I was naturally anxious to see what result all these attentions had had upon my personal appearance, but McMurtrie insisted on my waiting until my hair and beard had grown to something like a tolerable length.  I can well remember the little thrill of excitement that ran through me when, on the fourth day after my first operation, he brought me back the looking-glass.

“I think we might introduce you to yourself today,” he said, smiling.  “Of course another fortnight will make a considerable difference still, but even now you will be able to get a good idea of what you will look like.  I am curious to hear your opinion.”

He handed me the glass, and the next moment, with an involuntary cry of amazement, I was staring at my reflection.

Instead of my usual features I saw a rough-looking, bearded man of about forty-five, with an aquiline nose, a high forehead, and a dark sunburned skin.  It was the face of a complete stranger:  at the best that of a hard-bitten war correspondent or explorer; at the worst—­well, I don’t know what it mightn’t have been at the worst.

I stared and stared in a kind of incredulous fascination, until McMurtrie’s voice abruptly recalled me to my surroundings.

“Well, Mr. Neil Lyndon,” he said, “do you recognize yourself?”

I laid down the glass.

“Don’t call me that,” I replied quietly.  “Neil Lyndon is dead.”

CHAPTER VII

A KISS AND A CONFESSION

One would hardly expect an escaped murderer to complain of being dull—­especially when the whole country is still ringing with the story of his disappearance.  Yet I must confess that, when I had once got used to the strangeness of my position, the next two weeks dragged intolerably.

I was accustomed to confinement, but in the prison at all events I had had plenty of hard work and exercise, while here, cooped up entirely in one room, I was able to do nothing but pace restlessly up and down most of the day like a caged bear.  I had finished my lists and drawings for McMurtrie, and my only resources were two or three sensational novels which Sonia brought me back one day after a visit to Plymouth.  I cannot say I found them very entertaining.  I had been rather too deeply into life in that line myself to have much use for the second-hand imaginings of other people.

Of the doctor and Savaroff I saw comparatively little.  Both of them were away from the house a good deal of the time, often returning in the car late at night, and then sitting up talking till some unholy hour in the morning.  I used to lie awake in bed, and listen to the dull rumble of their voices in the room below.

That there was something mysterious going on which I knew nothing about I became more convinced every day, but what it could be I was unable to guess.  Once or twice I tried to sound Sonia on the matter, but although she would talk freely about my own affairs, on any point connected with herself or the curious household to which she belonged she maintained an obstinate silence.