Verman, in his seclusion, did not hear that appeal from his
brother; there were too many walls between them. But he was
becoming impatient for release, though, all in all, he had not
found the confinement intolerable or even very irksome. His
character was philosophic, his imagination calm; no bugaboos came
to trouble him. When the boys closed the door upon him, he made
himself comfortable upon the floor and, for a time, thoughtfully
chewed a patent-leather slipper that had come under his hand. He
found the patent leather not unpleasant to his palate, though he
swallowed only a portion of what he detached, not being hungry at
that time. The soul-fabric of Verman was of a fortunate weave; he
was not a seeker and questioner. When it happened to him that he
was at rest in a shady corner, he did not even think about a
place in the sun. Verman took life as it came.

Naturally, he fell asleep. And toward the conclusion of his
slumbers, he had this singular adventure: a lady set her foot
down within less than half an inch of his nose--and neither of
them knew it. Verman slept on, without being wakened by either
the closing or the opening of the door. What did rouse him was
something ample and soft falling upon him--Margaret's cape, which
slid from the hook after she had gone.

Enveloped in its folds, Verman sat up, corkscrewing his knuckles
into the corners of his eyes. Slowly he became aware of two
important vacuums--one in time and one in his stomach. Hours had
vanished strangely into nowhere; the game of bonded prisoner was
something cloudy and remote of the long, long ago, and, although
Verman knew where he was, he had partially forgotten how he came