"Do you know why we are helping you?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I haven't the faintest notion," I answered frankly. "It certainly can't be on account of the charm of my appearance. I've just been looking at myself in the glass."
She shrugged her shoulders half impatiently. "What does a man's appearance matter? You can't expect to break out of Dartmoor in a frock-coat."
"No," I replied gravely; "there must always be a certain lack of dignity about such a proceeding. Still, when one looks like—well, like an escaped murderer, it's all the more surprising that one should be so hospitably received."
She picked up the tray again, and brought it to my bedside.
"Oh!" she said; "I shouldn't build too much upon our hospitality if I were you."
I took the tray from her hands. "I would build upon yours to any extent," I said; "but I am under no illusion whatever about Dr. McMurtrie's disinterestedness. He and your father—it is your father, isn't it?—are coming up to explain matters as soon as I have had something to eat."
She stood silent for a moment, her brows knitted in a frown.
"They mean you no harm," she said at last, "as long as you will do what they want." Then she paused. "Did you murder that man Marks?" she asked abruptly.
I swallowed down my first mouthful of fish. "No," I said; "I only knocked him about a bit. He wasn't worth murdering."