He laughed curtly, and thrusting the other hand into his pocket pulled out a silver cigarette-case.

“If I remember rightly,” he said, “you had just taken advantage of the fog to commit a brutal and quite unprovoked assault upon a warder.”  He held out the case.

“But try one of these before you start,” he added.  “They are a special brand from St. Petersburg, and I think you will enjoy them.  There is nothing like a little abstinence to make one appreciate a good tobacco.”

With a shaking hand I pressed the spring.  It was three years since I had smoked my last cigarette—­a cigarette handed me by the inspector in that stuffy little room below the dock, where I was waiting to be sentenced to death.

If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget my sensations as I struck the match which my host handed me and took in that first fragrant mouthful.  It was so delicious that for a moment I remained motionless from sheer pleasure; then lying back again in my chair with a little gasp I drew another great cloud of smoke deep down into my lungs.

The doctor waited, watching me with a kind of cynical amusement.

“Don’t hurry yourself, Mr. Lyndon,” he observed, “pray don’t hurry yourself.  It is a pleasure to witness such appreciation.”

I took him at his word, and for perhaps a couple of minutes we sat there in silence while the blue wreaths of smoke slowly mounted and circled round us.  Then at last, with a delightful feeling of half-drugged contentment, I sat up and began my story.

I told it him quite simply—­making no attempt to conceal or exaggerate anything.  I described how the idea of making a bolt had come suddenly into my mind, and how I had acted on it without reflection or hesitation.  Step by step I went quietly through my adventures, from the time when the fog had rolled down to the moment when, half fainting with hunger and exhaustion, I had climbed in through his kitchen window.

Leaning on the arm of his chair, he listened to me in silence.  As far as any movement or change of expression was concerned a statue could scarcely have betrayed less interest, but all the time the steady gleam of his eyes never shifted from my face.

When I had finished he remained there for several seconds in the same attitude.  Then at last he gave a short mirthless laugh.

“It must be pleasant to be as strong as you are,” he said.  “I should have been dead long ago.”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “Well, I don’t exactly feel like going to a dance,” I answered.

He got up and walked slowly as far as the window, where he turned round and stood staring at me thoughtfully.  At last he appeared to make up his mind.

“You had better go to bed,” he said, “and we will talk things over in the morning.  You are not fit for anything more tonight.”

“No, I’m not,” I admitted frankly; “but before I go to bed I should like to feel a little more certain where I’m going to wake up.”