the forest of La Lande, and wheeling before him his bicycle, which had come to grief. He had already ridden thirty miles out, and seventeen back towards Etréport, when the accident happened. He had walked another seven, and he was so utterly fagged out that had the night promised dryness he would have lain down there where he stood and slept till morning. But the evening was misty and cold; the early spring foliage was not sufficiently thick to afford any protection overhead; and the ground owing to rain on the previous day, was too damp for comfort underfoot. Besides, he was extremely hungry. The only thing to do was to plod on until he came to some human habitation where he could obtain food and at least a shake-down.
The dusk deepened, the road seemed to stretch out to eternity, his leaden feet held him to earth, but he walked on determinately, nevertheless.
All the same he was counting how many more steps he could take before giving in, when suddenly the forest trees seemed to draw together, to disclose a vacant space in which huddled some vague buildings, from one of which came a blessed gleam of light.
As he approached this light he saw that it shone from the unshuttered window of a low house, which, if he did not mistake the signs, was a wayside inn.
The discovery made him knock at the door with assurance, although he would have knocked with the resolution of having it opened to him in any case, for, with the rain beginning to fall again as the night advanced, it was no moment for standing on ceremony.
When, therefore, the door was partially opened by a burly, swart-faced man, Raymond pushed in without waiting for the welcoming word which did not come.
He leaned his cycle against the wall and looked round an apartment—half eating-room, half kitchen, and wholly unattractive.
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"HE LEANED HIS CYCLE AGAINST THE WALL AND LOOKED ROUND."
Some stained tables and wooden benches, a floor covered with grey dirt which once might have been clean sand, and a large number of spittoons comprised the entire furniture and decoration. A couple of logs smouldered on the hearth, and an evil-smelling kerosene lamp, with an opaline shade, hung from the ceiling.
Two persons occupied the room, the man who had opened the door—evidently the innkeeper—and a stout, dark, squat little woman of repellent visage.
Raymond wondered what sort of a living these two could make, since surely direful necessity alone such as his was could ever keep them a customer. Even so, he hesitated a moment as to whether he would not merely ask for something to eat and take leave again.
But a rain-gust flinging itself against the windows made him dismiss the fastidious idea.
At his request the woman brought him food—of a sort—hesitated when he asked for a bed, and consulted her husband with furtive eyes. The couple had a most disquieting habit of speaking to each other in silence. Most of the time they kept their
Vol. xxii.—65
