him sleeping, and Parnham (whom the strong light
always burnt in the room rendered more wakeful) informed me that his
master had been in a deep sleep for more than an hour. I knew how
sorely his wasted energies needed such repose, and stepped back to the
library without awaking him. A few minutes before, I had been feeling
sleepy at the conclusion of my task, but now all wish for sleep was
suddenly banished and a painful wakefulness took its place. I was under
a species of mental excitement which reminded me of my feelings some
years before at Oxford on the first occasion of our ever playing the
_Gagliarda_ together, and an idea struck me with the force of intuition
that in these three lost leaves lay the secret of my friend's ruin.

I turned to the context to see whether there was anything in the entries
preceding or following the lacuna that would afford a clue to the
missing passage. The record of the few days immediately preceding the
23d of October was short and contained nothing of any moment whatever.
Adrian and Jocelyn were alone together at the Villa de Angelis. The
entry on the 22d was very unimportant and apparently quite complete,
ending at the bottom of page 348. Of the 23d there was, as I have said,
no record at all, and the entry for the 24th began at the top of page
355. This last memorandum was also brief, and written when the author
was annoyed by Jocelyn leaving him.

The defection of his companion had been apparently entirely unexpected.
There was at least no previous hint of any such intention. Temple wrote
that Jocelyn had left the Villa de Angelis that day and taken up his
abode with the Carthusians of San Martino. No reason for such an
extraordinary change was given; but there was a hint that Jocelyn had
professed himself shocked at something that had happened. The entry
concluded with a few bitter remarks: _"So farewell to my holy anchoret;
and if I cannot speed him with a leprosie as one Elisha did his servant,
yet at least he went out from my presence with a face as white as
snow."_

I had read this sentence more than once before without its attracting
other than a passing attention. The curious expression, that Jocelyn had
gone out from his presence with a face as white as snow, had hitherto
seemed to me to mean nothing more than that the two men had parted in
violent anger, and that Temple had abused or bullied his companion. But
as I sat alone that night in the library the words seemed t