ciously--I think he always had a sort of
vague feeling that I was laughing at him--and then without further
remark led the way out on to the platform.

McMurtrie had given me a sovereign and some loose silver for immediate
expenses, and I stopped at the bookstall to buy myself some papers. I
selected a _Mail_, a _Sportsman, Punch_, and the _Saturday Review_. I
lingered over the business because it seemed to annoy Savaroff: indeed
it was not until he had twice jogged my elbow that I made my final
selection. Then, grasping my bag, I marched up the platform behind
him, coming to a halt outside an empty first-class carriage.

"This will do," he said, and finding no sound reason for contradicting
him I stepped in and put my bag upon the rack.

"Good-bye, Savaroff," I said cheerfully. "I shall have the pleasure of
seeing you too at Tilbury, I suppose?"

He closed the door, and thrust his head in through the open window.

"You will," he said in his guttural voice; "and let me give you a
little word of advice, my friend. We have treated you well--eh, but if
you think you can in any way break your agreement with us you make a
very bad mistake."

I took out my cigarette case. "My dear Savaroff," I said coldly, "why
on earth should I want to break my agreement with you? It is the only
possible chance I have of a new start."

He looked at me closely, and then nodded his head. "It is well. So
long as you remember we are not people to be played with, no harm will
come to you."

He let this off with such a dramatic air that I very nearly burst out
laughing.

"I shan't forget it," I said gravely. "I've got a very good memory."

There was a shrill whistle from the engine, followed by a warning
shout of "Stand back there, please; stand back, sir!" I had a last
glimpse of Savaroff's unpleasant face, as he hurriedly withdrew his
head, and then with a slight jerk the train began to move slowly out
of the station.

I didn't open my papers at once. For some time I just sat where I was
in the corner and stared out contentedly over the passing landscape.
There is nothing like prison to broaden one's ideas about pleasure. Up
till the time of my trial I had never looked on a railway journey as a
particularly fascinating experience; now it seemed to me to be
simply chock-full of delightful sensations. The very names of the
stations--Totnes, Newton Abbot, Teignmouth--filled me with a sort of
curious pleasure: they were part of the wor