at the truth, you can be certain I’ll do it.  Don’t go and smash up all the rest of your life over this cursed business.  What does it matter if all the fools in England think you killed Marks?  He deserved to be killed anyway—­the swine!  Leave them to think, and clear off to some country where you can start fresh and fair again.  It doesn’t matter the least where you go to, you’re bound to come to the top.”

It was about the longest speech I had ever heard Tommy make, and certainly the most eloquent.  For a moment indeed I was almost tempted to take his advice.  Then the thought of George and all the complicated suffering that I had been through rose up like a wall across my mind.

“No,” I said firmly; “I’m damned if I’ll go.  I’ll see this out if it means the end of everything.”

As I spoke there came a sharp “ting” from the clock on the mantelpiece, and looking up I saw that it was half-past four.  “By Gad, Tommy,” I added, “I must go from here, though.  I’ve got to be back at Edith Terrace by five o’clock, or I shall miss this mysterious visitor.”

“You’re coming back here afterwards?” he asked.

I nodded.  “If I can.  I haven’t the least notion how long they’ll keep me, but I told Joyce I would come round and let you know what had happened.”

“Good,” said Tommy.  “Don’t be longer than you can help.  I’ll get in something to eat, and we’ll all have supper together—­you and I and Joyce, and then we can have a good jaw afterwards.  There are still tons of things I want to know about.”

He thrust his arm through mine and walked with me to the door of the flat.

“By the way, Thomas,” I said, “I suppose the police aren’t watching your place, just on the off-chance of my rolling up.  They must remember you were rather a particular pal of mine.”

“I don’t think so,” he answered.  “They may have had a man on when you first escaped, but if so he must have got fed up with the job by now.  Don’t you worry in any case.  Your guardian angel wouldn’t recognize you in that get up—­let alone a policeman.”

“If there’s any justice,” I said, “my guardian angel got the sack three years ago.”

With this irreverent remark, I shook his hand, and walking down the passage passed out on to the embankment.

Having a good two miles to cover and only five-and-twenty minutes to do it in, it struck me that driving would be the most agreeable method of getting home.  I hesitated for a moment between a taxi and a motor bus, deciding in favour of the latter chiefly from motives of sentiment.  I had not been on one since my arrest, and besides that the idea of travelling along the streets in open view of the British public rather appealed to me.  Since my interview with Tommy I was beginning to feel the most encouraging confidence in McMurtrie’s handiwork.