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.