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.

“And now,” he said, “perhaps you have sufficiently recovered to be able to tell me a little about yourself.  At present my knowledge of your adventures is confined to the account of your escape in this morning’s Daily Mail.”

I slowly finished the last spoonful of my second helping, and placed the cup beside me on the floor.  It was a clumsy device to gain time, for now that the full consciousness of my surroundings had returned to me, I was beginning to think that Dr. McMurtrie’s methods of receiving an escaped convict were, to say the least, a trifle unusual.  Was his apparent friendliness merely a blind, or did it hide some still deeper purpose, of which at present I knew nothing?

He must have guessed my thoughts, for leaning back in his chair he remarked half-mockingly:  “Come, Mr. Lyndon, it doesn’t pay to be too suspicious.  If it will relieve your mind, I can assure you I have no immediate intention of turning policeman, even for the magnificent sum of—­how much is it—­five pounds, I believe?  On mere business grounds I think it would be underrating your market value.”

The slight but distinct change in his voice in the last remark invested it with a special significance.  I felt a sudden conviction that for some reason of his own Dr. McMurtrie did not intend to give me up—­at all events for the present.

“I will tell you anything you want to know with pleasure,” I said.  “Where did the Daily Mail leave off?”