It was "possible," certainly, but as a guess at the truth that was about all that could be said for it.
The thing that pleased me most in the whole paper, however, was the interview with George in the third column. It was quite short—only a six-line paragraph headed "Mr. Marwood and the Escape," but brief as it was, it filled me with a rich delight.
"Interviewed by our Special Correspondent at his residence on the Chelsea Embankment, Mr. George Marwood was reluctant to express any opinion on the escape. 'The whole thing,' he said, 'is naturally extremely distasteful to me. I can only hope that the unhappy man may be recaptured before he succumbs to exposure, and before he has the chance to commit any further acts of robbery and violence.'"
In regard to the last sentiment I had not the faintest doubt that George was speaking the truth from the bottom of his heart. As long as I was at liberty his days and nights would be consumed by an acute and painful anxiety. He was no doubt haunted by the idea that I had broken prison largely for the purpose of renewing our old acquaintance, and the thought that I might possibly succeed in my object must have been an extremely uncomfortable one. I laughed softly to myself as I sat and pictured his misgivings. It cheered me to think that whatever happened later he would be left in this gnawing suspense for at least another three weeks. After that I might perhaps see my way to relieve it.
There were other people, I reflected, who must have read the Mail with an equally deep if rather different interest. I tried to fancy how the news of my escape had affected Joyce. For all my cynical outburst in the morning, I knew well that no truer or more honest little heart ever beat in a girl's breast, and that the uncertainty about my fate must even now be causing her the utmost distress.
Then there was Tommy Morrison. Somehow or other I didn't think Tommy would be quite as anxious as Joyce. I could almost see him slapping his leg and laughing that great laugh of his, as he read about my theft of the bicycle and my wild dash down the hill past the warder. He was a great believer in me, was Tommy—and I felt sure that nothing but the news of my recapture would shake his faith in my ability to survive.
It was good to know that, whatever the rest of the world might be thinking, these two at least would be following my escape with a passionate hope that I should pull through.
Just about six o'clock in the evening of the next day Savaroff returned. I heard the car drive up to the house, and then came the sound of voices and footsteps, followed by the banging of a door. After that there was silence for perhaps twenty minutes while my two hosts were presumably talking together in one of the rooms below. Whether Sonia was with them or not I could not tell.
At last I heard some one mounting the stairs, and a moment later
McMurtrie's figure framed itself in the doorway.
"I'm afraid I am interrupting your work," he said, standing on the threshold and looking down at the sheets of foolscap which littered the table in front of me.