It was not yet eleven when Morris had got home, and he slept dreamlessly with that recuperative sleep of youth for some six hours.  Then, as within the secret economy of the brain the refreshment of slumber repaired the exhaustion of the day before, he began to dream with strange lurid distinctness, a sort of resurrection dream of which the events of the two days before supplied the bones and skeleton outline.  As in all very vivid and dreadful dreams the whole vision was connected and coherent, there were no ludicrous and inconsequent interludes, none of those breakings of one thread and hurried seizures of another, which though one is dreaming very distinctly, supply some vague mental comfort, since even to the sleeper they are reminders that his experiences are not solid but mere phantasies woven by imperfect consciousness and incomplete control of thought.  It was not thus that Morris dreamed; his dream was of the solid and sober texture of life.

He was driving in his motor, he thought, down the road from the house at Falmer Park, which through the gate of a disused lodge joins the main road, that leads from Falmer Station to Brighton.  He had just heard from Sir Richard’s own lips who it was who had slandered and blackened him, but, in his dream, he was conscious of no anger.  The case had been referred to some higher power, some august court of supreme authority, which would certainly use its own instruments for its own vengeance.  He felt he was concerned in the affair no longer; he was but a spectator of what would be.  And, in obedience to some inward dictation, he drove his motor on to the grass behind the lodge, so that it was concealed from the road outside, and walked along the inside of the park-palings, which ran parallel with it.

The afternoon, it seemed, was very dark, though the atmosphere was extraordinarily clear, and after walking along the springy grass inside the railings for some three hundred yards, where was the southeastern corner of the park enclosure, he stopped at the angle and standing on tip-toe peered over them, for they were nearly six feet high, and looked into the road below.  It ran straight as a billiard-cue just here, and was visible for a long distance, but at the corner, just outside the palings, the footpath over the downs to Brighton left the road, and struck upward.  On the other side of the road ran the railway, and in this clear dark air, Morris could see with great distinctness Falmer Station some four hundred yards away, along a stretch of the line on the other side of it.

As he looked he saw a puff of steam rise against the woods beyond the station, and before long a train, going Brightonward, clashed into the station.  Only one passenger got out, and he came out of the station into the road.  He was quite recognisable even at this distance.  In his dream Morris felt that he expected to see him get out of the train, and walk along the road; the whole thing seemed pre-ordained.  But he ceased tiptoeing to look over the paling; he could hear the passenger’s steps when he came nearer.