A smell of breakfast smote his nostrils pleasantly.
It was the work of a moment to dash into the house, wash, shave, and—there, upon a snowy bed, were laid the very clothes in which—long years ago—he had been captured.
In another moment he was in them and dashing downstairs, doing up the buttons as he went.
He flung himself, panting, into the breakfast-room.
The glorious girl looked up from her bacon with a cry.
Tomb started to his feet.