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