"But I am feeling perfectly fit this morning," I persisted. "I might
just as well get up if your father would lend me some kit. I don't
think I could squeeze into McMurtrie's."

She shook her head. "The doctor says you are to stop where you are.
He is coming up to see you." Then she hesitated. "One of the prison
warders called here last night to warn us that you were probably
hiding in the neighbourhood."

"That was kind," I said, "if a little belated. Had they found the
bicycle?"

"No," 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