“I seem to be giving a lot of trouble,” I said sadly.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.  “Not to us.  I am only sorry that we can’t offer you a more entertaining visit.”  He opened his case and helped himself to a cigarette.  “On the whole, however, I daresay you won’t find the time drag so very much.  There will be the business of altering your appearance—­I hope to start on that the day after tomorrow—­and then I want you to make me out a full list of everything you will need in connection with your experiments.  It would be best perhaps to have a drawing of the actual shed—­just as you would like it fitted up.  You might start on this right away.”

“Certainly,” I said.  “I shall be glad to have something to do.”

“And I don’t suppose you will mind much if we can’t arrange anything very luxurious for you in the way of living accommodation.  We shall have to choose as lonely a place as possible, and it will probably involve your feeding chiefly on tinned food, and roughing it a bit generally.  It won’t be for very long.”

“I shan’t mind in the least,” I said.  “Anything will be comfortable after Princetown.  As long as you can fix me up with what I want for my work I shan’t grumble about the rest.”

He nodded again in a satisfied manner.  “By the way,” he said, “I suppose you never wore a beard or a moustache before you went to prison?”

“Only once in some amateur theatricals,” I answered “and then the moustache came off.”

“They will make a great difference in your appearance by themselves,” he went on, looking at me critically.  “I wonder how long they will take to grow.”

I passed my hand up my face, which was already covered with a thick stubble about half an inch in length.  “At the present rate of progress,” I said, “I should think about a week.”

McMurtrie smiled.  “Another fortnight on top of that will be nearer the mark, I expect,” he said, getting up from the bed.  “That will just fit in with our arrangements.  In three weeks we ought to be able to fix you up with what you want, and by that time there won’t be quite so much excitement about your escape.  The Daily Mail will have become tired of you, even if the police haven’t.”  He stopped to flick the ash off his cigarette.  “Of course you will have to be extremely careful when you are in London.  I shall change your appearance so that it will be quite impossible for any one to recognize you, but there will always be the danger of somebody remembering your voice.”

“I can disguise that to a certain extent,” I said.  “Besides, it’s not likely that I shall run across any one I know well.  I only want to amuse myself for two or three evenings, and the West End’s a large place as far as amusement goes.”  Then I paused.  “If you really thought it was too risky,” I added carelessly, “I would give up the idea.”

It was a bold stroke—­but it met with the success that it deserved.  Any lingering doubts McMurtrie may have had about my intentions were apparently dispersed.