“Are you real?” he asked in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.

“More than real⁠—I’m friendly,” replied the stranger; “I followed you up here from the inn.”

Harris stood and stared for several minutes without adding anything. His teeth chattered. The least sound made him start; but the simple words in his own language, and the tone in which they were uttered, comforted him inconceivably.

“You’re English too, thank God,” he said inconsequently. “These German devils⁠—” He broke off and put a hand to his eyes. “But what’s become of them all⁠—and the room⁠—and⁠—and⁠—” The hand travelled down to his throat and moved nervously round his neck. He drew a long, long breath of relief. “Did I dream everything⁠—everything?” he said distractedly.