“Sonia!  Sonia!” Once more Savaroff’s voice rose impatiently from the hall.

In a moment Sonia had crossed the room.  I had one rapid vision of her looking back at me—­her lips parted her dark eyes shining passionately, and then the door closed and I was alone.

I sat down on the bed and took a long breath.  There was a time when an unexpected incident of this sort would merely have left me in a state of comfortable optimism, but a prolonged residence in Dartmoor had evidently shaken my nerve.

I soon collected myself, however, and lighting a cigarette with some care, got up and walked to the open window.  If Sonia was really in love with me—­and there seemed to be rather sound evidence that she was—­I had apparently, succeeded in making a highly useful ally.  This may appear to have been rather a cold-blooded way of regarding the matter, but to tell the truth the whole thing had taken me so utterly by surprise that I could scarcely realize as yet that I had been personally concerned in it.  I had kissed her certainly—­under the circumstances I could hardly have done otherwise—­but of any deliberate attempt to make her fond of me I was beautifully and entirely innocent, it had never struck me that an escaped murderer with an artificial and rather forbidding countenance was in danger of inspiring affection, especially in a girl whose manner had always been slightly suggestive of a merely sullen tolerance.  Still, having succeeded in doing so, I felt no qualms in making the best of the situation.  I needed friends rather badly, especially friends who had an intimate working acquaintance with the eminent firm of Messrs. McMurtrie and Savaroff.  If the not wholly disagreeable task of returning Sonia’s proffered affection was all that was necessary, I felt that it would be flying in the face of Providence to decline such an opportunity.  I was not the least in love with her—­except by a very generous interpretation of the word, but I did not think that this unfortunate fact would seriously disturb my conscience.  A life sentence for what you haven’t done is apt to rob one’s sense of honour of some of its more delicate points.

With a pleasant feeling that things were working for the best, I got up again; and hoisting the Gladstone bag on to the bed began to collect the books, the tooth-brush, and the few other articles which made up my present earthly possessions.

CHAPTER VIII

RT.  HON.  SIR GEORGE FRINTON, P.C.

That journey of mine to London stands out in my memory with 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.