The following day was Monday. When I came downstairs I found a neat bundle
lying in the hall, and addressed to me. My wife had followed me down, and we
surveyed it together.
I had a curious feeling about the parcel, and was for cutting the cord with my
knife. But my wife is careful about string. She has always fancied that the time
would come when we would need some badly, and it would not be around. I have
an entire drawer of my chiffonier, which I really need for other uses, filled with
bundles of twine, pink, white and brown. I recall, on one occasion, packing a suit-
case in the dusk, in great hasty, and emptying the drawer containing my
undergarments into it, to discover, when I opened it on the train for my pajamas,
nothing but rolls of cord and several packages of Christmas ribbons. So I was
obliged to wait until she had untied the knots by means of a hairpin.
It was my overcoat! My overcoat, apparently uninjured, but with the collection of
keys I had made missing.
The address was printed, not written, in a large, strong hand, with a stub pen. I
did not, at the time, notice the loss of certain papers which had been in the breast
pocket. I am rather absent-minded, and it was not until the night after the third
sitting that they were recalled to my mind.
At something after eleven Herbert Robinson called me up at my office. He was at
Sperry's house, Sperry having been his physician during his recent illness.
"I say, Horace, this is Herbert."
"Yes. How are you?"
"Doing well, Sperry says. I'm at his place now. I'm speaking for him. He's got a