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"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very

thin, with a long, sharp nose?"

The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an

Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a

better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him,

a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as

if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all

hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low

hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in

front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in

the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to

keep the flames under.

"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is

the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That

second window is the one that I jumped from."