving place to one of intense vitality. Every fibre in his body was alive. Sleep was scarcely necessary. Only a shooting pain now and then in his head made him start and pass his hand impatiently across his forehead. The train thundered on through the darkness, and Goddard remained awake, possessed by the passionate intensity of his fixed idea. He watched the day dawn, bright and glorious. At Avignon the world was bathed in sunshine. It was an omen of happiness. At Marseilles it was hot. All along that beautiful coast Goddard’s heart glowed within him. The deep-coloured sea, the flowers, the light, the joyousness of the south filled his senses with the wonder of a new world. His silent companions got out at Toulon, and three swarthy Gascons took their place, and talked with rich deep voices and extravagant gestures until they reached Camoules, their destination. Goddard missed their whole-hearted laughter when they had gone. The day wore on. Cannes at four o’clock. In a few moments he would be in Nice. He drew once more the letter from his pocket, rested his eyes on the few words a long, long time. “Whatsoever your heart desireth--Rhodanthe.” He looked out at the deep blue water meeting the violet sky. Rhodanthe! The name was strangely in harmony with this exotic beauty. Before the night was over he would call her by it. She would be his. Together they would conquer the world. He stepped on to the platform at Nice like a king coming to take possession of a new realm. He looked around, as if he should see Lady Phayre awaiting him, and then smiled at the fancy. The hotel porter took his luggage to the Hôtel Terminus, the nearest. He was feverishly anxious to set out on his quest of her without loss of time. A quarter of an hour sufficed him to wash and make himself presentable, and then he went out into the Avenue de la Gare. At another time he would have loved to walk down the beautiful boulevard, bright with shops and cafés and gaily coloured kiosques; but now the supreme hour of his life had come, and the great thoroughfare became blurred as in a dream. He hailed a cab, gave the address “Hôtel des Anglais” to the driver, and sat bolt upright all the way, in an agony of impatience. He had no eyes now for the sea as he emerged on to the Promenade des Anglais; but he scanned the long line of palace-hotels, wondering which was Lady Phayre’s. The cab stopped by the public gardens. Goddard looked up. It was the Hôtel des Anglais. He threw a piece of money to the cabman, and entered. The frock-coated, brass-buttoned porter approached him in polite inquiry. “I want to see Lady Phayre,” said Goddard. “I am afraid, sir,” replied the man, “that Lady Phayre has gone away this very morning.”