“Won’t your boy think there’s something odd in our lunching together like this?” I asked.  “He seems a pretty acute sort of youth.”

“Jack?” she said.  “Oh, Jack’s all right.  He was a model in Chelsea.  I took him away from his uncle, who used to beat him with a poker.  He doesn’t know anything about you, but if he did he would die for you cheerfully.  He’s by way of being rather grateful to me.”

“You always inspired devotion, Joyce,” I said, smiling.  “Do you remember how Tommy and I used to squabble as to which of us should eventually adopt you?”

She nodded, almost gravely; then with a sudden change back to her former manner, she made a step towards the inner room, pulling me after her.

“Come along,” she said.  “We’ll lunch in there.  It’s more cheerful than this, and anyway I want to see you in the daylight.”

I followed her in through the curtains, and found myself in a small, narrow room with a window which looked out on the back of Burlington Arcade.  A couple of chairs, a black oak gate-legged table, and a little green sofa made up the furniture.

Joyce took me to the window, and still holding my arm, made a second and even longer inspection of McMurtrie’s handiwork.

“It’s wonderful, Neil,” she said at last.  “You look fifteen years older and absolutely different.  No one could possibly recognize you except by the way you speak.”

“I’ve been practising that,” I said, altering my voice.  “I shouldn’t have given myself away if you hadn’t taken me by surprise.”

She smiled again happily.  “It’s so good to feel that you’re safe, even if it’s only for a few days.”  Then, letting go my arm, she crossed to the sofa.  “Come and sit down,” she went on.  “We’ve got to decide all sorts of things, and we shan’t have too much time.”

“I’ve told you my plans, Joyce,” I said, “such as they are.  I mean to go through with this business of McMurtrie’s, though I’m sure there’s something crooked at the bottom of it.  As for the rest—­” I shrugged my shoulders and sat down on the sofa beside her; “well, I’ve got the sort of hand one has to play alone.”

Joyce looked at me quietly and steadily.

“Neil,” she said; “do you remember that you once called me the most pig-headed infant in Chelsea?”

“Did I?” I said.  “That was rather rude.”

“It was rather right,” she answered calmly; “and I haven’t changed, Neil.  If you think Tommy and I are going to let you play this hand alone, as you call it, you are utterly and absolutely wrong.”

“Do you know what the penalties are for helping an escaped convict?” I asked.

She laughed contemptuously.  “Listen, Neil.  For three years Tommy and I have had no other idea except to get you out of prison.  Is it likely we should leave you now?”

“But what can you do, Joyce?” I objected.  “You’ll only be running yourselves into danger, and—­”