arm.

"You had better be ready to start from here about half-past one," said
McMurtrie. "Savaroff will take you into Plymouth in the car, and there
is a fast train up at two-five. It gets you into London just before
seven."

"Good!" I said. "That will give me time to buy what I want when I
arrive. It would spoil my dinner if I had to shop afterwards."

McMurtrie, who had crossed to the door, looked back at me with a sort
of half-envious, half-contemptuous smile.

"You are a curious fellow, Lyndon," he said. "At times you might be a
boy of twenty."

"Well, I am only twenty-nine," I protested; "and one can't always
remember that one's an escaped murderer."

I was sitting on the window-sill when I made the last remark; but as
soon as he had gone I jumped to my feet and began to pace restlessly
up and down the room. Now that the moment of my release was really at
hand, a fierce excitement had gripped hold of me. Although I had
had plenty of time to get used to my new position, the amazing
possibilities of it had never seemed to come fully home to me
till that minute. I suddenly realized that I was stepping into an
experience such as probably no other human being had ever tasted. I
was like a man coming back from the dead, safe against recognition,
and with all the record of my past life scarred and burnt into my
memory.

I walked to the glass and once again stared long and closely at my
reflection. There could be no question about the completeness of my
disguise. Between Neil Lyndon as the world had known him, and the
grim, bearded, sunburned face that looked back at me out of the
mirror, there was a difference sufficiently remarkable to worry the
recording angel. People's wits may be sharpened both by fear and
affection, but I felt that unless I betrayed myself deliberately, not
even those who knew me best, such as George or Tommy, would have the
remotest suspicion of my real identity. Anyhow, I intended to put my
opinion to the test before very many hours had passed.

I was pondering over this agreeable prospect, and still inspecting
myself in the glass, when I heard a soft knock at the door. I opened
it, and found Sonia standing outside. She was holding a bag in her
hand--a good-sized Gladstone that had evidently seen some hard work
in its time, and she came into the room and shut the door behind her
before speaking.

"Well," she said, in her curious, half-sullen way, "are you pleased
you are going to London