He lay on his back for some time, his hands over his eyes, wondering. Then he laughed to himself. Why, of course, he was in a ship’s bunk. How silly not to realize it at once. It was the Whitsuntide recess, and he and his wife were going on a much needed holiday. He turned over again and composed himself to sleep. But the important will case of ‘Phillibert _v._ Phillibert, Cohen & Smith’ worried him. He should have made application to the Judge in the Chancery Court before starting on his journey. For the life of him he couldn’t remember to have done so. To his client the point was of vast importance. He racked his brains. On Saturday there had been the consultation at his Chambers with Miss Phillibert and Griffiths, her solicitor. It was arranged that he should make the application on Monday. That was yesterday. It was the oddest thing in the world. Even if he himself had forgotten the appointment--a most improbable thing--his clerk would have reminded him; his clerk, Gregson, a pallid, clock-faced man, as infallible and implacable as a machine. He shrugged his shoulders. He must have appeared in court and forgotten it. It was high time for him to take a rest. He had been working at high pressure for months, and was dead tired; fagged out.... That old fool of a Phillibert was certainly under undue influence when he made the will. The letter of Mrs. Cohen.... He tossed impatiently. He would dismiss the case from his mind. The only value of a holiday was to clean out your brain and give it a rest. He made mighty resolve to sleep. The blanket slipped and he found himself a-cold. He cursed the hardness and discomfort of ships’ bunks as he groped for it on the floor. It was a very curious ship. There was no creak of the woodwork, no throb of the engines, no motion. The silence of death was only broken by a queer, rhythmical scrunching sound, which seemed like the lap of idle waves against the vessel’s side. Either the engines had broken down or the ship was becalmed or befogged.... He snuggled up in the retrieved blanket, all the bedclothes that the ship afforded, and resigned himself to circumstances. After all, it was rest that mattered. Golf was but a means of attaining rest, and Le Touquet.... Le Touquet! The thought hit him like a hammer. What on earth was he doing on board ship, at dead of night, on his way to Le Touquet which was a cab-drive from Boulogne? He swung out of bed and, standing up, realized for the first time that his legs were bare. His hands plucking at his only garment proved it to be a flannel shirt open at the neck. Never had the unadventurous Paradyne gone to bed in a flannel shirt. For night attire a suit of plate-armour would have been as customary. A bit of the truth flashed upon him. He was not on board ship at all. But where the devil was he? A crowing cock tore the stillness and told him that he was on dry land.