"No, sir."
Fandor moved off along the track.
"That's all right, I can make it. I'll have time to send a wire to The Capital."
The journalist sat down on the grass, took out his writing-pad and began his article. But he had overrated his strength. He was worn out, body and soul. He had not been writing ten minutes when he dropped into a doze, the pencil slipped from his fingers and he was fast asleep.
When Fandor opened his eyes, the twilight was beginning to come down. It was between five and six o'clock.
"What a fool I've been! I've made a mess of the whole business now," he cried as he ran frantically to the nearest station.
"How soon the first train to Paris?"
"In two minutes, sir: it is signalled."
"When does it arrive?"