Westerham was alike unable to struggle or cry out. For a few moments he fought against the overpowering odour of chloroform; then his vision grew dim, his ears began to sing, and he lapsed into complete unconsciousness.
When he awoke it was to find himself fully dressed and stretched upon a sofa. It was apparently morning-time, for the table close beside him was laid out as though for breakfast, and a flood of early sunshine was pouring in through the open French windows.
He was so astonished at his whereabouts that he closed his eyes again and endeavoured with a still half-numbed brain to call to mind the events which had brought him into such strange surroundings.
Slowly, stupidly, he began to remember Mme. Estelle's letter and his disastrous drive in the cab. But so dazed was he that he had for the purpose of fully arousing his faculties actually to repeat his name and address several times before his senses began to assume their normal condition of alertness.
When his brain was clearer he endeavoured to rise, but he immediately became dizzy again and sank back on the couch as though exhausted by a long illness.
So complete was the blank between the time he had been chloroformed and his awaking that he had not the faintest idea whether he had lain on the couch on which he found himself for hours or days, or even weeks.
Yesterday seemed to be a long time behind him.
So, finding exertion out of the question, he leant back with almost contentment among the pillows, and fell to wondering in whose house he might be. From the shape of the room and the aspect of the garden more than anything he came to the conclusion that the roof which sheltered him was that of Mme. Estelle. On this point, however, he could not quite make up his mind until the door opened softly and Mme. Estelle herself came into the room.
She walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him pleasantly and kindly.
Westerham was so astonished at her appearance that he could say nothing at all.