how many necessaries he might carry away in a newspaper, he began to feel
strangely like a criminal, and while rolling up a couple of shirts, a few
pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, his hands resting on the
parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it was difficult to believe
that he really intended to leave the house in this disreputable fashion.
Mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, thinking all the while that
he must go, otherwise his play would never be written.

He had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his way
quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come at
last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. At the same time he wished to
conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. Should he
tell his landlady the truth? But the desire to realise his idea was
intolerable, and, yielding as if before an irresistible force, he tied the
parcel and prepared to go. At that moment he remembered that he must leave
a note for his landlady, and he was more than ever surprised at the
naturalness with which lying phrases came into his head. But when it came
to committing them to paper, he found he could not tell an absolute lie,
and he wrote a simple little note to the effect that he had been called
away on urgent business, and hoped to return in about a week.

He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's sitting-room opened on to the
passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He had
nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten his
manuscripts. His flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. There was
nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. His already
heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a
small portion of the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and
prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. He walked as lightly as
possible, dreading that every creak would bring Mrs. Wilson from her