of the lining beneath, and as he explored it he began to worry, for there was nothing there. Then the Professor of Subliminal Psychology suddenly remembered! He had taken it out when he dressed that evening for Perkin's. He had put it on to the dressing table. He remembered the white paper on the white cloth, and he remembered telling himself not to forget it. He had put it into the pocket—the waistcoat pocket—of his one evening suit.
He went through that one suit very thoroughly. He found nothing. He thought he might have dropped it when he last changed. He stretched upon the floor and, lighting matches with infinite difficulty, he peered under the bed and under the wardrobe, examining every inch of the worn Brussels carpet. Not a scrap of paper appeared.
Then—suddenly—he got a touch of nausea. It was borne in upon him more and more certainly that the last time he had carried that memorandum—and worn that suit—was at Perkin's party, and the days that followed and the nights. That bit of paper must have dropped during one of his struggles or one of his athletic feats in the Accursed House! That gave the matter a very new importance.
