The car
went forward at a good pace and Desmond, after one or two
ineffectual attempts to make out where they were going, was
lulled by the steady motion into a deep sleep. He was dreaming
fitfully of the tossing Channel as he had seen it but a few hours
before when he came to his senses with a start. He felt a cold
draught of air on his face and his feet were dead with cold.
A figure stood at the open door of the car. It was the chauffeur.
"Here we are, sir," he said.
Desmond stiffly descended to the ground. It was so dark that he
could distinguish nothing, but he felt the grit of gravel under
his feet and he heard the melancholy gurgle of running water. He
took a step forward and groped his way into a little porch
smelling horribly of mustiness and damp. As he did so, he heard a
whirr behind him and the car began to glide off. Desmond shouted
after the chauffeur. Now that he stood on the very threshold of
his adventure, he wanted to cling desperately to this last link
with his old self. But the chauffeur did not or would not hear,
and presently the sound of the engine died away, leaving Desmond
to the darkness, the sad splashing of distant water and his own
thoughts.
And then, for one brief moment, all his courage seemed to ooze
out of him.
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