He stepped forward at once, his lined face breaking into something
like a smile.

"Don't sit up. Lie quite still where you are, and I will get you
something to eat. Have you had any food today?"

I shook my head. "Only rain-water," I said.

"You had better start with some bread and milk, then. You have been
starving too long to eat a big meal straight away."

Crossing the room, he pushed open a door which apparently led into the
larder, and then paused for a moment on the threshold.

"You needn't try to escape," he added, turning back to me. "I am not
going to send for the police."

"I don't care what you do," I whispered, "as long as you hurry up with
some grub."

Lying there in the sort of semi-stupor that comes from utter
exhaustion, I listened to him moving about in the larder apparently
getting things ready. For the moment all thoughts of danger or
recapture had ceased to disturb me. Even the unexpected fashion
in which I was being treated did not strike me as particularly
interesting or surprising: my whole being was steeped in a sense of
approaching food.

I saw him re-enter the room, carrying a saucepan, which he placed on
a small stove alongside the fireplace. There was the scratching of a