Since I
came here, I have learned to walk in my sleep." And seeing my look
of astonishment, "I walked in my sleep last night. And I took that
bit of doggerel out of my coat pocket, locked the closet door, and
replaced the key under my pillow."
"How strange! And where did you put it?" I wondered.
"Exactly: where did I put it?" repeated The Author, rumpling his
hair with both hands. "That's what I want to know, myself. I've
looked everywhere in my room, and in Johnson's, and I can't find
the thing. It's gone," and he stalked out, with his shoulders
hunched to his ears.
I sat still, staring out at the window. There was a thing I hadn't
told The Author, or even Alicia. I had no idea what the "bit of
doggerel" meant, if, indeed, it meant anything. But when I had held
Freeman Hynds's old diary in my hands, between the two pages
following the last entry had been a creased and soiled piece of
paper. I had seen it out of the tail of my eye, as the saying is. It
was only a glimpse, but one trained to handle many papers, as I had
been, has a quick and an accurate eye. And I knew that the paper
found by The Author in the attic, and now lost again, was the paper
I had seen in Freeman Hynds's diary.
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