stretched himself luxuriously, and looked around.

In both directions, in front of him and behind, the road stretched,
level and monotonous as far as the eye could reach, as he had seen it
stretch, with but few exceptions, during the whole of the day's run.
But whereas farther south it had led through open country, desolate,
depressing wastes of sand and sedge, here it ran through the heart of a
pine forest, in its own way as melancholy. The road seemed isolated, cut
off from the surrounding country, like to be squeezed out of existence
by the overwhelming barrier on either flank, a screen, aromatic indeed,
but dark, gloomy, and forbidding. Nor was the prospect improved by
the long, unsightly gashes which the resin collectors had made on the
trunks, suggesting, as they did, that the trees were stricken by some
disease. To Merriman the country seemed utterly uninhabited. Indeed,
since running through Labouheyre, now two hours back, he could not
recall having seen a single living creature except those passing in
motor cars, and of these even there were but few.

He rested his arms on the masonry coping of the old bridge and drew at
his cigarette. But for the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle, the
spring evening was very still. The river curved away gently towards the
left, flowing black and sluggish between its flat banks, on which the
pines grew down to the water's edge. It was delightful to stay quiet for
a few moments, and Merriman took off his cap and let the cool air blow
on his forehead, enjoying the relaxation.

He was a pleasant-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, clean shaven
and with gray, honest eyes, dark hair slightly inclined to curl, and a
square, well-cut jaw. Business had brought him to France. Junior partner
in the firm of Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants, Gracechurch Street,
London, he annually made a tour of the exporters with whom his firm
dealt. He had worked across the south of the country from Cette to Pau,
and was now about to recross from Bordeaux to near Avignon, after which
his round would be complete. To him this part of his business was a
pleasure, and he enjoyed his annual trip almost as much as if it had
been a holiday.

The vehicle which he had heard in the distance was now close by, and
he turned idly to watch it pass. He did not know then that this slight
action, performed almost involuntarily, was to change his whole life,
and not only his, but the lives of a number of o