He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "Here's the address," he said. "It's a lodging-house near Victoria Station, kept by a sister of Mrs. Weston. You will find it comfortable and quiet, and you needn't worry about the landlady having any suspicions. I have told her that you have just come back from abroad and that you want to be in London for several days on business. You will pass under the name of Nicholson--James Nicholson." He handed me the envelope, and I read the address. Mrs. Oldbury, 3, Edith Terrace, S.W. _Nr. Victoria Station_. "Very well," I said, getting up from my seat; "I understand I am to stop with Mrs. Oldbury and amuse myself spending the fifty pounds until I hear from you." He nodded. "Directly things are ready we shall let you know. Till then you are free to do as you like." He opened a small leather case and handed me a bundle of bank-notes. "Here is the money," he added with a smile. "You see, we trust you absolutely. If you choose to make a bolt to America, there will be nothing to stop you." It was said with such apparent frankness that it ought to have carried conviction; but as a matter of fact it did nothing of the kind. I felt certain that it would not be McMurtrie's fault if he failed to keep himself informed about my movements while I was in London. Too much trustfulness in human nature did not seem likely to be one of his besetting weaknesses. However, I pocketed the notes cheerfully enough; indeed the mere touch of them in my hand gave me a pleasant feeling of confidence. It is always nice to handle money in comparative bulk, but being absolutely without it for thirty-six months invests the operation with a peculiar charm. "You had better be ready to start from here about half-past one," said McMurtrie. "Savaroff will take you into Plymouth in the car, and there is a fast train up at two-five. It gets you into London just before seven." "Good!" I said. "That will give me time to buy what I want when I arrive. It would spoil my dinner if I had to shop afterwards." McMurtrie, who had crossed to the door, looked back at me with a sort of half-envious, half-contemptuous smile. "You are a curious fellow, Lyndon," he said. "At times you might be a boy of twenty." "Well, I am only twenty-nine," I protested; "and one can't always remember that one's an escaped murderer."