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deserty place—bits of Australia would do—I’d just start in at one end of a desert with a great flourish of my name and come out at the other end quite quietly, with a new name and new clothes, which I’d carry for the purpose. Lord Trent died of thirst most likely. Very sad. If possible I’d leave some bones somewhere to lend a slight air of verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative—but human bones are harder to get than new clothes. Never mind! I’ll bet they don’t take too much to convince them—I’ll come and report my own death, if necessary, though they might think I’d murdered myself. Risky! . . . No, I’ll just perish without any fuss or frill; there are deserts enough in America. The only people I’ll tell, if I tell any, are Alison and Winthrop. Surely they couldn’t object to a little deception like this, it won’t be hurting anybody, not even me. I’m not so stuck on my name as all that. . . . I wouldn’t like them to think I was dead, they’d mind. . . . I don’t think anybody else would, to count. (Wonder if Robertson has married his girl yet?) . . . Pamela would be furious if she found out, but she won’t find out. Ah—h! Well, here’s to the death of Tony St. Croix!”

He wriggled round like a drowsy dog, pillowed his head on his upthrust arm, and peacefully went to sleep.