th
extraordinary vividness. I don't think I shall ever forget the
smallest and most unimportant detail of it. The truth is, I suppose,
that my whole mind and senses were in an acutely impressionable state
after lying fallow, as they practically had, for over three years.
Besides, the sheer pleasure of being out in the world again seemed to
invest everything with an amazing interest and wonder.

It was just half-past one when Savaroff brought the car round to the
front door. I was standing in the hall talking to McMurtrie, who had
decided not to accompany us into Plymouth. Of Sonia I had seen nothing
since our unfortunately interrupted interview in the morning.

"Well," said the doctor, as with a grinding of brakes the car pulled
up outside, "we can look on this as the real beginning of our little
enterprise."

I picked up my Gladstone. "Let's hope," I said, "that the end will be
equally satisfactory."

McMurtrie nodded. "I fancy," he said, "that we need have no
apprehensions. Providence is with us, Mr. Lyndon--Providence or some
equally effective power."

There was a note of irony in his voice which left one in no doubt as
to his own private opinion of our guiding agency.

I stepped out into the drive carrying my bag. Savaroff, who was
sitting in the driving seat of the car, turned half round towards me.

"Put it on the floor at the back under the rug," he said. "You will
sit in front with me."

He spoke in his usual surly fashion, but by this time I had become
accustomed to it. So contenting myself with a genial observation to
the effect that I should be charmed, I tucked the bag away out of
sight and clambered up beside him into the left-hand seat. McMurtrie
stood in the doorway, that mirthless smile of his fixed upon his lips.

"Good-bye," I said; "we shall meet at Tilbury, I suppose--if not
before?"

He nodded. "At Tilbury certainly. Au revoir, Mr. Nicholson."

And with this last reminder of my future identity echoing in my ears,
we slid off down the drive.

All the way into Plymouth Savaroff maintained a grumpy silence. He was
naturally a taciturn sort of person, and I think, besides that, he had
taken a strong dislike to me from the night we had first seen each
other. If this were so I had certainly not done much to modify it. I
felt that the man was naturally a bully, and it always pleases and
amuses me to be disliked by bullies. Indeed, if I had had no other
reason for responding to Sonia's proff