Mrs jimson. She had no servant and did the housework herself, but
my things had been untouched when I left the room before supper,
for she had come to tidy up before I had gone downstairs. Someone
had been here while we were at supper, and had examined
elaborately everything I possessed. Happily I had little luggage,
and no papers save the new books and a bill or two in the name of
Cornelius Brand- The inquisitor, whoever he was, had found
nothing ... The incident gave me a good deal of comfort. It had
been hard to believe that any mystery could exist in this public
place, where people lived brazenly in the open, and wore their
hearts on their sleeves and proclaimed their opinions from the
rooftops. Yet mystery there must be, or an inoffensive stranger
with a kit-bag would not have received these strange attentions. I
made a practice after that of sleeping with my watch below my
pillow, for inside the case was Mary Lamington's label. Now began
a period of pleasant idle receptiveness. Once a week it was my
custom to go up to London for the day to receive letters and
instructions, if any should come. I had moved from my chambers
in Park Lane, which I leased under my proper name, to a small flat
in Westminster taken in the name of Cornelius Brand. The letters
addressed to Park Lane were forwarded to Sir Walter, who sent
them round under cover to my new address. For the rest I used to
spend my mornings reading in the garden, and I discovered for the
first time what a pleasure was to be got from old books. They
recalled and amplified that vision I had seen from the Cotswold
ridge, the revelation of the priceless heritage which is England. I
imbibed a mighty quantity of history, but especially I liked the
writers, like Walton, who got at the very heart of the English
countryside. Soon, too, I found the _Pilgrim's _Progress not a duty but
a delight. I discovered new jewels daily in the honest old story, and