and more rarely, and in all the windows about
the lights went out. I opened my eyes, and became aware of a figure
standing in front of me. The flash of shining buttons told me it was a
policeman, though I could not see the man's face.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night," I answered and got afraid.

"Where do you live?" he queried.

I name, from habit, and without thought, my old address, the little
attic.

He stood for a while.

"Have I done anything wrong?" I asked anxiously.

"No, not at all!" he replied; "but you had perhaps better be getting
home now; it's cold lying here."

"Ay, that's true; I feel it is a little chilly." I said good-night, and
instinctively took the road to my old abode. If I only set about it
carefully, I might be able to get upstairs without being heard; there
were eight steps in all, and only the two top ones creaked under my
tread. Down at the door I took off my shoes, and ascended. It was quiet
everywhere. I could hear the slow tick-tack of a clock, and a child
crying a little. After that I heard nothing. I found my door, lifted
the latch as I was accustomed to do, entered the room, and shut the
door noiselessly after me.

Everything was as I had left it. The curtains were pulled aside from
the windows, and the bed stood empty. I caught a glimpse of a note
lying on the table; perhaps it was my note to the landlady--she might
never have been up here since I went away.

I fumbled with my hands over the white spot, and felt, to my
astonishment, that it was a letter. I take it over to the window,
examine as well as it is possible in the dark the badly-written letters
of the address, and make out at least my own name. Ah, I thought, an
answer from my landlady, forbidding me to enter the room again if I
were for sneaking back.

Slowly, quite slowly I left the room, carrying my shoes in one hand,
the letter in the other, and the blanket under my arm. I draw myself
up, set my teeth as I tread on the creaking steps, get happily down the
stairs, and stand once more at the door. I put on my shoes, take my
time with the laces, sit a while quietly after I'm ready, and stare
vacantly before me, holding the letter in my hand. Then I get up and go.

The flickering ray of a gas lamp gleams up the street. I make straight
for the light, lean my parcel against the lamp-post and open the
letter. All this with the utmost deliberation. A stream of light, as it
were, darts through my breast, and