At the sight of that poisonous place all the old bitterness welled up in me afresh.  For a moment even my freedom seemed to have lost its sweetness, and I sat there with my hands clenched and black resentment in my heart, staring out of those grim unlovely walls.  It was lucky for George that he was not with me in the carriage just then, for I think I should have wrung his neck without troubling about any explanations.

I was awakened from these pleasant reflections by a sudden blare of light and noise on each side of the train.  I sat up abruptly, with a sort of guilty feeling that I had been on the verge of betraying myself, and letting down the window, found that we were steaming slowly into Paddington Station.  In the farther corner of the carriage my distinguished friend Sir George Frinton was beginning to collect his belongings.

I just had time to pull myself together when the train stopped, and out of the waiting line of porters a man stepped forward and flung open the carriage door.  He was about to possess himself of my fellow passenger’s bag when the latter waved him aside.

“You can attend to this gentleman,” he said.  “My own servant is somewhere on the platform.”  Then turning to me, he added courteously:  “I wish you good-day, sir.  I am pleased to have made your acquaintance.  I trust that we shall have the mutual pleasure of meeting again.”

I shook hands with him gravely.  “I hope we shall,” I replied.  “It will be a distinction that I shall vastly appreciate.”

And of all unconscious prophecies that were ever launched, I fancy this one was about the most accurate.

Preceded by the porter carrying my bag, I crossed the platform and stepped into a waiting taxi.

“Where to, sir?” inquired the man.

I had a sudden wild impulse to say:  “Drive me to George,” but I checked it just in time.

“You had better drive me slowly along Oxford Street,” I said.  “I want to stop at one or two shops.”

The man started the engine and, climbing back into his seat, set off with a jerk up the slope.  I lay back in the corner, and took in a long, deep, exulting breath.  I was in London—­in London at last—­and if those words don’t convey to you the kind of savage satisfaction that filled my soul you must be as deficient in imagination as a prison governor.

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN WITH THE SCAR

My shopping took me quite a little while.  There were a lot of things I wanted to get, and I saw no reason for hurrying—­especially as McMurtrie was paying for the taxi.  I stopped at Selfridge’s and laid in a small but nicely chosen supply of shirts, socks, collars, and other undergarments, and then, drifting slowly on, picked up at intervals some cigars, a couple of pairs of boots, and a presentable Homburg hat.