"Certainly not. She is young. She will receive the best of care. I see no reason why she should not recover. Now if you would like to remain near her----" There seemed a conspiracy to keep him forever at the girl's side, but this time he meant to break away even if he had to fight for it. "I shall, of course, remain near her," Cyril interrupted hastily. "I have taken lodgings in Half Moon Street and shall stay there till she has completely recovered. As she has lately shown the most violent dislike of me, I think I had better not attempt to see her for the present. Don't you agree with me?" "Certainly. I should not permit it under the circumstances." "I shall call daily to find out how she is, and if there is any change in her condition, you will, of course, notify me at once." Crichton took out a card and scribbled his address on it. "This will always find me. And now I have a rather delicate request to make. Would you mind not letting any one know the identity of your patient? You see I have every hope that she will eventually recover her reason and therefore I wish her malady to be kept a secret. I have told my friends that my wife is in the south of France undergoing a species of rest cure." "I think you are very wise. I shall not mention her name to any one." "But the nurses?" "It is a rule of all nursing homes that a patient's name is never to be mentioned to an outsider. But if you wish to take extra precautions, you might give her another name while she is here and they need never know that it is not her own." "Thank you. That is just what I should wish." "What do you think Mrs. Crichton had better be called?" Cyril thought a moment. "Mrs. Peter Thompkins, and I will become Mr. Thompkins. Please address all communications to me under that name; otherwise the truth is sure to leak out." "But how will you arrange to get your mail?" "Peter Thompkins is my valet, so that is quite simple." "Very well. Good-bye, Mr. Thompkins. I trust I shall soon have a better report to give you of Mrs. Thompkins." A moment later Cyril was in a taxi speeding towards Mayfair, a free man--for the moment. CHAPTER III THE TRIBULATIONS OF A LIAR While Crichton was dressing he glanced from time to time at his valet. Peter had evidently been deeply shocked by the incident at the railway station, for the blunt profile, so persistently presented to him, was austerely remote as well as subtly disapproving. Cyril was fond of the old man, who had been his father's servant and had known him almost from his infancy. He felt that he owed him some explanation, particularly as he had without consulting him made use of his name. But what should he say to him? Never before had he so fully realised the joy, the comfort, the dignity of truth. It was not a virtue he decided; it was a privilege. If he ever got out of the hole he was in, he meant to wallow in it for the future. That happy time seemed, however, still far distant.