I was sitting on the window-sill when I made the last remark; but as soon as he had gone I jumped to my feet and began to pace restlessly up and down the room. Now that the moment of my release was really at hand, a fierce excitement had gripped hold of me. Although I had had plenty of time to get used to my new position, the amazing possibilities of it had never seemed to come fully home to me till that minute. I suddenly realized that I was stepping into an experience such as probably no other human being had ever tasted. I was like a man coming back from the dead, safe against recognition, and with all the record of my past life scarred and burnt into my memory. I walked to the glass and once again stared long and closely at my reflection. There could be no question about the completeness of my disguise. Between Neil Lyndon as the world had known him, and the grim, bearded, sunburned face that looked back at me out of the mirror, there was a difference sufficiently remarkable to worry the recording angel. People's wits may be sharpened both by fear and affection, but I felt that unless I betrayed myself deliberately, not even those who knew me best, such as George or Tommy, would have the remotest suspicion of my real identity. Anyhow, I intended to put my opinion to the test before very many hours had passed. I was pondering over this agreeable prospect, and still inspecting myself in the glass, when I heard a soft knock at the door. I opened it, and found Sonia standing outside. She was holding a bag in her hand--a good-sized Gladstone that had evidently seen some hard work in its time, and she came into the room and shut the door behind her before speaking. "Well," she said, in her curious, half-sullen way, "are you pleased you are going to London?" "Why, yes," I said; "I'm pleased enough." As a matter of fact the word "pleased" seemed rather too simple to sum up my emotions altogether adequately. She placed the bag on the floor and sat down on the bed. Then, leaning her face against the bottom rail, she stared up at me for a moment without speaking. "What did the doctor tell you?" she asked at last. "He told me I could go up to London by the two-five," I said. "Is that all?" "Dr. McMurtrie," I reminded her, "is never recklessly communicative." Then I paused. "Still I should like to know the reason for the change of programme," I added. She raised her head and glanced half nervously, half defiantly at the door. "We are going to give up this house tomorrow--that's the reason," she said, speaking low and rather quickly. "Our work here is finished, and it will be best for us to leave as soon as possible." "I wish," I said regretfully, "that I inspired just a little more confidence." Sonia hesitated. Then she sat up, and with a characteristic gesture of hers pushed back her hair from her forehead. "Come here," she said slowly; "come quite close to me."