The first awful moment of anxiety was past, it was true, and Folco was able to think more connectedly than he had since he had received the telegram recalling him from Paris; but there was to be another.

The doctors said that his memory would return--what would he remember?
It would come back, beginning, most probably, at the very moment in which it had been interrupted.

For one instant he would fancy that he saw again what he had seen then.

What had he seen?
That was the question.

Had he seen anything but the sand, the scrubby bushes, and the trees round the cottage in the distance?
Had he heard anything but the howling of the southwest gale and the thundering of the big surf over the bar and up the beach?
The injury was at the back of his head, but it was a little on one side.