“You're wet through,” she said. “That won't do.”
He looked down at her hand and then at her face again.
“Help me,” he pleaded, “just help me. I don't know what's happened. Have I gone mad?”
“No,” she answered; “not a bit. It'll all come right after a while; you'll see.”
“Will it, will it?” he begged, and then suddenly his eyes were full of tears. It was a strange thing to see him in his bewildered misery try to pull himself together, and bite his shaking lips as though he vaguely remembered that he was a man. “I beg pardon,” he faltered: “I suppose I'm ill.”
“I don't know where to put him,” Mrs. Bowse was saying half aside; “I've not got a room empty.”
“Put him in my bed and give me a shake-down on the floor,” said Tembarom. “That'll be all right. He doesn't want me to leave him, anyhow.”
He turned to the money on the table.
“Say,” he said to his guest, “there's two thousand five hundred dollars here. We've counted it to make sure. That's quite some money. And it's yours—”
The stranger looked disturbed and made a nervous gesture.