"Good," said Tommy. "Don't be longer than you can help. I'll get in something to eat, and we'll all have supper together--you and I and Joyce, and then we can have a good jaw afterwards. There are still tons of things I want to know about." He thrust his arm through mine and walked with me to the door of the flat. "By the way, Thomas," I said, "I suppose the police aren't watching your place, just on the off-chance of my rolling up. They must remember you were rather a particular pal of mine." "I don't think so," he answered. "They may have had a man on when you first escaped, but if so he must have got fed up with the job by now. Don't you worry in any case. Your guardian angel wouldn't recognize you in that get up--let alone a policeman." "If there's any justice," I said, "my guardian angel got the sack three years ago." With this irreverent remark, I shook his hand, and walking down the passage passed out on to the embankment. Having a good two miles to cover and only five-and-twenty minutes to do it in, it struck me that driving would be the most agreeable method of getting home. I hesitated for a moment between a taxi and a motor bus, deciding in favour of the latter chiefly from motives of sentiment. I had not been on one since my arrest, and besides that the idea of travelling along the streets in open view of the British public rather appealed to me. Since my interview with Tommy I was beginning to feel the most encouraging confidence in McMurtrie's handiwork. So, turning up Beaufort Street, I jumped on to a "Red Victoria" at the corner, and making my way upstairs, sat down on one of the front seats. It was the first time I had been down the King's Road by daylight, and the sight of all the old familiar landmarks was as refreshing as rain in the desert. Twice I caught a glimpse of some one whom I had known in the old days--one man was Murgatroyd, the black and white artist, and the other Doctor O'Hara, the good-natured Irish medico who had once set a broken finger for me. The latter was coming out of his house as we passed, and I felt a mischievous longing to jump off the bus and introduce myself to him, just to see what he would do. At the corner of Sloane Square I had an unexpected and rather dramatic reminder of my celebrity. As we emerged from the King's Road a procession of five or six sandwich-men suddenly appeared from the direction of Symons Street, shuffling dejectedly along at intervals of a few yards. They were carrying double boards, on which, boldly printed in red-and-black letters, stared the following announcement: MADAME TUSSAUD'S MARYLEBONE ROAD NEIL LYNDON A LIFELIKE PORTRAIT