“I shan’t forget it,” I said gravely.  “I’ve got a very good memory.”

There was a shrill whistle from the engine, followed by a warning shout of “Stand back there, please; stand back, sir!” I had a last glimpse of Savaroff’s unpleasant face, as he hurriedly withdrew his head, and then with a slight jerk the train began to move slowly out of the station.

I didn’t open my papers at once.  For some time I just sat where I was in the corner and stared out contentedly over the passing landscape.  There is nothing like prison to broaden one’s ideas about pleasure.  Up till the time of my trial I had never looked on a railway journey as a particularly fascinating experience; now it seemed to me to be simply chock-full of delightful sensations.  The very names of the stations—­Totnes, Newton Abbot, Teignmouth—­filled me with a sort of curious pleasure:  they were part of the world that I had once belonged to—­the gay, free, jolly world of work and laughter that I had thought lost to me for ever.  I felt so absurdly contented that for a little while I almost forgot about George.

The only stop we made was at Exeter.  There were not many people on the platform, and I had just decided that I was not going to be disturbed, when suddenly a fussy-looking little old gentleman emerged from the booking office, followed by a porter carrying his bag.  They came straight for my carriage.

The old gentleman reached it first, and puckering up his face, peered in at me through the window.  Apparently the inspection was a success.

“This will do,” he observed.  “Leave my bag on the seat, and go and see that my portmanteau is safely in the van.  Then if you come back here I will give you threepence for your trouble.”

Dazzled by the prospect, the porter hurried off on his errand, and with a little grunt the old gentleman began to hoist himself in through the door.  I put out my hand to assist him.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” he remarked breathlessly.  “I am extremely obliged to you, sir.”

Then, gathering up his bag, he shuffled along the carriage, and settled himself down in the opposite corner.

I was quite pleased with the prospect of a fellow passenger, unexciting as this particular one promised to be.  I have either read or heard it stated that when people first come out of prison they feel so shy and so lost that their chief object is to avoid any sort of society at all.  I can only say that in my case this was certainly not true.  I wanted to talk to every one:  I felt as if whole volumes of conversation had been accumulating inside me during the long speechless months of my imprisonment.

It was the old gentleman, however, who first broke our silence.  Lowering his copy of the Times, he looked up at me over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

“I wonder, sir,” he said, “whether you would object to having that window closed; I am extremely susceptible to draughts.”