(This is how the
hero breaks his way into the room wherein the heroine is immured, and
I have often envied him.)
However, the revolver was not necessary. The lock surrendered, after a
short struggle, to the poker. For the first time for seventeen years
my secret papers were before me. Can you not imagine how eagerly I
went through them?
They were a strange collection, these trifles which had (I suppose)
seemed so important to me seventeen years ago. There was the
inevitable dance programme, covered with initials which must have
stirred me delightfully once, but now left me cold. There was a
receipt from a Cambridge tailor, my last outstanding Cambridge bill,
perhaps--preserved as a sign that I was now free. There was a notice
of a short-story competition, stories not to exceed 5000 words;
another of a short-sketch competition, sketches not to exceed 1200
words. Apparently I was prepared to write you anything in those days.
There was an autograph of a famous man; "Many thanks" and the
signature on a postcard, I suppose I had told him that I admired his
style, or that I proposed to model myself on him, or had bought his
last book, or--who knows? At any rate, he had thanked me.
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