the sheet, but not quite, for a little of the curved dark-brown
wood remained still to be seen. It looked wonderfully now like a
sleeper in the bed, but Rodriguez was not satisfied with his work
until he had placed his kerchief and one of his shoes where a
shoulder ought to be; then he stood back once more and eyed it
with satisfaction. Next he considered the light. He looked at the
light of the moon and remembered his father's advice, as the young
often do, but considered that this was not the occasion for it,
and decided to leave the light of his candle instead, so that
anyone who might be familiar with the moonlight in that shadowy
chamber should find instead a less sinister light. He therefore
dragged a table to the bedside, placed the candle upon it, and
opened a treasured book that he bore in his doublet, and laid it
on the bed near by, between the candle and his mandolin-headed
sleeper; the name of the book was Notes in a Cathedral and dealt
with the confessions of a young girl, which the author claimed to
have jotted down, while concealed behind a pillow near the
Confessional, every Sunday for the entire period of Lent. Lastly
he pulled a sheet a little loose from the bed, until a corner of
it lay on the floor; then he lay down on the boards, still keeping
his sword in his hand, and by means of the sheet and some silk
that hung from the bed, he concealed himself sufficient for his
purpose, which was to see before he should be seen by any intruder
that might enter that chamber.

And if Rodriguez appear to have been unduly suspicious, it should
be borne in mind not only that those empty rings needed much
explanation, but that every house suggests to the stranger
something; and that whereas one house seems to promise a welcome
in front of cosy fires, another good fare, another joyous wine,