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."