small electric torch in one hand and a revolver in the other. He laid down the former with the light still pointing straight at my face.

"If you attempt to move," he remarked pleasantly, "I shall blow your brains out."

With this he walked to the side of the room, struck a match against the wall, and reaching up turned on the gas.

I was much too dazed to do anything, even if I had had the chance. I just stood there with my hands up, rocking slightly from side to side, and wondering how long it would be before I tumbled over.

My captor remained for a moment under the light, peering at me in silence. He seemed to be a man of about sixty—a thin, frail man with white hair and a sharp, deeply lined face. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, behind which a pair of hard grey eyes gleamed at me in malicious amusement.

At last he took a step forward, still holding the revolver in his hand.

"A stranger!" he observed. "Dear me—what a disappointment! I hope Mr.
Latimer is not ill?"

I had no idea what he was talking about, but his voice sounded very far away.

"If you keep me standing like this much longer," I managed to jerk out, "I shall most certainly faint."

I saw him raise his eyebrows in a sort of half-mocking smile.

"Indeed," he said, "I thought—"

What he thought I never heard, for the whole room suddenly went dim, and with a quick lurch the floor seemed to get up and spin round beneath my feet. I suppose I must have pitched forward, for the last thing I remember is clutching wildly but vainly at the corner of the kitchen table.

* * * * *

My first sensation on coming round was a burning feeling in my lips and throat. Then I suddenly realized that my mouth was full of brandy, and with a surprised gulp I swallowed it down and opened my eyes.

I was lying back in a low chair with a cushion under my head. Standing in front of me was the gentleman in the dressing-gown, only instead of a revolver he now held an empty wine-glass in his hand. When he saw that I was recovering he stepped back and placed it on the table. There was a short pause.

"Well, Mr. Lyndon," he said slowly, "and how are you feeling now?"

A hasty glance down showed me that the jacket of my overalls had been unbuttoned at the neck, exposing the soaked and mud-stained prison clothes beneath. I saw that the game was up, but for the moment I was too exhausted to care.

My captor leaned against the end of the table watching me closely.

"Are you feeling any better?" he repeated.

I made a feeble attempt to raise myself in the chair. "I don't know,"
I said weakly; "I'm feeling devilish hungry."

He stepped forward at once, his lined face breaking into something like a smile.

"Don't sit up. Lie quite still where you are, and I will get you something to eat. Have you had any food today?"

I shook my head. "Only rain-water," I said.

"You had better start with some bread and milk, then. You have been starving too long to eat a big meal straight away."

Crossing the room, he pushed open a door which apparently led into the larder, and then paused for a moment on the threshold.

"You needn't try to escape," he added, turning back to me. "I am not going to send for the police."

"I don't care what you do," I whispered, "as long as you hurry up with some grub."

Lying there in the sort of semi-stupor that comes from utter exhaustion, I listened to him moving about in the larder apparently getting things ready. For the moment all thoughts of danger or recapture had ceased to disturb me. Even the unexpected fashion in which I was being treated did not strike me as particularly interesting or surprising: my whole being was steeped in a sense of approaching food.

I saw him re-enter the room, carrying a saucepan, which he placed on a small stove alongside the fireplace. There was the scratching of a match followed by the pop of a gas-ring, and half-closing my eyes I lay back in serene and silent contentment.

I was aroused by the chink of a spoon, and the splash of something liquid being poured out. Then I saw my host coming towards me, carrying a large steaming china bowl in his hand.

"Here you are," he said. "Do you think you can manage to feed yourself?"

I didn't trouble to answer. I just seized the cup and spoon, and the next moment I was wolfing down a huge mouthful of warm bread and milk that seemed to me the most perfect thing I had ever tasted. It was followed rapidly by another and another, all equally beautiful.

My host stood by watching me with a sort of half-amused interest.

"I shouldn't eat it quite so fast," he observed. "It will do you more good if you take it slowly."

The first few spoonfuls had already partly deadened my worst pangs, so following his advice I slackened down the pace to a somewhat more normal level. Even then I emptied the bowl in what I think must have been a record time, and with a deep sigh I handed it to him to replenish.

I was feeling better—distinctly better. The food, the rest in the chair, and the comparative warmth of the room were all doing me good in their various ways, and for the first time I was beginning to realize clearly where I was and what had happened.

I suppose my host noticed the change, for he looked at me in an approving fashion as he gave me my second helping.

"There you are," he said in that curious dry voice of his. "Eat that up, and then we'll have a little conversation. Meanwhile—" he paused and looked round—"well, if you have no objection I think I will shut that window. I daresay you have had enough fresh air for today."

I nodded—my mouth was too full for any more elaborate reply—and crossing the room he closed the sash and pulled down the blind.

"That's better," he observed, gently rubbing his hands together; "now we are more comfortable and more private. By the way, I don't think I have introduced myself yet. My name is McMurtrie—Doctor McMurtrie."

"I am charmed to meet you," I said, swallowing down a large chunk of bread.

He nodded his head, smiling. "The pleasure is a mutual one, Mr.
Lyndon—quite a mutual one."

The words were simple and smooth enough in themselves, but somehow or other the tone in which they were uttered was not altogether to my taste. It seemed to carry with it the faint suggestion of a cat purring over a mouse. Still I was hardly in a position to be too fastidious, so I accepted his compliment, and went on calmly with my bread and milk.

With the same rather catlike smile Dr. McMurtrie drew up a chair and sat down opposite to me. He kept his right hand in his pocket, presumably on the revolver.

"And now," he said, "perhaps you have sufficiently recovered to be able to tell me a little about yourself. At present my knowledge of your adventures is confined to the account of your escape in this morning's Daily Mail."

I slowly finished the last spoonful of my second helping, and placed the cup beside me on the floor. It was a clumsy device to gain time, for now that the full consciousness of my surroundings had returned to me, I was beginning to think that Dr. McMurtrie's methods of receiving an escaped convict were, to say the least, a trifle unusual. Was his apparent friendliness merely a blind, or did it hide some