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? CHAPTER VI THE FACE OF A STRANGER 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.