“Tommy was right,” she whispered.  “He said you’d do something wonderful.  I knew it too, but oh, Neil dear, I’ve suffered tortures wondering where you were and what had happened.”

Then, sitting up again and pushing back her hair, she began to ask me questions.

“These people—­Dr. McMurtrie and the others—­do you believe their story?”

“No,” I said bluntly.  “I am quite certain they were lying to me.”

“Why should they have helped you, then?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea,” I admitted.  “I am only quite sure that neither McMurtrie nor Savaroff are what they pretend to be.  Besides, you remember the hints that Sonia gave me.”

“Ah, Sonia!” Joyce looked down and played with one of the buttons of my coat.  “Is she—­is she very pretty?” she asked.

“She seems likely to be very useful,” I said.  Then, stroking Joyce’s soft curly hair, which had become all tousled against my shoulder, I added:  “But I’m answering questions when all the time I’m dying to ask them.  There are a hundred things you’ve got to tell me.  What are you doing here?  Why do you call yourself Miss Vivien?  Are you really living next door to Tommy?  And George—­how on earth do you come to be mixed up with George?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” she said, “only I must know all about you first.  Why were you following George?  You don’t mean to let him know who you are?  Oh, Neil, Neil, promise me that you won’t do that.”

“Joyce,” I said slowly, “I want to find out who killed Seton Marks.  I don’t suppose there is the least chance of my doing so, and if I can’t I most certainly mean to wring George’s neck.  That was chiefly what I broke out of prison for.”

“Yes, yes,” she said feverishly, “but there is a chance.  You’ll understand when I’ve explained.”  She put her hands to her forehead.  “Oh, I hardly know where to begin.”

“Begin anywhere,” I said.  “Tell me why you’re pretending to be a palmist.”

She got up from my knee and, walking slowly to the table, seated herself on the end.

“I wanted money,” she said; “and I wanted to meet one or two people who might be useful about you.”

“But I left eight hundred pounds for you with Tommy,” I exclaimed.  “You got that?”

She nodded.  “It’s in the bank now.  I have been keeping it in case anything happened.  You don’t suppose I was going to spend it?  How could I have helped you then even when I got the chance?”

“But, my dear Joyce,” I protested, “the money was for you.  And you couldn’t have helped me with it in any case.  I had plenty more waiting for me when my sentence was out.”

“When your sentence was out,” repeated Joyce fiercely.  “Do you think I was going to let you stop in prison till then!” She checked herself with an effort.  “I had better tell you everything from the beginning,” she said.  “I couldn’t write any more to you, because I was only allowed to send the two letters, and I knew both of them would be read by somebody.”