"That's a long way!" she murmured compassionately, as she took his weather-beaten hat and shook the wet from it—"And why do you want to tramp so far, you poor old David?"
"I'm looking for a friend,"—he answered—"And maybe it's no use trying,—but I should like to find that friend before I die."
"And so you will, I'm sure!" she declared, smiling at him, but with something of an anxious expression in her eyes, for Helmsley's face was very pinched and pallid, and every now and then he shivered violently as with an ague fit—"But you must pick up your strength first. Then you'll get on better and quicker. Now I'm going to leave you while you change. You'll find plenty of warm things with the dressing gown."
She went out as before into the next room, and Helmsley managed, though with considerable difficulty, to divest himself of his drenched clothes and get on the comfortable woollen garments she had put ready for him. When he took off his coat and vest, he spread them in front of the fire to dry instead of the dressing-gown which he now wore, and as soon as she returned he specially pointed out the vest to her.
"I should like you to put that away somewhere in your own safe keeping,"—he said. "It has a few letters and—and papers in it which I value,—and I don't want any stranger to see them. Will you take care of it for me?"
"Of course I will! Nobody shall touch it, be sure! Not a soul ever comes nigh me unless I ask for company!—so you can be quite easy in your mind. Now I'm going to give you a cup of hot soup, and then you'll go to bed, won't you?—and, please God, you'll be better in the morning!"
He nodded feebly, and forced a smile. He had sunk back in the armchair and his eyes were fixed on the warm-hearth, where the tiny dog, Charlie, whom he had rescued, and who in turn had rescued him, was curled up and snoozing peacefully. Now that the long physical and nervous strain of his journey and of his ghastly experience at Blue Anchor was past, he felt almost too weak to lift a hand, and the sudden change from the fierce buffetings of the storm to the homely tranquillity of this little cottage into which he had been welcomed just as though he had every right to be there, affected him with a strange sensation which he could not analyse. And once he murmured half unconsciously:
"Mary! Mary Deane!"
"Yes,—that's me!" she responded cheerfully, coming to his side at once—"I'm here!"
He lifted his head and looked at her.