"There are plenty of eggs," she said, "and there's some of that fish we had for breakfast." She answered curtly, almost rudely, looking at me while she spoke. Her manner gave me the impression that for some reason or other she and McMurtrie were not exactly on the best of terms.
If that was so, he himself betrayed no sign of it. "Either will do excellently," he said in his usual suave way, "or perhaps our young friend could manage both. I believe the Dartmoor air is most stimulating."
"I shall be vastly grateful for anything," I said, addressing the girl. "Whatever is the least trouble to cook."
She nodded and left the room without further remark—McMurtrie looking after her with what seemed like a faint gleam of malicious amusement.
"I have brought you yesterday'sDaily Mail," he said; "I thought it would amuse you to read the description of your escape. It is quite entertaining; and besides that there is a masterly little summary of your distinguished career prior to its unfortunate interruption." He laid the paper on the bed. "First of all, though," he added, "I will just look you over. I couldn't find much the matter with you last night, but we may as well make certain."
He made a short examination of my throat, and then, after feeling my pulse, tapped me vigorously all over the chest.
"Well," he said finally, "you have been through enough to kill two ordinary men, but except for giving you a slight cold in the head it seems to have done you good."
I sat up in bed. "Dr. McMurtrie," I said bluntly, "what does all this mean? Who are you, and why are you hiding me from the police?"
He looked down on me, with that curious baffling smile of his. "A natural and healthy curiosity, Mr. Lyndon," he said drily. "I hope to satisfy it after you have had something to eat. Till then—" he shrugged his shoulders—"well, I think you will find theDaily Mailexcellent company."
He left the room, closing the door behind him, and for a moment I lay there with an uncomfortable sense of being tangled up in some exceedingly mysterious adventure. Even such unusual people as Dr. McMurtrie and his friends do not as a rule take in and shelter escaped convicts purely out of kindness of heart. There must be a strong motive for them to run such a risk in my case, but what that motive could possibly be was a matter which left me utterly puzzled. So far as I could remember I had never seen any of the three before in my life.
I glanced round the room. It was a big airy apartment, with ugly old-fashioned furniture, and two windows, both of which looked out in the same direction. The pictures on the wall included an oleograph portrait of the late King Edward in the costume of an Admiral, a large engraving of Mr. Landseer's inevitable stag, and several coloured and illuminated texts. One of the latter struck me as being topical if a little inaccurate. It ran as follows:
Over the mantelpiece was a mirror in a mahogany frame. I gazed at it idly for a second, and then a sudden impulse seized me to get up and see what I looked like. I turned back the clothes and crawled out of bed. I felt shaky when I stood up, but my legs seemed to bear me all right, and very carefully I made my way across to the fireplace.
The first glance I took in the mirror gave me a shock that nearly knocked me over. A cropped head and three days' growth of beard will make an extraordinary difference in any one, but I would never have believed they could have transformed me into quite such an unholy-looking ruffian as the one I saw staring back at me out of the glass. If I had ever been conceited about my personal appearance, that moment would have cured me for good.
Satisfied with a fairly brief inspection I returned to the bed, and arranging the pillow so as to fit the small of my back, picked up theDaily Mail. I happened to open it at the centre page, and the big heavily leaded headlines caught my eyes straight away.
With a pleasant feeling of anticipation I settled down to read.
From our own Correspondent. Princetown.
Neil Lyndon, perhaps the most famous convict at present serving his sentence, succeeded yesterday in escaping from Princetown. At the moment of writing he is still at large.
He formed one of a band of prisoners who were returning from the quarries late in the afternoon. As the men reached the road which leads through the plantation to the main gate of the prison, one of the warders in charge was overcome by an attack of faintness. In the ensuing confusion, a convict of the name of Cairns, who was walking at the head of the gang, made a sudden bolt for freedom. He was immediately challenged and fired at by the Civil Guard.
The shot took partial effect, but failed for the moment to stop the runaway, who succeeded in scrambling off into the wood. He was pursued by the Civil Guard, and it was at that moment that Lyndon, who was in the rear of the gang, also made a dash for liberty.
He seems to have jumped the low wall which bounds the plantation, and although fired at in turn by another of the warders, apparently escaped injury.
Running up the hill through the trees, he reached the open slope of moor on the farther side which divides the plantation from the main wood. While he was crossing this he was seen from the roadway by that well-known horse-dealer and pigeon-shot, Mr. Alfred Smith of Shepherd's Bush, who happened to be on a walking tour in the district.
Mr. Smith, with characteristic sportsmanship, made a plucky attempt to stop him; but Lyndon, who had picked up a heavy stick in the plantation, dealt him a terrific blow on the head that temporarily stunned him. He then jumped the railings and took refuge in the wood.
The pursuing warders came up a few minutes later, but by this time a heavy mist was beginning to settle down over the moor, rendering the prospect of a successful search more than doubtful. The warders therefore surrounded the wood with the idea of preventing Lyndon's escape.
Taking advantage of the fog, however, the latter succeeded in slipping out on the opposite side. He was heard climbing the railings by Assistant-warder Conway, who immediately gave the alarm and closed with the fugitive. The other warders came running up, but just before they could reach the scene of the struggle Lyndon managed to free himself by means of a brutal kick, and darting into the fog disappeared from sight.
It is thought that he has made his way over North Hessary and is lying up in the Walkham Woods. In any case it is practically certain that he will not be at liberty much longer. It is impossible for him to get food except by stealing it from a cottage or farm, and directly he shows himself he is bound to be recaptured.
Considerable excitement prevails in the district, where all the inhabitants are keenly on the alert.
The escape of Neil Lyndon recalls one of the most famous crimes of modern days.
On the third of October four years ago, as most of our readers will remember, a gentleman named Mr. Seton Marks was found brutally murdered in his luxurious flat on the Chelsea Embankment. It was thought at first that the crime was the work of burglars, for Mr. Marks's rooms contained many art treasures of considerable value. A further examination, however, revealed the fact that nothing had been tampered with, and the next day the whole country was startled and amazed to learn that Neil Lyndon had been arrested on suspicion.
At the trial it was proved beyond question that the accused was the last person in the company of the murdered man. He had gone round to Mr. Marks's flat at four o'clock in the afternoon, and had apparently been admitted by the owner. Two hours later Mr. Marks's servant returning to the flat was horrified to find his master's dead body lying in the sitting-room. Death had been inflicted by means of a heavy blow on the back of the head, but the state of the dead man's face showed that he had been brutally mishandled before being killed.
The accused, while maintaining his innocence of the murder, did not deny either his visit to the flat, or the fact that he had inflicted the other injuries on the deceased. He declined to state the cause of their quarrel, but the defending counsel produced a witness in the person of Miss Joyce Aylmer, a young girl of sixteen, who was able to throw some light on the matter.
Miss Aylmer, a young lady of considerable beauty, stated that for about a year she had been working as an art student in Chelsea, and used occasionally to sit to artists for the head. On the afternoon before the murder she had had a professional engagement of this kind with Mr. Marks. There had been a visitor in the flat when she arrived, but he had left as soon as she came in. Subsequently, according to her statement, the deceased had acted towards her in an outrageous and disgraceful manner. She had escaped from his flat with difficulty, and had subsequently informed Mr. Lyndon of what had taken place.
In his re-examination, the accused admitted that it was on account of Miss Aylmer's statement he had visited the flat. Up till then, he declared, he had had no quarrel with the deceased.
This statement, however, was directly contradicted by Lyndon's partner, Mr. George Marwood. Giving his evidence with extreme reluctance, Mr. Marwood stated that for some time bad blood had undoubtedly existed between Mr. Marks and the accused. He added that in his own hearing on two separate occasions the latter had threatened to kill the deceased.
Pressed still further, he admitted meeting Mr. Lyndon in Chelsea on the night of the murder, when the latter had to all intents and purposes acknowledged his guilt.
On the evidence there could naturally be only one verdict, and Lyndon was found guilty and sentenced to death by Mr. Justice Owen.
A tremendous agitation in favour of his reprieve broke out at once. Apart from the peculiar circumstances under which the crime was committed, it was urged that Mr. Lyndon's services to the country as an inventor should be taken into consideration. Within twenty-four hours over a million people had signed a petition in his favour, and the following day His Majesty was pleased to commute the sentence to one of penal servitude for life.
There is little doubt, however, that Lyndon would have been released at the end of ten or twelve years.
Neil Lyndon is the only son of the well-known explorer Colonel Grant Lyndon, who perished on the Upper Amazon some fifteen years ago. He was educated at Haileybury, and Oriel College, Oxford, where he took the highest honours in chemistry and mathematics. Coming down, he entered into partnership with his cousin Mr. George Marwood, and between them the two young inventors met with early and remarkable success. Their greatest achievement was of course the construction of the Lyndon-Marwood automatic torpedo, which was taken up four years ago, after exhaustive tests, by the British Government.
Lyndon is a man of exceptionally powerful physique. He successfully represented Oxford as a heavy-weight boxer in his last term, and the following year was runner up in the Amateur Championship. He is also a fine long-distance swimmer, and a well-known single-handed yachtsman.
Mr. George Marwood, whose painful position in connection with the trial aroused considerable sympathy, has carried on the business alone since his partner's conviction. Quite recently, as our readers will recall, he was the victim of a remarkable outrage at his offices in Victoria Street. While he was working there by himself late at night, a couple of masked men broke into the building, bound and gagged him, and proceeded to ransack the safe. It is said that they secured plans and documents of considerable value, but owing to the non-arrest of the thieves the exact details have never come to light.
So ended theDaily Mail.
I finished reading, and taking a long breath, laid down the paper. Up till then I had heard nothing about the news contained in the last paragraph, and it sent my memory back at once to the big well-lighted room in Victoria Street where George and I had spent so many hours together. I wondered what the valuable "plans and documents" might be which the thieves were supposed to have secured. In my day we had always been pretty careful about what we left at the office, and any really important plans—such as those of the Lyndon-Marwood torpedo—were invariably kept at the safe deposit across the street.
From George and the office my thoughts drifted away over the whole of that crowded time referred to in the paper. Brief and bald as the narrative was, it brought up before me a dozen vivid memories, which jostled each other simultaneously in my mind. I saw again poor little Joyce's tear-stained face, and remembered the shuddering relief with which she had clung to me as she sobbed out her story. I could recall the cold rage in which I had set out for Marks's flat, and that first savage blow of mine that sent him reeling and crashing into one of his own cabinets.
Then I was in court again, and George was giving his evidence—the lying evidence that had been meant to send me to the gallows. I remembered the cleverly assumed reluctance with which he had apparently allowed his statements to be dragged from him, and my blood rose hot in my throat as I thought of his treachery.
Above all I seemed to see the fat red face of Mr. Justice Owen, with the ridiculous little three-cornered black cap above it. He had been very cut up about sentencing me to death, had poor old Owen, and I could almost hear the broken tones in which he had faltered out the words:
"… taken from the place where you now stand to the place whence you came—hanged by the neck until your body be dead—and may God have mercy on your soul."
At this cheerful point in my reminiscences I was suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
With a big effort I pulled myself together. "Come in," I called out.
The door opened, and the girl, Sonia, entered the room. She was carrying a tray, which she set down on the top of the chest of drawers.
"I don't know the least how to thank you for all this," I said.
She turned round and looked at me curiously from under her dark eyebrows.
"For all what?" she asked.
"This," I repeated, waving my hand towards the tray, "and the hot bath last night, and incidentally my life. If it hadn't been for you and Dr. McMurtrie I think my 'career,' as theDaily Mailcalls it, would be pretty well finished by now."
She stood where she was, her hand on her hip, her eyes fixed on my face.
"Do you know why we are helping you?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I haven't the faintest notion," I answered frankly. "It certainly can't be on account of the charm of my appearance. I've just been looking at myself in the glass."
She shrugged her shoulders half impatiently. "What does a man's appearance matter? You can't expect to break out of Dartmoor in a frock-coat."
"No," I replied gravely; "there must always be a certain lack of dignity about such a proceeding. Still, when one looks like—well, like an escaped murderer, it's all the more surprising that one should be so hospitably received."
She picked up the tray again, and brought it to my bedside.
"Oh!" she said; "I shouldn't build too much upon our hospitality if I were you."
I took the tray from her hands. "I would build upon yours to any extent," I said; "but I am under no illusion whatever about Dr. McMurtrie's disinterestedness. He and your father—it is your father, isn't it?—are coming up to explain matters as soon as I have had something to eat."
She stood silent for a moment, her brows knitted in a frown.
"They mean you no harm," she said at last, "as long as you will do what they want." Then she paused. "Did you murder that man Marks?" she asked abruptly.
I swallowed down my first mouthful of fish. "No," I said; "I only knocked him about a bit. He wasn't worth murdering."
She stared at me as if she was trying to read my thoughts.
"Is that true?" she said.
"Well," I replied, "he was alive enough when I left him, judging from his language."
"Then why did your partner—Mr. Marwood—why did he say that you had done it?"
"That," I said softly, "is a little question which George and I have got to discuss together some day."
She walked to the door and then turned.
"If a man I had trusted and worked with behaved like that to me," she said slowly, "I should kill him."
I nodded my approval of the sentiment. "I daresay it will come to that," I said; "the only thing is one gets rather tired of being sentenced to death."
She gave me another long, curious glance out of those dark brown eyes of hers, and then going out, closed the door behind her.
For an exceedingly busy and agreeable quarter of an hour I occupied myself with the contents of the tray. There was some very nicely grilled whiting, a really fresh boiled egg, a jar of honey, and a large plate of brown bread and butter cut in sturdy slices. Best of all, on the edge of the tray were a couple of McMurtrie's cigarettes. Whether he or Sonia was responsible for this last attention I could not say. I hoped it was Sonia: somehow or other I did not want to be too much indebted to Dr. McMurtrie.
I finished my meal—finished it in the most complete sense of the phrase—and then, putting down my tray on the floor, reverently lighted up. I found that my first essay in smoking on the previous evening had in no way dulled the freshness of my enjoyment, and for a few minutes I was content to lie there pleasantly indifferent to everything except the flavour of the tobacco.
Then my mind began to work. Sonia's questions had once again started a train of thought which ever since the trial had been running through my brain with maddening persistence. If I had not killed Marks, who had? How often had I asked myself that during the past three years, and how often had I abandoned the problem in utter weariness! Sometimes, indeed, I had been almost tempted to think the jury must have been right—that I must have struck the brute on the back of the head without realizing in my anger what I was doing. Then, when I remembered how I had left him crouching against the wall, spitting out curses at me through his cut and bleeding lips, I knew that the idea was nonsense. The wound which they found in his head must have killed him instantly. No man who had received a blow like that would ever speak or move again.
The one thing I felt certain of was that in some mysterious way or other George was mixed up in the business. It was incredible that he could have acted as he did at the trial unless he had had some stronger reason than mere dislike for me. That he did dislike me I knew well, but my six years' association with him had taught me that he would never allow any personal motive to interfere with a chance of making money. By sending me to the gallows or into penal servitude he was practically ruining himself, for with all his acuteness and business knowledge he was quite deficient in any sort of inventive power. And yet he had not hesitated to do it, and to do it by a piece of lying sufficiently cold-blooded and deliberate to make Judas pale with envy.
If there had been any apparent chance of his being able to rob me by the proceeding, I could have understood it. But my business interests as far as past inventions went were safe in the hands of my lawyers, and although I had told him a certain amount about the new explosive which I had been working at, it was quite impossible for him to turn it to any practical use.
No, George must have had some other reason for perjuring his unpleasant soul, and the only one I could think of was that he had purposely turned the case against me in order to shield the real murderer. He had been fairly well acquainted with the dead man, I knew—their tastes indeed ran on somewhat similar lines—and it was just possible that he was aware who had committed the crime.
The thought filled me, as it always had filled me, with a bitter fury. Again and again in my cell I had fancied myself escaping from the prison and choking the truth out of my cousin's throat with my fingers, and now that the first part of this picture had come true, I vowed silently to myself that nothing should stop the remainder from following it. Whatever McMurtrie might propose, I would see George once again face to face, even if death or recapture was the price I had to pay.
I had just arrived at this conclusion when I heard the sound of footsteps in the passage outside. Then the handle of the door turned, and McMurtrie appeared on the threshold with Savaroff looming up behind him. There was a moment's silence, while the doctor stood there smiling down on me as blandly as ever.
"May we come in?" he inquired. "We are not interrupting your tea, I hope."
"No, I have done tea, thank you," I said, with a gesture towards the tray.
Why it was so, I can't say, but McMurtrie's politeness always filled me with a feeling of repulsion. There was something curiously sinister about it.
He stepped forward into the room, followed by Savaroff, who closed the door behind him. The latter then lounged across and sat down on the window-sill, McMurtrie remaining standing by my bedside.
"You have read theMail, I see," he said, picking up the paper. "I hope you admired the size of the headlines."
"It's the type of compliment," I replied, "that I have had rather too much of."
Savaroff broke out into a short gruff laugh. "Our friend," he said, "is modest—so modest. He does not thirst for more fame. He would retire into private life if they would let him."
He chuckled to himself, as though enjoying the subtlety of his own humour. Unlike his daughter, he spoke English with a distinctly foreign accent.
"Ah, yes," said Dr. McMurtrie amiably; "but then, Mr. Lyndon is one of those people that we can't afford to spare. Talents such as his are intended for use." He took off his glasses and began to polish them thoughtfully. "One might almost say that he held them in trust—in trust for Providence."
There was a short silence.
"And is it on account of my talents that you have been kind enough to shelter me?" I asked bluntly.
The doctor readjusted his pince-nez, and seated himself with some deliberation on the foot of the bed.
"The instinct to assist a hunted fellow-creature," he observed, "is almost universal." Then he paused. "I take it, Mr. Lyndon, that you are not particularly anxious to rejoin your friends in Princetown?"
I shook my head. "Not if there is a more pleasant alternative."
Savaroff grunted. "No alternative is likely to be more unpleasant for you," he said harshly.
The touch of bullying in his tone put my back up at once. "Indeed!" I said: "I can imagine several."
McMurtrie's smooth voice intervened. "But ours, Mr. Lyndon, is one which I think will make a very special appeal to you. How would you like to keep your freedom and at the same time take up your scientific work again?"
I looked at him closely. For once there was no trace of mockery in his eyes.
"I should like it very much indeed, if it was possible," I answered.
McMurtrie leaned forward a little. "It is possible," he said quietly.
There was a short pause. Savaroff pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and spat it into the fireplace. Then he reached sideways to the chest of drawers for a match.
"Explain to him," he said, jerking his head towards me.
McMurtrie glanced at him—it seemed to me a shade impatiently. Then he turned back to me.
"For some time before Mr. Marks's unfortunate death," he said slowly, "you had been experimenting with a new explosive."
I nodded my head. I had no idea how he had got his information, for as far as I was aware George was the only person who had any knowledge of my secret.
"And I believe you were just on the point of success when you were arrested?"
"Theoretically I was," I said. "These matters don't always work out quite so well when you put them to a practical test."
"Still, you yourself were quite satisfied with the prospects?"
I nodded again.
"And unless I am wrong, this new explosive will be immensely more powerful than anything now in use?"
"Immensely," I repeated; "in fact, there would be no practical comparison between them."
"Can you give me any idea as to its strength?"
I hesitated. "According to my calculations," I said slowly, "it ought to prove at least twenty times as powerful as gun-cotton."
Savaroff uttered a hoarse exclamation and sat upright in his seat.
"Are you speaking the truth?" he asked roughly.
I stared him full in the face, and then without answering turned back to McMurtrie.
The latter made a gesture with his hand. "Leave the matter to me, Savaroff," he said sharply. "I understand Mr. Lyndon better than you do." Then addressing me: "Supposing you had all the things that you required, how long would it take you to manufacture some of this powder—or whatever it is?"
"It's difficult to say," I answered. "Perhaps a week; perhaps a couple of months. I could make the actual stuff at once provided I had the materials, but it's a question of doing it in such a way that one can handle it safely for practical purposes. I was experimenting on that very point at the time of my arrest."
McMurtrie nodded his head slowly. "You have been candid with us," he said, "and now I will be equally candid with you. My friend M. Savaroff and myself are very largely interested in the manufacture of high explosives. The appearance of an invention like yours on the market would be a very serious matter indeed for us. On the other hand, if we had control of it, we should, I imagine, be in a position to dictate our own terms."
"You certainly would," I said; "there is no question about that. My explosive would be no more expensive to manufacture than cordite."
"So you see when some exceedingly convenient chance brought you in through our kitchen window it naturally occurred to me to invite you to stay and discuss the matter. You happen to be in a position in which you could be useful to us, and I think that we, on the other hand, might be of some assistance to you."
He leant back and watched me with that cold smile of his.
"What do you say, Mr. Lyndon?" he added.
I did some rapid but necessary thinking. It was quite true that the new explosive would knock the bottom out of the present methods of manufacture, and McMurtrie's interests in the matter might well be large enough to make him run the risk of helping me. There seemed no reason to doubt that he was speaking the truth—and yet, somehow or other I mistrusted him—mistrusted him from my soul.
"How did you know about my experiments?" I asked quietly.
He shrugged his shoulders. "There are such things as trade secrets. It is necessary for a business man to keep in touch with anything that may threaten his interests."
I hesitated a second. "What is it that you propose—exactly?" I inquired.
I saw—or thought I saw—the faintest possible gleam of satisfaction steal into his eyes.
"I propose that you should finish your experiments as soon as possible, make some of this explosive, and hand the actual stuff and the full secret of its manufacture over to us. In return I will guarantee you your freedom, and let you have a quarter interest in all profits we make out of your invention."
He brought out these somewhat startling terms as coolly as though it were an every-day custom of his to do business with escaped convicts. I bent down from the bed, and under cover of picking up my second cigarette from the tray, secured a few useful moments for considering the situation.
"I have no objection to the bargain," I said slowly, helping myself to a match off the table; "the only question is whether it is possible to carry it out. My experiments aren't the kind that can be conducted in a back bedroom. I should want a large shed of some kind, and the farther away it was from any houses the better. There is always the chance of blowing oneself up at this sort of business, and in that case an explosive like mine would probably wreck everything within a couple of miles."
"You shall work under any conditions you please," said McMurtrie amiably. "If it suits you we will fix you up a hut and some sheds down on the Thames marshes, and you can live there till the experiments are finished."
"But I should be recognized," I objected. "I am bound to be recognized. I am fairly well known as it is, and with my picture and description placarded all over England, I shouldn't stand a dog's chance. However lonely a place it was, some one would be bound to see me and give me away sooner or later."
McMurtrie shook his head. "You may be seen," he said, "but there is no reason why you should be recognized."
I paused in the act of lighting my cigarette. "What do you mean?" I asked with some curiosity.
"My dear Mr. Lyndon," said McMurtrie, courteously, "as a scientist yourself you don't imagine that it's beyond the art of an intelligent surgeon to cope with a little difficulty like that?"
"But in what way?" I objected. "A disguise? Any one can see through a disguise except in novels."
The doctor smiled. "I am not suggesting a wig and a pair of spectacles," he observed. "It is rather too late in the world's history for that sort of thing." Then he stopped and studied me for an instant attentively. "In a fortnight, and practically without hurting you," he added, "I can make you as safe from the police as if you were dead and buried."
I sat up in bed. "Under the circumstances," I said, "you'll excuse my being a little inquisitive."
"Oh, there is no secret about it. Any surgeon could do it. I have only to alter the shape of your nose a trifle, and make your forehead rather higher and wider. A stain of some sort will do the rest."
"Yes," I said; "but what about the first part of the programme?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Child's play," he answered. "Merely a question of paraffin injections and the X-rays."
He spoke with such careless confidence that for once it was impossible to doubt his sincerity.
I lay back again and drew in a large exulting lungful of cigarette smoke. I had suddenly realized that if McMurtrie's offer was genuine, and he could really do what he promised, there were no longer any difficulties in the way of my getting at George. The idea of meeting him, and perhaps even speaking to him, without his being able to recognize me filled me with a wicked satisfaction that no words can do justice to.
I don't think I betrayed my emotion, however, for McMurtrie's keen eyes were on me, and I was not in the least anxious to take him into my confidence. I blew out the smoke in a grey cloud, and then, raising myself on my elbow carefully flicked the ash off my cigarette.
"How am I to know that you will keep your promise?" I asked.
Savaroff made an angry movement, but before he could speak, McMurtrie had broken in.
"You forget what an embarrassing position we shall be putting ourselves in, Mr. Lyndon," he said with perfect good temper. "Shielding a runaway convict is an indictable offence—to say nothing of altering his appearance. As for the money"—he made a little gesture of contempt—"well, do you think it would pay us to cheat you? There is always the chance that a gentleman who can invent things like this explosive and the Lyndon-Marwood torpedo may have other equally satisfactory notions."
"Very well," I said quietly. "I will accept the offer on one condition—that I can have a week in London before beginning work."
With an oath Savaroff started up from the window-sill.
"Gott in Himmel! and who are you to make terms?" he exclaimed roughly. "Why, we have only to send you back to the prison and you will be flogged like a dog!"
"In which distressing event," I observed, "you would not get your explosive."
"My dear Savaroff," interrupted McMurtrie, soothingly, "there is no need to threaten Mr. Lyndon. I am sure that he appreciates the situation." Then he turned to me. "I suppose you have some reason for making this condition?"
Silently in my heart I invoked the shade of Ananias.
"If you had been in Dartmoor three years," I said, with a rather well-forced laugh, "you would find several excellent reasons for wanting a week in London."
My acting must have been good, for I could have sworn I saw a faint expression of relieved contempt flicker across McMurtrie's face.
"I see. A little holiday—a brief taste of the pleasures of liberty! Well, that seems to me a very natural and reasonable request. What do you think, Savaroff?"
That gentleman contented himself with a singularly ungracious grunt.
"I don't think there would be much risk about it," I said boldly. "If you can change my appearance as completely as you say you can, no one would be the least likely to recognize me. After three years of that dog's life up there I can't settle down in a hut on the Thames marshes without having a few days' fun first. I should be very careful what I did naturally. I have had quite enough of the prison to appreciate being outside."
McMurtrie nodded. "Very well," he said slowly. "I see no objection to your having your 'few days' fun' in London if you want them. It would be safer perhaps to get you away from this house as soon as possible. I should think three weeks would be quite enough for our purposes here—and I daresay it will take us a month to fix up a satisfactory place for you to work in." Then he paused. "Of course if you go to town," he added, "you will have to stay at some address we shall arrange for, and you will have to be ready to start work directly we tell you to."
"Naturally," I said; "I only want—"
I was saved from finishing my falsehood by a sudden sound from outside—the sound of a swing gate banging against its post. For a moment I had a horrible feeling that it might be the police.
Savaroff jumped up and looked out of the window. Then with a little guttural exclamation he turned back to McMurtrie.
"Hoffman!" he muttered, apparently in some surprise.
Who Mr. Hoffman might be I had not the faintest notion, but the mention of the name brought the doctor to his feet at once. I think he was rather annoyed with Savaroff for being unnecessarily communicative. When he spoke, however, it was with his usual perfect composure.
"Well, we will leave you at peace now, Mr. Lyndon. I should try to go to sleep again for a little while if I were you. I will come up later and see whether you would like some supper." He stopped and looked round the room. "Is there anything else you want that you haven't got?"
"If you could advance me a box of cigarettes," I said, "it shall be the first charge on the new explosive."
He nodded, smiling. "I will send Sonia up with it," he answered. Then, following Savaroff, he went out into the passage, carefully closing the door after him.
Left alone, I lay back on the pillow in a frame of mind which I believe novelists describe as "chaotic." I had expected something rather unusual from my interview with McMurtrie, but these proposals of his could hardly be classed under such a mild heading as that. For sheer unexpectedness they about took the biscuit.
I had read in books of a man's appearance being altered so completely that even his best friends failed to recognize him, but it had never occurred to me that such a thing could be done in real life—let alone in the simple fashion outlined by the doctor. Of course, if he was speaking the truth, there seemed no reason why his plan, fantastic as it might sound, should not turn out perfectly successful. A private hut on the Thames marshes was about the last place in which you would look for an escaped Dartmoor convict, especially when he had vanished into thin air within a few miles of Devonport.
What worried me most in the matter was my apparent good luck in having fallen on my feet in this amazing fashion. There is a limit to one's belief in coincidences, and the extraordinary combination of chances suggested by McMurtrie's smooth explanations was just a little too stiff for me to swallow. I felt sure that he was lying in some important particulars—but precisely which they were I was unable to guess for certain.
That he wanted the secret of the new explosive, and wanted it badly, there could be no doubt, but neither he nor Savaroff in the least suggested to me a successful manufacturer of cordite or anything else. They seemed to me to belong to a much more interesting if less conventional type, and I couldn't help wondering what on earth such a curious trio as they and Sonia could be doing tucked away in an ill-furnished, deserted-looking country house in a corner of South Devon.
However it was no good worrying, for as far as I was concerned it was painfully clear that there was no alternative. If I declined their offer and refused to let McMurtrie carve my face about, they had only to turn me out, and in a few hours I should probably be back in my cell with the cheerful prospect of chains, a flogging, and six months' semi-starvation in front of me.
Anything was better than that—even the wildest of plunges in the dark. Indeed I am not at all sure that the mystery that surrounded McMurtrie's offer did not lend it a certain charm in my eyes. My life had been so infernally dull for the last three years that the prospect of a little excitement, even of an unpleasant kind, was by no means wholly disagreeable.
At least I had my week's "fun" in London to look forward to, and the thought of that alone would have been quite enough to make me go through with anything. I had lied to McMurtrie about my object, but the falsehood, such as it was, did not sit very heavily on my conscience. The precise meaning of "fun" is purely a matter of opinion, and I was as much entitled to my definition as he was to his. After all, if a convicted murderer can't be a little careless about the exact truth, who the devil can?
McMurtrie had left me under the impression that he meant to start work on my face the next day, but as it turned out the impression was a mistaken one. Both the paraffin wax and the X-ray outfit had to be procured from London, and according to Sonia it was to see about these that her father went off to town early the following morning. She told me this when she brought me up my breakfast, just after I had heard the car drive away from the house.
"Well, I suppose I had better get up too," I said. "I can't stop in bed and be waited on by you."
"You've got to," she replied curtly, "unless you would rather I sent up Mrs. Weston."
"Who's Mrs. Weston?" I inquired.
Sonia placed the tray on my bed. "She's our housekeeper. She's deaf and dumb."
"There are worse things," I observed, "in a housekeeper." Then I sat up and pulled my breakfast towards me. "Of course I would much rather you looked after me. I was only thinking of the trouble I'm giving you."
"Oh, it's not much trouble," she said; then after a little pause she added, in a rather curious voice: "Anyway I shouldn't mind if it was."
"But I am feeling perfectly fit this morning," I persisted. "I might just as well get up if your father would lend me some kit. I don't think I could squeeze into McMurtrie's."
She shook her head. "The doctor says you are to stop where you are. He is coming up to see you." Then she hesitated. "One of the prison warders called here last night to warn us that you were probably hiding in the neighbourhood."
"That was kind," I said, "if a little belated. Had they found the bicycle?"
"No," she answered, "and they are not likely to. My father went out and brought it in the night you arrived. It's buried in the back garden."
There was another short silence, and then she seated herself on the foot of the bed. "Tell me," she said, "this girl—Joyce Aylmer—do you love her?"
The question came out so unexpectedly that it took me by utter surprise. I stopped in the middle of conveying a piece of bacon to my mouth and laid it down again on the plate.
"Why, Joyce is only a child," I said; "at least she was when I went to prison. We were all in love with her in a sort of way. Her father had been an artist in Chelsea before he died, and we looked on her as a kind of general trust. She used to run in and out of the various studios just as she pleased. That was the reason I was so furious with Marks. It was impossible to believe that a man who wasn't an absolute fiend could—" I pulled up short in some slight embarrassment.
"But she is not a child now," remarked Sonia calmly. "According to the paper she must be nineteen."
"Yes," I said, "I suppose people grow older even when I'm in prison."
"And she loves you—she must love you. Do you think any woman could help loving a man who had done what you did for her?"
"Oh, I expect she has forgotten all about me long ago," I said with a sudden bitterness. "People who go to prison can't expect to be remembered—except by the police."
I had spoken recklessly, and even while the words were on my tongue a vision of Joyce's honest blue eyes rose reproachfully in my mind. I remembered the terrible heartbroken little note which she had sent me after the trial, and then her other letter which I had received in Dartmoor—almost more pitiful in its brave attempt to keep hope and interest alive in my heart.
Sonia leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap.
"I thought," she said slowly, "I thought that perhaps you wanted to go to London in order to meet her."
I shook my head. "I am not quite so selfish as that. I have brought her enough trouble and unhappiness already."
"Then it is your cousin that you mean to see," she said softly—"this man, Marwood, who sent you to the prison."
For a second I was silent. It had suddenly occurred to me that in asking these questions Sonia might be acting under the instructions of McMurtrie or her father.
She saw my hesitation and evidently guessed the cause.
"Oh, you needn't think I shall repeat what you tell me," she broke out almost scornfully. "The doctor and my father are quite capable of taking care of themselves. They don't want me to act as their spy."
There was a genuine ring of dislike in her voice as she mentioned their names which made me believe that she was speaking the truth.
"Well," I said frankly, "I was thinking of looking up George just to see how he has been getting on in my absence. But apart from that I have every intention of playing straight with McMurtrie. It seems to me to be my only chance."
A bell tinkled faintly somewhere away in the house, and Sonia got up off the bed.
"Itisyour only chance," she said quietly, "but it may be a better one than you imagine."
And with this encouraging if somewhat obscure remark she went out and left me to my thoughts.
McMurtrie came up about an hour later. Suave and courteous as ever, he knocked at my door before entering the room, and wished me good morning in the friendliest of fashions.
"I have brought you anotherDaily Mail—yesterday's," he said, throwing the paper down on the bed. "It contains the second instalment of your adventures." Then he paused and looked at me with that curious smile that seemed to begin and end with his lips. "Well," he added, "and how are the stiffness and the sore throat this morning?"
"Gone," I said, "both of them. I have no excuse for stopping in bed except lack of clothes."
He nodded and sat down on the window-sill. "I daresay we can find a way out of that difficulty. My friend Savaroff would, I am sure, be delighted to lend you some garments to go on with. You seem to be much of a size."
"Well, I should be delighted to accept them," I said. "Even the joy of being in a real bed again begins to wear off after two days."
"I am afraid you can't expect very much liberty while you are our guest," he said, leaning back against the window. "It would be too dangerous for you to go outside the house, even at night time. I expect Sonia told you about our visitor yesterday."
"Yes," I said; "I should like to have heard the interview."
"It was quite interesting. From what he told me I should say that few prisoners have been more missed than you are. It appears that there are over seventy warders hunting about the neighbourhood, to say nothing of volunteers."
"I seem to be giving a lot of trouble," I said sadly.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Not to us. I am only sorry that we can't offer you a more entertaining visit." He opened his case and helped himself to a cigarette. "On the whole, however, I daresay you won't find the time drag so very much. There will be the business of altering your appearance—I hope to start on that the day after tomorrow—and then I want you to make me out a full list of everything you will need in connection with your experiments. It would be best perhaps to have a drawing of the actual shed—just as you would like it fitted up. You might start on this right away."
"Certainly," I said. "I shall be glad to have something to do."
"And I don't suppose you will mind much if we can't arrange anything very luxurious for you in the way of living accommodation. We shall have to choose as lonely a place as possible, and it will probably involve your feeding chiefly on tinned food, and roughing it a bit generally. It won't be for very long."
"I shan't mind in the least," I said. "Anything will be comfortable after Princetown. As long as you can fix me up with what I want for my work I shan't grumble about the rest."
He nodded again in a satisfied manner. "By the way," he said, "I suppose you never wore a beard or a moustache before you went to prison?"
"Only once in some amateur theatricals," I answered "and then the moustache came off."
"They will make a great difference in your appearance by themselves," he went on, looking at me critically. "I wonder how long they will take to grow."
I passed my hand up my face, which was already covered with a thick stubble about half an inch in length. "At the present rate of progress," I said, "I should think about a week."
McMurtrie smiled. "Another fortnight on top of that will be nearer the mark, I expect," he said, getting up from the bed. "That will just fit in with our arrangements. In three weeks we ought to be able to fix you up with what you want, and by that time there won't be quite so much excitement about your escape. TheDaily Mailwill have become tired of you, even if the police haven't." He stopped to flick the ash off his cigarette. "Of course you will have to be extremely careful when you are in London. I shall change your appearance so that it will be quite impossible for any one to recognize you, but there will always be the danger of somebody remembering your voice."
"I can disguise that to a certain extent," I said. "Besides, it's not likely that I shall run across any one I know well. I only want to amuse myself for two or three evenings, and the West End's a large place as far as amusement goes." Then I paused. "If you really thought it was too risky," I added carelessly, "I would give up the idea."
It was a bold stroke—but it met with the success that it deserved. Any lingering doubts McMurtrie may have had about my intentions were apparently dispersed.
"I think you will work all the better for a short holiday," he said; "and I am sure you are sensible enough to keep out of any trouble."
He walked to the door, and stood for a moment with his hand on the knob. "I will send you up the clothes and some paper and ink," he added. "Then you can get up or write in bed—just as you like."
After three years of granite quarrying—broken only by a short spell of sewing mailsacks—the thought of getting back to a more congenial form of work was a decidedly pleasant one. During the half-hour that elapsed before Sonia came up with my things, I lay in bed, busily pondering over various points in connection with my approaching task. I had often done the same in the long solitary hours in my cell, and worked out innumerable figures and details in connection with it on my prison slate. Most of them, however, I had only retained vaguely in my head, for it is one of the intelligent rules of our cheerful convict system to allow no prisoner to make permanent notes of anything that might be of possible service to him after his release.
There seemed, therefore, every prospect that I should be fully occupied for some time to come. Indeed, it was not until I had dressed myself in Savaroff's clothes (they fitted me excellently) and sat down at the table with a pen and a pile of foolscap in front of me, that I realized what a lengthy task I had taken on.
All my rough notes—those invaluable notes and calculations that I had spent eighteen months over—were packed away in my safe at the Victoria Street office. I had not bothered about them at the time, for when you are being tried for your life other matters are apt to assume a certain degree of unimportance. Besides, although I had told George of their existence, I knew very well that, being jotted down in a private cypher, no one except myself would be able to make head or tail of what they were about.
Still they would naturally have been of immense help to me now if I could have got hold of them. Clear as the main details were in my mind, I saw I should have to go over a good bit of old ground before I could make out the exact list of my requirements which McMurtrie needed.
All that afternoon and the whole of the following day I stuck steadily to my task. I had little to interrupt me, for with the exception of Sonia who brought me up my meals, and the old deaf-and-dumb housekeeper who came to do my room about midday, I saw or heard nobody. McMurtrie did not appear again, and Savaroff, as I knew, was away in London.
I took an hour off in the evening for the purpose of studying theDaily Mail, which proved to be quite as entertaining as the previous issue. There were two and a half columns about me altogether, the first consisting of a powerful if slightly inaccurate description of how I had stolen the bicycle, and the remainder dealing with various features of my crime and my escape. It was headed:
and I settled myself down to read with a feeling of enjoyment that would doubtless have gratified Lord Northcliffe had he been fortunate enough to know about it.
"Neil Lyndon," it began, "whose daring escape from Princetown was fully described in yesterday'sDaily Mail, has so far successfully baffled his pursuers. Not only is he still at liberty, but having possessed himself of a bicycle and a change of clothes by means of an amazingly audacious burglary, it is quite possible that he has managed to get clear away from the immediate neighbourhood."
This opening paragraph was followed by a full and vivid description of my raid on the bicycle house. It appeared that the machine which I had borrowed was the property of a certain Major Hammond, who, when interviewed by the representative of theMail, expressed himself of the opinion that I was a dangerous character and that I ought to be recaptured without delay.
The narrative then shifted to my dramatic appearance on the bicycle, as witnessed by the surprised eyes of Assistant-warder Marshfield. According to that gentleman I had flashed past him at a terrific speed, hurling a handful of gravel in his face, which had temporarily blinded him. With amazing pluck and presence of mind he had recovered himself in time to puncture my back wheel, a feat of marksmanship which, as theDaily Mailobserved, was "highly creditable under the circumstances."
From that point it seemed that all traces of me had ceased. Both I and the bicycle had vanished into space as completely as Elijah and his fiery chariot, and not all the united brains of Carmelite House appeared able to suggest a wholly satisfactory solution.
"Lyndon," said theMail, "may have succeeded in reaching Plymouth on the stolen machine, and there obtained the food and shelter of which by that time he must have been sorely in need. On the other hand it is possible that, starved, frozen, and most likely wounded, he is crouching in some remote coppice, grimly determined to perish rather than to surrender himself to the warders."
It was "possible," certainly, but as a guess at the truth that was about all that could be said for it.
The thing that pleased me most in the whole paper, however, was the interview with George in the third column. It was quite short—only a six-line paragraph headed "Mr. Marwood and the Escape," but brief as it was, it filled me with a rich delight.
"Interviewed by our Special Correspondent at his residence on the Chelsea Embankment, Mr. George Marwood was reluctant to express any opinion on the escape. 'The whole thing,' he said, 'is naturally extremely distasteful to me. I can only hope that the unhappy man may be recaptured before he succumbs to exposure, and before he has the chance to commit any further acts of robbery and violence.'"
In regard to the last sentiment I had not the faintest doubt that George was speaking the truth from the bottom of his heart. As long as I was at liberty his days and nights would be consumed by an acute and painful anxiety. He was no doubt haunted by the idea that I had broken prison largely for the purpose of renewing our old acquaintance, and the thought that I might possibly succeed in my object must have been an extremely uncomfortable one. I laughed softly to myself as I sat and pictured his misgivings. It cheered me to think that whatever happened later he would be left in this gnawing suspense for at least another three weeks. After that I might perhaps see my way to relieve it.
There were other people, I reflected, who must have read theMailwith an equally deep if rather different interest. I tried to fancy how the news of my escape had affected Joyce. For all my cynical outburst in the morning, I knew well that no truer or more honest little heart ever beat in a girl's breast, and that the uncertainty about my fate must even now be causing her the utmost distress.
Then there was Tommy Morrison. Somehow or other I didn't think Tommy would be quite as anxious as Joyce. I could almost see him slapping his leg and laughing that great laugh of his, as he read about my theft of the bicycle and my wild dash down the hill past the warder. He was a great believer in me, was Tommy—and I felt sure that nothing but the news of my recapture would shake his faith in my ability to survive.
It was good to know that, whatever the rest of the world might be thinking, these two at least would be following my escape with a passionate hope that I should pull through.
Just about six o'clock in the evening of the next day Savaroff returned. I heard the car drive up to the house, and then came the sound of voices and footsteps, followed by the banging of a door. After that there was silence for perhaps twenty minutes while my two hosts were presumably talking together in one of the rooms below. Whether Sonia was with them or not I could not tell.
At last I heard some one mounting the stairs, and a moment laterMcMurtrie's figure framed itself in the doorway.
"I'm afraid I am interrupting your work," he said, standing on the threshold and looking down at the sheets of foolscap which littered the table in front of me.
"Not a bit," I returned cheerfully. "I've just finished"; and I began to gather up the fruits of my two-days' toil into something like order.
He shut the door and came across to where I was sitting. "Do you mean you have made out the full list of what you want?" he asked, picking up one of the sheets and running his eye rapidly over the notes and calculations.
"I have done it all in the rough," I replied, "except the drawing of the shed. That will only take an hour or so."
"Excellent," he exclaimed. "I can see there won't be much time wasted when we once get to work." Then he laid down the paper. "Tomorrow morning I propose trying the first of our little operations. Savaroff has brought me the things I needed, and I think we can finish the whole business in a couple of days."
"What part of me are you going to start on?" I inquired with some interest.
"I think I shall alter the shape of your nose first," he said. "It's practically a painless operation—just one injection of hot paraffin wax under the skin. After that you have only to keep quiet for a couple of hours so that the wax can set in the right shape."
"What about the X-ray treatment?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "That's perfectly simple too. Merely a matter of covering up everything except the part that we want exposed. One uses a specially prepared sort of lead sheeting. There is absolutely no danger or difficulty about it."
I thought at first that he might be purposely minimizing both operations in order to put me at my ease, but as it turned out he was telling me nothing except the literal truth.
At half-past ten the next morning he came up to my room with Sonia in attendance, the latter carrying a Primus stove and a small black bag.
At his own suggestion I had stayed in bed, and from between the sheets I viewed their entrance not without a certain whimsical feeling of regret. When one has had a nose of a particular shape for the best part of thirty years it is rather a wrench to feel that one is abandoning it for a stranger. I passed my fingers down it almost affectionately.
McMurtrie, who appeared to be in the best of spirits, wished me good-morning in that silkily polite manner of his which I was getting to dislike more and more. Sonia said nothing. She simply put the things down on the table by my bedside, and then stood there with the air of sullen hostility which she seemed generally to wear in McMurtrie's presence.
"I feel rather like a gladiator," I said. "Morituri te salutant!"
McMurtrie, who had taken a shallow blue saucepan out of the bag and was filling it with hot water, looked up with a smile.
"It will be all over in a minute," he said, reassuringly. "The only trouble is keeping the wax liquid while one is actually injecting it. One has to stand it in boiling water until the last second."
He put the saucepan on the stove, and then produced out of the bag a little china-clay cup, which he stood in the water. Into this he dropped a small lump of transparent wax.
We waited for a minute until the latter melted, McMurtrie filling up the time by carefully sponging the bridge of my nose with some liquid antiseptic. Then, picking up what seemed like an ordinary hypodermic syringe, he warmed it carefully by holding it close to the Primus.
"Now," he said; "all you have to do is to keep perfectly still. You will just feel the prick of the needle and the smart of the hot wax, but it won't really hurt. If you move you will probably spoil the operation."
"Go ahead," I answered encouragingly.
He dipped the syringe in the cup, and then with a quick movement of his hand brought it across my face. I felt a sharp stab, followed instantly by a stinging sensation all along the bridge of the nose. McMurtrie dropped the syringe at once, and taking the skin between his fingers began to pinch and mould it with swift, deft touches into the required shape. I lay as motionless as possible, hoping that things were prospering.
It seemed to me a long time before the job was finished, though I daresay it was in reality only a matter of forty-five seconds. I know I felt vastly relieved when, with a quick intake of his breath, McMurtrie suddenly sat back and began to contemplate his work.
"Well?" I inquired anxiously.
He nodded his head, with every appearance of satisfaction.
"I think we can call it a complete success," he said. Then he stepped back and looked at me critically from a couple of paces away. "What do you think, Sonia?" he asked.
"I suppose it's what you wanted," she said, in a rather grudging, ungracious sort of fashion.
"If you won't think me vain," I observed, "I should like to have a look at myself in the glass."
McMurtrie walked to the fireplace and unhooked the small mirror which hung above the mantelpiece.
"I would rather you waited for a couple of days if you don't mind," he said. "You know what you used to look like better than any one else, and it will be a good test if you see yourself quite suddenly when the whole thing is finished. I will borrow this—and keep you out of temptation."
"Just as you like," I returned. "It will at least give me time to train myself for the shock."
Quick and easy as the first operation had been, the second proved equally simple. The only apparatus it involved was an ordinary X-ray machine, with a large glass globe attached to it, which McMurtrie brought up the next morning and arranged carefully by my bedside. On his pressing down a switch, which he did for my benefit, the whole interior of this globe became flooded with those curious lambent violet rays, which have altered so many of our previous notions on the subject of light and its power.
McMurtrie placed me in position, and then producing a large sheet of finely-beaten-out lead, proceeded to bend and twist it into a sort of weird-looking helmet. When I put this on it covered my head and face almost completely, leaving only an inch of hair along the forehead and perhaps a little more over each temple exposed to the light.
Thus equipped, I sat for perhaps an hour in the full glare of the machine. It was dull work, and as McMurtrie made no attempt to enliven it by conversation I was not sorry when he eventually flicked off the switch, and relieved me of my headgear.
I had expected my hair to tumble out in a lump, but as a matter of fact it was over two days in accomplishing the task. There was no discomfort about the process: it just came off gradually all along my forehead, leaving a smooth bare line which I could feel with my fingers. As soon as it was all gone, McMurtrie proceeded to decorate me with some kind of stain that he had specially prepared for my face and neck—a composition which according to him would remain practically unaffected either by washing or exposure. It smelt damnably in the pot, but directly it was rubbed in this slight drawback disappeared.
I was naturally anxious to see what result all these attentions had had upon my personal appearance, but McMurtrie insisted on my waiting until my hair and beard had grown to something like a tolerable length. I can well remember the little thrill of excitement that ran through me when, on the fourth day after my first operation, he brought me back the looking-glass.
"I think we might introduce you to yourself today," he said, smiling. "Of course another fortnight will make a considerable difference still, but even now you will be able to get a good idea of what you will look like. I am curious to hear your opinion."
He handed me the glass, and the next moment, with an involuntary cry of amazement, I was staring at my reflection.
Instead of my usual features I saw a rough-looking, bearded man of about forty-five, with an aquiline nose, a high forehead, and a dark sunburned skin. It was the face of a complete stranger: at the best that of a hard-bitten war correspondent or explorer; at the worst—well, I don't know what it mightn't have been at the worst.
I stared and stared in a kind of incredulous fascination, untilMcMurtrie's voice abruptly recalled me to my surroundings.
"Well, Mr. Neil Lyndon," he said, "do you recognize yourself?"
I laid down the glass.
"Don't call me that," I replied quietly. "Neil Lyndon is dead."