set off
with a jerk up the slope. I lay back in the corner, and took in a
long, deep, exulting breath. I was in London--in London at last--and
if those words don't convey to you the kind of savage satisfaction
that filled my soul you must be as deficient in imagination as a
prison governor.

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN WITH THE SCAR

My shopping took me quite a little while. There were a lot of things
I wanted to get, and I saw no reason for hurrying--especially as
McMurtrie was paying for the taxi. I stopped at Selfridge's and laid
in a small but nicely chosen supply of shirts, socks, collars, and
other undergarments, and then, drifting slowly on, picked up at
intervals some cigars, a couple of pairs of boots, and a presentable
Homburg hat.

The question of a suit of clothes was the only problem that offered
any real difficulties. Apart from the fact that Savaroff's suit was by
no means in its first youth, I had a strong objection to wearing his
infernal things a moment longer than I could help. I was determined to
have a decently cut suit as soon as possible, but I knew that it would
be a week at least before any West End tailor would finish the job. In
the meantime I wanted something to go on with, and in my extremity I
suddenly remembered a place in Wardour Street where four or five years
before I had once hired a costume for a Covent Garden ball.

I told the man to drive me there, and much to my relief found the
shop still in existence. There was no difficulty about getting what I
wanted. The proprietor had a large selection of what he called "West
End Misfits," amongst which were several tweeds and blue serge suits
big enough even for my somewhat unreasonable proportions. I chose the
two that fitted me best, and then bought a second-hand suit-case to
pack them away in.

I had spent about fifteen pounds, which seemed to me as much as a
fifty-pound capitalist had any right to squander on necessities. I
therefore returned to the taxi and, arranging my parcels on the
front seat, instructed the man to drive me down to the address that
McMurtrie had given me.

Pimlico was a part of London that I had not patronized extensively in
the days of my freedom, and I was rather in the dark about the precise
situation of Edith Terrace. The taxi-man, however, seemed to suffer
under no such handicap. He drove me straight to Victoria, and then,
taking the road to the left of the station, turned off into a
neighbourhood o