“I see.  A little holiday—­a brief taste of the pleasures of liberty!  Well, that seems to me a very natural and reasonable request.  What do you think, Savaroff?”

That gentleman contented himself with a singularly ungracious grunt.

“I don’t think there would be much risk about it,” I said boldly.  “If you can change my appearance as completely as you say you can, no one would be the least likely to recognize me.  After three years of that dog’s life up there I can’t settle down in a hut on the Thames marshes without having a few days’ fun first.  I should be very careful what I did naturally.  I have had quite enough of the prison to appreciate being outside.”

McMurtrie nodded.  “Very well,” he said slowly.  “I see no objection to your having your ‘few days’ fun’ in London if you want them.  It would be safer perhaps to get you away from this house as soon as possible.  I should think three weeks would be quite enough for our purposes here—­and I daresay it will take us a month to fix up a satisfactory place for you to work 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.