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.