Apparently he was alone.  The room was not large; about the size of an ordinary bedroom.  And after the first novelty of the unplaceable colour had worn off he began to take stock of his own person.

First, he was covered by the finest of bed clothing, thick but exceedingly light.  There was no counterpane, but two blankets and two sheets; and none of them corresponded to any colour or material he had ever known.  He only knew that their tints were light rather than dark.

Next, he moved his hands out from under the coverings, and held them up before his eyes.  He was immensely puzzled.  He naturally expected to see the worn, emaciated hands which had been his on that dramatic night; but the ones before him were plump, normal, of a healthy pink.  The wrists likewise were in perfect condition, also his arms.  He could not account for this sudden return to health, of the vigour he had known before he began to wear the ring.  He lay back pondering.

Presently he fell to examining his clothes.  There were two garments made of a silk-like textile, rather heavy as to weight, but exceedingly soft as to touch.  They were slightly darker than the bed clothing.  In a way they were much like pyjamas, except that both were designed to be merely slipped into place, without buttons or draw-strings.  That is, they were tailored to fit snugly over the shoulders and waist, while loose enough elsewhere.

Then he noticed the walls of the room.  They were after a simple, symmetrical style; coved—­to use an architectural expression—­or curved, where the corner would come with a radius much larger than common, amounting to four or five feet; so that a person of ordinary height could not stand close to the wall without stooping.  Where the coved portion flowed into the perpendicular of the wall there was a broad moulding, like a plate rail, which acted as a support for the hanging pictures.

Watson counted four of these pictures.  Instinctively he felt that they might give him a valuable clue as to his whereabouts.  For, while his mind had cleared enough for him to feel sure that he had truly come through the Spot, he knew nothing more.  Where was he?  What would the pictures tell?

The first was directly before his eyes.  In size perhaps two by three feet, with its greater length horizontal, it was more of a landscape than a portrait.  And Watson’s eagerness for the subject itself made him forget to note whether the work was mechanically or manually executed.

For it revealed a girl—­about ten or twelve—­very slightly draped, enjoying a wild romp with a most extraordinary creature.  It was this animal that made the picture amazing; there was no subtle significance in the scene—­there was nothing remarkable about the technique.  The whole interest, for Watson, was in the animal.

It was a deer; perfect and beautiful, but cast in a Lilliputian mould.  It stood barely a foot high, the most delicate thing he had ever looked upon.  Mature in every detail of its proportion, the dainty hoofs, the fragile legs, smooth-coated body, and small, wide-antlered head—­a miniature eight-pointer—­made such a vision as might come to the dreams of a hunter.