ork in." Then he paused. "Of course if you go to
town," he added, "you will have to stay at some address we shall
arrange for, and you will have to be ready to start work directly we
tell you to."

"Naturally," I said; "I only want--"

I was saved from finishing my falsehood by a sudden sound from
outside--the sound of a swing gate banging against its post. For a
moment I had a horrible feeling that it might be the police.

Savaroff jumped up and looked out of the window. Then with a little
guttural exclamation he turned back to McMurtrie.

"Hoffman!" he muttered, apparently in some surprise.

Who Mr. Hoffman might be I had not the faintest notion, but the
mention of the name brought the doctor to his feet at once. I think
he was rather annoyed with Savaroff for being unnecessarily
communicative. When he spoke, however, it was with his usual perfect
composure.

"Well, we will leave you at peace now, Mr. Lyndon. I should try to go
to sleep again for a little while if I were you. I will come up later
and see whether you would like some supper." He stopped and looked
round the room. "Is there anything else you want that you haven't
got?"

"If you could advance me a box of cigarettes," I said, "it shall be
the first charge on the new explosive."

He nodded, smiling. "I will send Sonia up with it," he answered. Then,
following Savaroff, he went out into the passage, carefully closing
the door after him.

Left alone, I lay back on the pillow in a frame of mind which I
believe novelists describe as "chaotic." I had expected something
rather unusual from my interview with McMurtrie, but these proposals
of his could hardly be classed under such a mild heading as that. For
sheer unexpectedness they about took the biscuit.

I had read in books of a man's appearance being altered so completely
that even his best friends failed to recognize him, but it had never
occurred to me that such a thing could be done in real life--let alone
in the simple fashion outlined by the doctor. Of course, if he was
speaking the truth, there seemed no reason why his plan, fantastic as
it might sound, should not turn out perfectly successful. A private
hut on the Thames marshes was about the last place in which you would
look for an escaped Dartmoor convict, especially when he had vanished
into thin air within a few miles of Devonport.

What worried me most in the matter was my apparent good luck in having
fallen on my feet in this amazi