urse of
our search we opened the doors of their rooms. We saw that they were
both in bed, both seemingly asleep: it seemed idle to wake and question
them. When the formality of our futile investigation was concluded,
Strahan stopped at the door of my bedroom, and for the first time fixing
his eyes on me steadily, said,--

"Allen Fenwick, I would have given half the fortune I have come
into rather than this had happened. The manuscript, as you know, was
bequeathed to me as a sacred trust by a benefactor whose slightest wish
it is my duty to observe religiously. If it contained aught valuable to
a man of your knowledge and profession, why, you were free to use its
contents. Let me hope, Allen, that the book will reappear to-morrow."

He said no more, drew himself away from the hand I involuntarily
extended, and walked quickly back towards his own room.

Alone once more, I sank on a seat, buried my face in my hands, and
strove in vain to collect into some definite shape my own tumultuous
and disordered thoughts. Could I attach serious credit to the marvellous
narrative I had read? Were there, indeed, such powers given to man, such
influences latent in the calm routine of Nature? I could not believe
it; I must have some morbid affection of the brain; I must be under an
hallucination. Hallucination? The phantom, yes; the trance, yes. But
still, how came the book gone? That, at least, was not hallucination.

I left my room the next morning with a vague hope that I should find the
manuscript somewhere in the study; that, in my own trance, I might
have secreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secrete things, without
remembrance of their acts in their waking state.

I searched minutely in every conceivable place. Strahan found me still
employed in that hopeless task. He had breakfasted in his own room, and
it was past eleven o'clock when he joined me. His manner was now hard,
cold, and distant, and his suspicion so bluntly shown that my distress
gave way to resentment.

"Is it possible," I cried indignantly, "that you, who have known me
so well, can suspect me of an act so base, and so gratuitously base?
Purloin, conceal a book confided to me, with full power to copy from it
whatever I might desire, use its contents in any way that might seem to
me serviceable to science, or useful to me in my own calling!"

"I have not accused you," answered Strahan, sullenly. "But what are
we to say to Mr. Jeeves; to all others who kno