When next I opened my eyes it was morning. Hill was sleeping in his bed, very soundly. I reached for a book and read for half an hour, then the Pimple came in. He was humming a French song to himself, and sounded very happy.
“Ach, Hill, you grand paresseux! Awake!”
Hill opened one eye.
“I have good news for you both,” the Pimple went on. “The questions—I have them!”—he tapped his pocket—“and I am glad! To have lost them would have been dangersome. They are most private.” Then he went on to talk of other matters.
“Has he really got the questions?” I asked Hill, after the Pimple had gone.
“Oh yes,” laughed Hill.
“How did you do it, old chap? I noticed your bed was empty about 2 ac emma.”
“Very simple!” he chortled. “I—no, I won’t tell you. S’pose you find out for yourself. Of course,” he added maliciously, “you can ask the Spook if you like.”
And there the matter rested. It is Hill’s secret. Perhaps the reader can solve it?
At the next séance the Pimple produced his questions. We recognized our identification mark on the paper as he slipped it under the board, and took the risk that he had not altered anything inside.