I kissed her tenderly.  “My Joyce,” I said, “I think you have got the bravest heart in the whole world.”

And with this true if rather inadequate remark I left her.

I had plenty to think about during my walk back to Victoria.  Exactly what result the sharing of my secret with Tommy and Joyce would have, it was difficult to forecast, but it opened up a disquieting field of possibilities.  Rather than get either of them into trouble I would cheerfully have thrown myself in front of the next motor bus, but if such an extreme course could be avoided I certainly had no wish to end my life in that or any other abrupt fashion until I had had the satisfaction of a few minutes’ quiet conversation with George.

I blamed myself to a certain extent for having given way to Joyce.  Still, I knew her well enough to be sure that if I had persisted in my refusal she would have stuck to her intention of trying to help me against my will.  That would only have made matters more dangerous for all of us, so on the whole it was perhaps best that I should go and see Tommy.  I had not the fainest doubt he would be anxious enough to help me himself if I would let him, but he would at least see the necessity for keeping Joyce out of the affair.  We ought to be able to manage her between us, though when I remembered the obstinate look in her eyes I realized that it wouldn’t be exactly a simple matter.

I stopped at a book-shop just outside Victoria, which I had noticed on the previous evening.  I wanted to order a copy of a book dealing with a certain branch of high explosives that I had forgotten to ask McMurtrie for, and when I had done that I took the opportunity of buying a couple of novels by Wells which had been published since I went to prison.  Wells was a luxury which the prison library didn’t run to.

With these tucked under my arm, and still pondering over the unexpected results of my chase after George, I continued my walk to Edith Terrace.  As I reached the house and thrust my key into the lock the door suddenly opened from the inside, and I found myself confronted by the apparently rather embarrassed figure of Miss Gertie ’Uggins.

“I ’eard you a-comin’,” she observed, rubbing one hand down her leg, “so I opened the door like.”

“That was very charming of you, Gertrude,” I said gravely.

She tittered, and then began to retreat slowly backwards down the passage.  “There’s a letter for you in the sittin’-room.  Come by the post after you’d gorn.  Yer want some tea?”

“I don’t mind a cup,” I said.  “I’ve been eating and drinking all day; it seems a pity to give it up now.”

“I’ll mike yer one,” she remarked, nodding her head.  “Mrs. Oldbury’s gorn out shoppin’.”

She disappeared down the kitchen stairs, and opening the door of my room I discovered the letter she had referred to stuck up on the mantelpiece.  I took it down with some curiosity.  It was addressed to James Nicholson, Esq., and stamped with the Strand postmark.  I did not recognize the writing, but common-sense told me that it could only be from McMurtrie or one of his crowd.