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.”

Crossing the room, he pushed open a door which apparently led into the larder, and then paused for a moment on the threshold.

“You needn’t try to escape,” he added, turning back to me.  “I am not going to send for the police.”

“I don’t care what you do,” I whispered, “as long as you hurry up with some grub.”

Lying there in the sort of semi-stupor that comes from utter exhaustion, I listened to him moving about in the larder apparently getting things ready.  For the moment all thoughts of danger or recapture had ceased to disturb me.  Even the unexpected fashion in which I was being treated did not strike me as particularly interesting or surprising:  my whole being was steeped in a sense of approaching food.

I saw him re-enter the room, carrying a saucepan, which he placed on a small stove alongside the fireplace.  There was the scratching of a match followed by the pop of a gas-ring, and half-closing my eyes I lay back in serene and silent contentment.

I was aroused by the chink of a spoon, and the splash of something liquid being poured out.  Then I saw my host coming towards me, carrying a large steaming china bowl in his hand.

“Here you are,” he said.  “Do you think you can manage to feed yourself?”

I didn’t trouble to answer.  I just seized the cup and spoon, and the next moment I was wolfing down a huge mouthful of warm bread and milk that seemed to me the most perfect thing I had ever tasted.  It was followed rapidly by another and another, all equally beautiful.

My host stood by watching me with a sort of half-amused interest.

“I shouldn’t eat it quite so fast,” he observed.  “It will do you more good if you take it slowly.”

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.