Sonia leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap.

“I thought,” she said slowly, “I thought that perhaps you wanted to go to London in order to meet her.”

I shook my head.  “I am not quite so selfish as that.  I have brought her enough trouble and unhappiness already.”

“Then it is your cousin that you mean to see,” she said softly—­“this man, Marwood, who sent you to the prison.”

For a second I was silent.  It had suddenly occurred to me that in asking these questions Sonia might be acting under the instructions of McMurtrie or her father.

She saw my hesitation and evidently guessed the cause.

“Oh, you needn’t think I shall repeat what you tell me,” she broke out almost scornfully.  “The doctor and my father are quite capable of taking care of themselves.  They don’t want me to act as their spy.”

There was a genuine ring of dislike in her voice as she mentioned their names which made me believe that she was speaking the truth.

“Well,” I said frankly, “I was thinking of looking up George just to see how he has been getting on in my absence.  But apart from that I have every intention of playing straight with McMurtrie.  It seems to me to be my only chance.”

A bell tinkled faintly somewhere away in the house, and Sonia got up off the bed.

“It is your only chance,” she said quietly, “but it may be a better one than you imagine.”

And with this encouraging if somewhat obscure remark she went out and left me to my thoughts.

McMurtrie came up about an hour later.  Suave and courteous as ever, he knocked at my door before entering the room, and wished me good morning in the friendliest of fashions.

“I have brought you another Daily Mail—­yesterday’s,” he said, throwing the paper down on the bed.  “It contains the second instalment of your adventures.”  Then he paused and looked at me with that curious smile that seemed to begin and end with his lips.  “Well,” he added, “and how are the stiffness and the sore throat this morning?”

“Gone,” I said, “both of them.  I have no excuse for stopping in bed except lack of clothes.”

He nodded and sat down on the window-sill.  “I daresay we can find a way out of that difficulty.  My friend Savaroff would, I am sure, be delighted to lend you some garments to go on with.  You seem to be much of a size.”

“Well, I should be delighted to accept them,” I said.  “Even the joy of being in a real bed again begins to wear off after two days.”

“I am afraid you can’t expect very much liberty while you are our guest,” he said, leaning back against the window.  “It would be too dangerous for you to go outside the house, even at night time.  I expect Sonia told you about our visitor yesterday.”

“Yes,” I said; “I should like to have heard the interview.”

“It was quite interesting.  From what he told me I should say that few prisoners have been more missed than you are.  It appears that there are over seventy warders hunting about the neighbourhood, to say nothing of volunteers.”