"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. "It _is_ your 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.