disarranged and his hair damp, exactly as I had once seen him on the couch in the garden by the sea in the third act of “Tristan,” the picture of nobility. He could not move, for the sufficient reason that a strong splint ran from his armpit to his ankle, but his arms were free, and he raised his left hand, and beckoned me with an irresistible gesture to come quite close to him.

I smiled encouragingly and obeyed.

“My kind friend,” he murmured, “I know not your name.”

His English was not the English of an Englishman, but it was beautiful in its exotic quaintness.

“My name is Carl Foster,” I said. “It will be better for you not to talk.”