A Rogue by Compulsion by Victor Bridges (top fiction books of all time TXT) 📖

she answered, "and they are not likely to. My father went out and brought it in the night you arrived. It's buried in the back garden."

There was another short silence, and then she seated herself on the foot of the bed. "Tell me," she said, "this girl—Joyce Aylmer—do you love her?"

The question came out so unexpectedly that it took me by utter surprise. I stopped in the middle of conveying a piece of bacon to my mouth and laid it down again on the plate.

"Why, Joyce is only a child," I said; "at least she was when I went to prison. We were all in love with her in a sort of way. Her father had been an artist in Chelsea before he died, and we looked on her as a kind of general trust. She used to run in and out of the various studios just as she pleased. That was the reason I was so furious with Marks. It was impossible to believe that a man who wasn't an absolute fiend could—" I pulled up short in some slight embarrassment.

"But she is not a child now," remarked Sonia calmly. "According to the paper she must be nineteen."

"Yes," I said, "I suppose people grow older even when I'm in prison."

"And she loves you—she must love you. Do you think any woman could help loving a man who had done what you did for her?"

"Oh, I expect she has forgotten all about me long ago," I said with a sudden bitterness. "People who go to prison can't expect to be remembered—except by the police."

I had spoken recklessly, and even while the words were on my tongue a vision of Joyce's honest blue eyes rose reproachfully in my mind. I remembered the terrible heartbroken little note which she had sent me after the trial, and then her other letter which I had received in Dartmoor—almost more pitiful in its brave attempt to keep hope and interest alive in my heart.

Sonia leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap.

"I thought," she said slowly, "I thought that perhaps you wanted to go to London in order to meet her."

I shook my head. "I am not quite so selfish as that. I have brought her enough trouble and unhappiness already."

"Then it is your cousin that you mean to see," she said softly—"this man, Marwood, who sent you to the prison."

For a second I was silent. It had suddenly occurred to me that in asking these questions Sonia might be acting under the instructions of McMurtrie or her father.

She saw my hesitation and evidently guessed the cause.

"Oh, you needn't think I shall repeat what you tell me," she broke out almost scornfully. "The doctor and my father are quite capable of taking care of themselves. They don't want me to act as their spy."

There was a genuine ring of dislike in her voice as she mentioned their names which made me believe that she was speaking the truth.

"Well," I said frankly, "I was thinking of looking up George just to see how he has been getting on in my absence. But apart from that I have every intention of playing straight with McMurtrie. It seems to me to be my only chance."

A bell tinkled faintly somewhere away in the house, and Sonia got up off the bed.

"It is your only chance," she said quietly, "but it may be a better one than you imagine."

And with this encouraging if somewhat obscure remark she went out and left me to my thoughts.

McMurtrie came up about an hour later. Suave and courteous as ever, he knocked at my door before entering the room, and wished me good morning in the friendliest of fashions.

"I have brought you another Daily Mail—yesterday's," he said, throwing the paper down on the bed. "It contains the second instalment of your adventures." Then he paused and looked at me with that curious smile that seemed to begin and end with his lips. "Well," he added, "and how are the stiffness and the sore throat this morning?"

"Gone," I said, "both of them. I have no excuse for stopping in bed except lack of clothes."

He nodded and sat down on the window-sill. "I daresay we can find a way out of that difficulty. My friend Savaroff would, I am sure, be delighted to lend you some garments to go on with. You seem to be much of a size."

"Well, I should be delighted to accept them," I said. "Even the joy of being in a real bed again begins to wear off after two days."

"I am afraid you can't expect very much liberty while you are our guest," he said, leaning back against the window. "It would be too dangerous for you to go outside the house, even at night time. I expect Sonia told you about our visitor yesterday."

"Yes," I said; "I should like to have heard the interview."

"It was quite interesting. From what he told me I should say that few prisoners have been more missed than you are. It appears that there are over seventy warders hunting about the neighbourhood, to say nothing of volunteers."

"I seem to be giving a lot of trouble," I said sadly.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Not to us. I am only sorry that we can't offer you a more entertaining visit." He opened his case and helped himself to a cigarette. "On the whole, however, I daresay you won't find the time drag so very much. There will be the business of altering your appearance—I hope to start on that the day after tomorrow—and then I want you to make me out a full list of everything you will need in connection with your experiments. It would be best perhaps to have a drawing of the actual shed—just as you would like it fitted up. You might start on this right away."

"Certainly," I said. "I shall be glad to have something to do."

"And I don't suppose you will mind much if we can't arrange anything very luxurious for you in the way of living accommodation. We shall have to choose as lonely a place as possible, and it will probably involve your feeding chiefly on tinned food, and roughing it a bit generally. It won't be for very long."

"I shan't mind in the least," I said. "Anything will be comfortable after Princetown. As long as you can fix me up with what I want for my work I shan't grumble about the rest."

He nodded again in a satisfied manner. "By the way," he said, "I suppose you never wore a beard or a moustache before you went to prison?"

"Only once in some amateur theatricals," I answered "and then the moustache came off."

"They will make a great difference in your appearance by themselves," he went on, looking at me critically. "I wonder how long they will take to grow."

I passed my hand up my face, which was already covered with a thick stubble about half an inch in length. "At the present rate of progress," I said, "I should think about a week."

McMurtrie smiled. "Another fortnight on top of that will be nearer the mark, I expect," he said, getting up from the bed. "That will just fit in with our arrangements. In three weeks we ought to be able to fix you up with what you want, and by that time there won't be quite so much excitement about your escape. The Daily Mail will have become tired of you, even if the police haven't." He stopped to flick the ash off his cigarette. "Of course you will have to be extremely careful when you are in London. I shall change your appearance so that it will be quite impossible for any one to recognize you, but there will always be the danger of somebody remembering your voice."

"I can disguise that to a certain extent," I said. "Besides, it's not likely that I shall run across any one I know well. I only want to amuse myself for two or three evenings, and the West End's a large place as far as amusement goes." Then I paused. "If you really thought it was too risky," I added carelessly, "I would give up the idea."

It was a bold stroke—but it met with the success that it deserved. Any lingering doubts McMurtrie may have had about my intentions were apparently dispersed.

"I think you will work all the better for a short holiday," he said; "and I am sure you are sensible enough to keep out of any trouble."

He walked to the door, and stood for a moment with his hand on the knob. "I will send you up the clothes and some paper and ink," he added. "Then you can get up or write in bed—just as you like."

After three years of granite quarrying—broken only by a short spell of sewing mailsacks—the thought of getting back to a more congenial form of work was a decidedly pleasant one. During the half-hour that elapsed before Sonia came up with my things, I lay in bed, busily pondering over various points in connection with my approaching task. I had often done the same in the long solitary hours in my cell, and worked out innumerable figures and details in connection with it on my prison slate. Most of them, however, I had only retained vaguely in my head, for it is one of the intelligent rules of our cheerful convict system to allow no prisoner to make permanent notes of anything that might be of possible service to him after his release.

There seemed, therefore, every prospect that I should be fully occupied for some time to come. Indeed, it was not until I had dressed myself in Savaroff's clothes (they fitted me excellently) and sat down at the table with a pen and a pile of foolscap in front of me, that I realized what a lengthy task I had taken on.

All my rough notes—those invaluable notes and calculations that I had spent eighteen months over—were packed away in my safe at the Victoria Street office. I had not bothered about them at the time, for when you are being tried for your life other matters are apt to assume a certain degree of unimportance. Besides, although I had told George of their existence, I knew very well that, being jotted down in a private cypher, no one except myself would be able to make head or tail of what they were about.

Still they would naturally have been of immense help to me now if I could have got hold of them. Clear as the main details were in my mind, I saw I should have to go over a good bit of old ground before I could make out the exact list of my requirements which McMurtrie needed.

All that afternoon and the whole of the following day I stuck steadily to my task. I had little to interrupt me, for with the exception of Sonia who brought me up my meals, and the old deaf-and-dumb housekeeper who came to do my room about midday, I saw or heard nobody. McMurtrie did not appear again, and Savaroff, as I knew, was away in London.

I took an hour off in the evening for the purpose of studying the Daily Mail, which proved to be quite as entertaining as the previous issue. There were two and a half columns about me altogether, the first consisting of a powerful if slightly inaccurate description of how I had stolen the bicycle, and the remainder dealing with various features of my crime and my escape. It was headed:

STILL AT LARGE NEIL LYNDON'S FIGHT FOR LIBERTY

and I settled myself down to read with a feeling of enjoyment that would doubtless have gratified Lord Northcliffe had he been fortunate enough to know about it.

"Neil Lyndon," it began, "whose daring escape from Princetown was fully described in yesterday's Daily Mail, has so far successfully baffled his pursuers. Not only is he still at liberty, but having possessed himself of a bicycle and a change of clothes by means of an amazingly audacious burglary, it is quite possible that he has managed to get clear away from the immediate neighbourhood."

This opening paragraph was followed by a full and vivid description of my raid on the bicycle house. It appeared that the machine which I had borrowed was the property of a certain Major Hammond, who, when interviewed by the representative of the Mail, expressed himself of the opinion that I was a dangerous character and that I