I may as well say at once that this little record pretends in no
degree to be a picture either of my introduction to Mr. Paraday or
of certain proximate steps and stages. The scheme of my narrative
allows no space for these things, and in any case a prohibitory
sentiment would hang about my recollection of so rare an hour.
These meagre notes are essentially private, so that if they see the
light the insidious forces that, as my story itself shows, make at
present for publicity will simply have overmastered my precautions.
The curtain fell lately enough on the lamentable drama. My memory
of the day I alighted at Mr. Paraday's door is a fresh memory of
kindness, hospitality, compassion, and of the wonderful
illuminating talk in which the welcome was conveyed. Some voice of
the air had taught me the right moment, the moment of his life at
which an act of unexpected young allegiance might most come home to
him. He had recently recovered from a long, grave illness. I had
gone to the neighbouring inn for the night, but I spent the evening
in his company, and he insisted the next day on my sleeping under
his roof. I hadn't an indefinite leave: Mr. Pinhorn supposed us
to put our victims through on the gallop. It was later, in the
office, that the rude motions of the jig were set to music. I
fortified myself, however, as my training had taught me to do, by
the conviction that nothing could be more advantageous for my
article than to be written in the very atmosphere. I said nothing
to Mr. Paraday about it, but in the morning, after my remove from
the inn, while he was occupied in his study, as he had notified me
he should need to be, I committed to paper the main heads of my
impression. Then thinking to commend myself to Mr. Pinhorn by my
celerity, I walked out and posted my little packet before luncheon.