Once more the wind swept into my room, the door was quickly opened and closed.  A man-servant in his long coat, and cockaded hat tied round his head with a piece of string, set down the lamp upon my table.  Behind, the girl and Mostyn Ray were talking.

“The man had better stop,” he whispered.  “There is the fire to be made.”

For the first time I heard her voice, very slow and soft, almost languid, yet very pleasant to listen to.

“No!” she said firmly.  “It will look so much like taking him by storm.  I can assure you that I am by no means a helpless person.”

“And I,” he answered, “am a campaigner.”

“Get back as quickly as you can, Richards,” she directed, “and get the things I told you from Mrs. Brown.  Jean must bring you back in the motor.”

Once more the door opened and shut.  I heard the swish of her skirts as she came over towards me.

“Poor fellow!” she murmured.  “I’m afraid that he is very ill.”

I opened my eyes and made an attempt to rise.  She laid her hand upon my shoulder and smiled,

“Please don’t move,” she said, “and do forgive us for this intrusion.  Colonel Ray wanted to call and apologize about this evening, and I am so glad that he did.  We are going to take no end of liberties, but you must remember that we are neighbours, and therefore have privileges.”

What could I say in answer to such a speech as this?  As a matter of fact speech of any sort was denied me; a great sob had stuck in my throat.  They did what was kindest.  They left me alone.

I heard them rummaging about in my back room, and soon I heard the chopping of sticks.  Presently I heard the crackling of flames, and I knew that a fire had been lit.  A dreamy partial unconsciousness destitute of all pain, and not in itself unpleasant, stole over me.  I felt my boots cut from my feet.  I was gently lifted up.  Some of my outer garments were removed.  Every now and then I heard their voices, I heard her shocked exclamation as she examined my larder, I heard the words “starvation,” “exhaustion,” scarcely applying them to myself.  Then I heard her call to him softly.  She was standing by my bookcase.

“Do you see this?” she murmured. “‘Guy Ducaine, Magdalen,’ and the college coat of arms.  They must belong to him, for that is his name.”

I did not hear his answer, but directly afterwards a little exclamation escaped him.

“By Jove, what luck!  I have my flask with me, after all.  Is there a spoon there, Lady Angela?”

She brought him one directly.  He stooped down, and I felt the metal strike my teeth.  The brandy seemed to set all my blood flowing once more warmly in my veins.  The heat of the fire, too, was delicious.

And then the strangest thing of all happened.  I opened my eyes.  My chair was drawn sideways to the fire and immediately facing the window.  The first thing that I saw was this.  Pressed against it, peering into the room, was the white face of a man, an entire stranger to me.