“I’m not too hungry to thank you,” I exclaimed.  “You are a kind of genie, who takes care of the poor who have neither lamps nor rings to rub.”

“Better not thank me till you’ve seen the place,” said he.  “It’s a villainous den; but I didn’t think any one here would be likely to do better with it than I would.  Anyhow, you’ll find hot water.  I unearthed—­literally—­another kettle.  And it’s the first door at the top of the back stairs.”

I flew, or rather stumbled, up the ladder-like stairway, with a candle which I snatched from the high kitchen mantelpiece, and at the top I laughed out, gaily.  In the narrow passage was a barricade of horrors which my knight had dragged from the box-room.  On strange old hairy trunks of cowhide he had piled broken chairs, bandboxes covered with flowered wall-paper, battered clocks, chipped crockery, fire-irons, bundles done up in blankets, and a motley collection of unspeakable odds and ends that would have made a sensational jumble sale.  I opened the low door, and peeped into the room with which such liberties had been taken for my sake.  Although it was no more than a store cupboard, my wonderful brother had contrived to give it quite an air of coziness.  The tiny window was open, and was doing its best to drive out mustiness.  A narrow hospital cot stood against the wall, spread with a mattress quite an inch thick, and piled with the luxurious rugs and cushions from the motor car.  I was sure Lady Turnour would have preferred my sitting up all night or freezing coverless rather than I should degrade her possessions by making use of them; but Mr. Dane evidently hadn’t thought her opinion of importance compared with her maid’s comfort.  Two wooden boxes, placed one upon another, formed a wash-hand stand, which not only boasted a beautiful blue tin basin, but a tumbler, a caraffe full of water, and a not-much-cracked saucer ready for duty as a soap-dish.  The top box was covered with a rough, clean towel, evidently filched from the kitchen, and this piece of extra refinement struck me as actually touching.  A third box standing on end and spread with another towel, proclaimed itself a dressing-table by virtue of at least half a looking glass, lurking in one corner of a battered frame, like a sinister, partially extinguished eye.  Other furnishings were a kitchen chair and a small clothes-horse, to compensate for the absence of wall-hooks or wardrobe.  On the bare floor—­oh, height of luxury!—­lay the fleecy white rug whose high mission it was to warm the toes of Lady Turnour when motoring.  On the floor beside the box wash-hand stand, a small kettle was pleasantly puffing, doing its best to heat the room with its gusty breath; and the clothes-horse had a saddle of towels which I shrewdly suspected had been intended for her ladyship or some other guest of importance in the house.