in a yard where there is a stable underneath and a tinker's workshop up above. The door is locked at night, and no one, no one can open it; therefore, why should I not lose my keys?
"I am as wet as a dog—a little hungry—oh, just ever such a little hungry, and slightly, ay, absurdly tired about my knees; therefore, why should I not lose them?
"Why, for that matter, had not the whole house flitted out to Aker by the time I came home and wished to enter it?" . . . and I laughed to myself, hardened by hunger and exhaustion.
I could hear the horses stamp in the stables, and I could see my window above, but I could not open the door, and I could not get in.
It had begun to rain again, and I felt the water soak through to my shoulders. At the Town Hall I was seized by a bright idea. I would ask the policeman to open the door. I applied at once to a constable, and earnestly begged him to accompany me and let me in, if he could.
Yes, if he could, yes! But he couldn't; he had no key. The police keys were not there; they were kept in the Detective Department.
What was I to do then?