quaint pictures by Kate Greenaway--little children in attractive dress,
playing in old-fashioned gardens--would float through space just
outside my windows. The pictures were always accompanied by the gleeful
shouts of real children in the neighborhood, who, before being sent to
bed by watchful parents, devoted the last hour of the day to play. It
doubtless was their shouts that stirred my memories of childhood and
brought forth these pictures.

In my chamber of intermittent horrors and momentary delights, uncanny
occurrences were frequent. I believed there was some one who at fall of
night secreted himself under my bed. That in itself was not peculiar,
as sane persons at one time or another are troubled by that same
notion. But _my_ bed-fellow--under the bed--was a detective; and he
spent most of his time during the night pressing pieces of ice against
my injured heels, to precipitate, as I thought, my overdue confession.

The piece of ice in the pitcher of water which usually stood on the
table sometimes clinked against the pitcher's side as its center of
gravity shifted through melting. It was many days before I reasoned out
the cause of this sound; and until I did I supposed it was produced by
some mechanical device resorted to by the detectives for a purpose.
Thus the most trifling occurrence assumed for me vast significance.




V


After remaining at home for about a month, during which time I showed