Part 13 (2/2)

”Well,” said the doctor, as with a grinding of brakes the car pulled up outside, ”we can look on this as the real beginning of our little enterprise.”

I picked up my Gladstone. ”Let's hope,” I said, ”that the end will be equally satisfactory.”

McMurtrie nodded. ”I fancy,” he said, ”that we need have no apprehensions. Providence is with us, Mr. Lyndon--Providence or some equally effective power.”

There was a note of irony in his voice which left one in no doubt as to his own private opinion of our guiding agency.

I stepped out into the drive carrying my bag. Savaroff, who was sitting in the driving seat of the car, turned half round towards me.

”Put it on the floor at the back under the rug,” he said. ”You will sit in front with me.”

He spoke in his usual surly fas.h.i.+on, but by this time I had become accustomed to it. So contenting myself with a genial observation to the effect that I should be charmed, I tucked the bag away out of sight and clambered up beside him into the left-hand seat. McMurtrie stood in the doorway, that mirthless smile of his fixed upon his lips.

”Good-bye,” I said; ”we shall meet at Tilbury, I suppose--if not before?”

He nodded. ”At Tilbury certainly. Au revoir, Mr. Nicholson.”

And with this last reminder of my future ident.i.ty echoing in my ears, we slid off down the drive.

All the way into Plymouth Savaroff maintained a grumpy silence. He was naturally a taciturn sort of person, and I think, besides that, he had taken a strong dislike to me from the night we had first seen each other. If this were so I had certainly not done much to modify it. I felt that the man was naturally a bully, and it always pleases and amuses me to be disliked by bullies. Indeed, if I had had no other reason for responding to Sonia's proffered affection I should have done so just because Savaroff was her father.

My companion's sulks, however, in no way interfered with my enjoyment of the drive. It was a perfect day on which to regain one's liberty.

The sun shone down from a blue sky flecked here and there with fleecy white clouds, and on each side of the road the hedges and trees were just beginning to break into an almost shrill green. The very air seemed to be filled with a delicious sense of freedom and adventure.

As we got nearer to Plymouth I found a fresh source of interest and pleasure in the people that we pa.s.sed walking along the road or driving in traps and cars. After my long surfeit of warders and convicts the mere sight of ordinarily-dressed human beings laughing and talking filled me with the most intense satisfaction. On several occasions I had a feeling that I should like to jump out of the car and join some group of cheerful-looking strangers who turned to watch us flash past. This feeling became doubly intense when we actually entered Plymouth, where the streets seemed to be almost inconveniently crowded with an extraordinary number of attractive-looking girls.

I was afforded no opportunity, however, for indulging in any such pleasant interlude. We drove straight through the town at a rapid pace, avoiding the main thoroughfares as much as possible, and not slackening until we pulled up outside Millbay station. We left the car in charge of a tired-looking loafer who was standing in the gutter, and taking out my bag, I followed Savaroff into the booking office.

”You had better wait there,” he muttered, pointing to the corner. ”I will get the ticket.”

I followed his suggestion, and while he took his place in the small queue in front of the window I amused myself watching my fellow pa.s.sengers hurrying up and down the platform. They looked peaceful enough, but I couldn't help picturing what a splendid disturbance there would be if it suddenly came out that Neil Lyndon was somewhere on the premises. The last time I had been in this station was on my way up to Princetown two and a half years before.

At last Savaroff emerged from the throng with my ticket in his hand.

”I have taken you a first-cla.s.s,” he said rather grudgingly. ”You will probably have the carriage to yourself. It is better so.”

I nodded. ”I shouldn't like to infect any of these good people with homicidal mania,” I said cheerfully.

He looked at me rather suspiciously--I think he always had a sort of vague feeling that I was laughing at him--and then without further remark led the way out on to the platform.

McMurtrie had given me a sovereign and some loose silver for immediate expenses, and I stopped at the bookstall to buy myself some papers. I selected a _Mail_, a _Sportsman, Punch_, and the _Sat.u.r.day Review_. I lingered over the business because it seemed to annoy Savaroff: indeed it was not until he had twice jogged my elbow that I made my final selection. Then, grasping my bag, I marched up the platform behind him, coming to a halt outside an empty first-cla.s.s carriage.

”This will do,” he said, and finding no sound reason for contradicting him I stepped in and put my bag upon the rack.

”Good-bye, Savaroff,” I said cheerfully. ”I shall have the pleasure of seeing you too at Tilbury, I suppose?”

He closed the door, and thrust his head in through the open window.

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