"Because appearances are against you. The public mind—I had better be quite candid. The man in the street is a marvelous detective, in his own opinion. Being an idler, he will turn up in his thousands at Feldisham Mansions and Kensal Green Cemetery to-morrow afternoon, and, if you are present, there may be a regrettable scene. Moreover, you will meet a warped old peasant named Jean Armaud and a narrow-souled village girl in his daughter Marguerite. Take my advice—pack a kit-bag, jump into a cab, and bury yourself in some seaside town. Let me know where you are—as I may want to communicate with you—and—er—when you send your address, don't forget to sign your letter in the same way as you sign the hotel register."
Rupert rose and looked out of the window. He could not endure that another man should see the agony in his face.
"Are you in earnest?" he said, when he felt that his voice might be trusted.
"Dead in earnest, Mr. Osborne," came the quiet answer.
"You even advise me to adopt an alias?"
"Call it a nom de voyage," said Winter.
"I shall be horribly lonely. May I not take my valet?"
"Take no one. I suppose you can leave some person in charge of your affairs?"
"I have a secretary. But she and my servants will think my conduct very strange."
"I shall call here to-morrow and tell your secretary you have left London for a few days at my request. What is her name?"