I was afforded no opportunity, however, for indulging in any such pleasant interlude.  We drove straight through the town at a rapid pace, avoiding the main thoroughfares as much as possible, and not slackening until we pulled up outside Millbay station.  We left the car in charge of a tired-looking loafer who was standing in the gutter, and taking out my bag, I followed Savaroff into the booking office.

“You had better wait there,” he muttered, pointing to the corner.  “I will get the ticket.”

I followed his suggestion, and while he took his place in the small queue in front of the window I amused myself watching my fellow passengers hurrying up and down the platform.  They looked peaceful enough, but I couldn’t help picturing what a splendid disturbance there would be if it suddenly came out that Neil Lyndon was somewhere on the premises.  The last time I had been in this station was on my way up to Princetown two and a half years before.

At last Savaroff emerged from the throng with my ticket in his hand.

“I have taken you a first-class,” he said rather grudgingly.  “You will probably have the carriage to yourself.  It is better so.”

I nodded.  “I shouldn’t like to infect any of these good people with homicidal mania,” I said cheerfully.

He looked at me rather suspiciously—­I think he always had a sort of vague feeling that I was laughing at him—­and then without further remark led the way out on to the platform.

McMurtrie had given me a sovereign and some loose silver for immediate expenses, and I stopped at the bookstall to buy myself some papers.  I selected a Mail, a Sportsman, Punch, and the Saturday Review.  I lingered over the business because it seemed to annoy Savaroff:  indeed it was not until he had twice jogged my elbow that I made my final selection.  Then, grasping my bag, I marched up the platform behind him, coming to a halt outside an empty first-class carriage.

“This will do,” he said, and finding no sound reason for contradicting him I stepped in and put my bag upon the rack.

“Good-bye, Savaroff,” I said cheerfully.  “I shall have the pleasure of seeing you too at Tilbury, I suppose?”

He closed the door, and thrust his head in through the open window.

“You will,” he said in his guttural voice; “and let me give you a little word of advice, my friend.  We have treated you well—­eh, but if you think you can in any way break your agreement with us you make a very bad mistake.”

I took out my cigarette case.  “My dear Savaroff,” I said coldly, “why on earth should I want to break my agreement with you?  It is the only possible chance I have of a new start.”

He looked at me closely, and then nodded his head.  “It is well.  So long as you remember we are not people to be played with, no harm will come to you.”

He let this off with such a dramatic air that I very nearly burst out laughing.