eyebrows.

"For all what?" she asked.

"This," I repeated, waving my hand towards the tray, "and the hot bath
last night, and incidentally my life. If it hadn't been for you and
Dr. McMurtrie I think my 'career,' as the _Daily Mail_ calls it, would
be pretty well finished by now."

She stood where she was, her hand on her hip, her eyes fixed on my
face.

"Do you know why we are helping you?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I haven't the faintest notion," I answered frankly.
"It certainly can't be on account of the charm of my appearance. I've
just been looking at myself in the glass."

She shrugged her shoulders half impatiently. "What does a man's
appearance matter? You can't expect to break out of Dartmoor in a
frock-coat."

"No," I replied gravely; "there must always be a certain lack of
dignity about such a proceeding. Still, when one looks like--well,
like an escaped murderer, it's all the more surprising that one should
be so hospitably received."

She picked up the tray again, and brought it to my bedside.

"Oh!" she said; "I shouldn't build too much upon our hospitality if I