“By Jove!”

Stronger ejaculation seemed forbidden by the Presence on the steps.  He tapped all his pockets carefully.  The pocketbook was in none of them—­and he had used the last cent of loose change for a glass of milk for breakfast.

“I suppose,” the girl had apparently not noticed his sudden discomfiture, “that you mean you have money?  But the nearest place where money would be of use is Coombe, and Coombe is a full mile away.  It is a pity that my principles, and the principles of the school-board, should be all against the feeding of tramps.  Otherwise I might offer you a sandwich.”

“You might,” bitterly, “but I doubt it!”

“Even now, putting the school-board aside, I might offer you one if you were to ask prettily and to apologise to me for making rather a fool of me this morning over there by the pump!”

The pump!  Why, of course, the pump!  It all came back to him now—­the pump, the avenging angel! (Had this been the avenging angel?) The avenging dog!—­Oh, heaven, was that the avenging dog?

He burst into a boyish shout of laughter.

“There are only two sandwiches left,” she warned him.  The doctor stopped laughing.

“Oh, please!” he said.

There was something very pleasant about him when he used that tone; a persuasive charm, a trace of command.  The girl liked it—­and passed a sandwich.

“Anyway it was you who took for granted that I was a tramp,” he smiled at her.  “If I remember rightly I was hardly in a condition to contradict you.  Not but that it was a natural conclusion.  I am curious to know why you changed your mind.”

“Oh! as soon as you fainted I knew.  Tramps don’t faint!”

“Not ever?”

“Well—­hardly ever!  And besides—­look at your hands!”

The doctor looked, and blushed.

“Dirty?” he ventured.

“Not half dirty enough!  And it wasn’t only your hands.  I noticed—­oh! lots of things!” For no perceptible reason a tiny blush fluttered across the whiteness of her face like a roseleaf chased by the wind.  The pleasure of watching it made the doctor forget to answer, and the girl went on: 

“I know lots more about you than that you aren’t a tramp.  I know what you are.  You are a doctor!” triumphantly.

“A Daniel come to judgment!”

“Yes, a Daniel!  Only I wouldn’t have been quite so sure if you hadn’t dropped this out of your pocket.”  With a gleeful laugh she held up a clinical thermometer.

The doctor laughed also.  “Men have been hanged on less evidence than that,” he admitted.  “All the same I don’t know where it came from.  Some one must have judged me capable of wanting to take my own temperature.  Anything else?”

“Only general deductions.  You are a doctor, you are going to Coombe—­deduction, you are the doctor who is going to buy out Dr. Simmonds’s practice.”

Callandar scrambled up from his pillow with a look of delighted surprise on his face.