"My dear Sonia," said McMurtrie, "you reflect upon my hospitality. Mr.
Lyndon has been faring sumptuously on bread and milk."
"But he looks so wet and ill."
"He is wet and ill," rejoined the doctor agreeably. "That is just the reason why I am going to ask you to heat some water and light a fire in the spare bedroom. We don't want to disturb Mrs. Weston at this time of night. I suppose the bed is made up?"
Sonia nodded. "I think so. I'll go up and see anyhow."
With a last glance at me she left the room, and Savaroff, taking off his coat, threw it across the back of a chair. Then he came up to where I was sitting.
"You don't look much like your pictures, my friend," he said, unwinding the scarf that he was wearing round his neck.
"Under the circumstances," I replied, "that's just as well."
He laughed again, showing a set of strong white teeth. "Yes, yes. But the clothes and the short hair—eh? They would take a lot of explaining away. It was fortunate for you you chose this house—very fortunate. You find yourself amongst friends here."
I nodded.
I didn't like the man—there was too great a suggestion of the bully about him, but for all that I preferred him to McMurtrie.