"No," she said sternly, "I'll do my own carrying. I'll take my half, whatever it is." She led the way out into the road, then paused.
"Which way, brother?"
He pointed with his stick. "Southward," he said, but paused, looking down the hill toward the gate-keeper's cottage around which a small crowd still hovered. "But there's something to do before we go."
"The machine? There's nothing to do with that. I'll leave it—"
"Not only the machine—we'll leave something else here."
Her puzzled glance questioned.
"Our identities—we'll leave them here, too, if you please," he replied. "The person by the name of Hermia Challoner from this point simply ceases to exist—"
"She does. She ceased to exist ten minutes ago," she laughed joyfully.
"And John Markham?"
"Is Philidor, portrait artist, by appointment to the proletariat of
France, at two francs the head."
"Delicious! And I—?"