"Well then get these instructions off by heart—and don't forget one of them! I'll give you the paper to take away with you to-night, but meanwhile here are the principal points. In the first place, your name is Hobhouse—Thomas Sylvester Hobhouse."
I saw he was very pleased with this selection and asked tactfully,
"How did you manage to choose such excellent names, Uncle Francis?"
"I chose one name from the Red Book, another from the Peerage, and another from the Clerical Directory, so that one gets—er—a more natural and lifelike combination in that way; and yet avoids a real name. I think Thomas came from the Clerical directory—or was it the Peerage? Well, no matter, that's your name."
"And my occupation?"
"None: it saves prevarication and confusion. You've always been an idle dog, Roger, so I think 'a gentleman of no occupation' will be a sufficiently correct description. You are very well connected by the way."
"I am aware of it," I said, with a polite bow to my uncle and cousin.
But my uncle had grown too serious to appreciate such small change of conversation.
"Your relatives," he continued, "are in such high positions that they are entitled to ask Dr. Rendall not to make any indiscreet enquiries of his patient regarding his family, and also to appeal with success to a certain influential gentleman in the Government for permission to dump you in these prohibited islands. You, of course, know nothing of these steps. You have just recovered from a severe attack of delirium tremens—"
"My dear uncle!" I gasped, "is that Sir James's idea?"