“Like it!” I echoed gratefully; and then, finding no other words to express my emotions, I sank down in an easy chair which had been pushed in front of the fire.

I think the brandy that McMurtrie had given me must have gone to my head, or perhaps it was merely the sudden sense of warmth and comfort coming on top of my utter fatigue.  Anyhow I know I fell gradually into a sort of blissful trance, in which things happened to me very much as they do in a dream.

I have a dim recollection of being helped to pull off my soaked and filthy clothes, and later on of lying back with indescribable felicity in a heavenly tub of hot water.

Then I was in bed and somebody was rubbing me, rubbing me all over with some warm pungent stuff that seemed to take away the pain in my limbs and leave me just a tingling mass of drowsy contentment.

After that—­well, after that I suppose I fell asleep.

* * * * *

I base this last idea upon the fact that the next thing I remember is hearing some one say in a rather subdued voice:  “Don’t wake him up.  Let him sleep as long as he likes—­it’s the best thing for him.”

Whereupon, as was only natural, I promptly opened my eyes.

Dr. McMurtrie and the dark girl were standing by my bedside, looking down at me.

I blinked at them for a moment, wondering in my half-awake state where the devil I had got to.  Then suddenly it all came back to me.

“Well,” said the doctor smoothly, “and how is the patient today?”

I stretched myself with some care.  I was still pretty stiff, and my throat felt as if some one had been scraping it with sand-paper, but all the same I knew that I was better—­much better.

“I don’t think there’s any serious damage,” I said hoarsely.  “How long have I been asleep?”

He looked at his watch.  “As far as I remember, you went to sleep in your bath soon after midnight.  It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon.”

I started up in bed.  “Four o’clock!” I exclaimed.  “Good Lord!  I must get up—­I—­”

He laid his hand on my shoulder.  “Don’t be foolish, my friend,” he said.  “You will get up when you are fit to get up.  At the present moment you are going to have something to eat.”  He turned to the girl.  “What are you thinking of giving him?” he asked.

“There are plenty of eggs,” she said, “and there’s some of that fish we had for breakfast.”  She answered curtly, almost rudely, looking at me while she spoke.  Her manner gave me the impression that for some reason or other she and McMurtrie were not exactly on the best of terms.

If that was so, he himself betrayed no sign of it.  “Either will do excellently,” he said in his usual suave way, “or perhaps our young friend could manage both.  I believe the Dartmoor air is most stimulating.”

“I shall be vastly grateful for anything,” I said, addressing the girl.  “Whatever is the least trouble to cook.”