“All these things are Mrs. Fitzgerald’s, I know them,” he said, looking round the room like an auctioneer in fancy dress.
“I took the flat over from her.”
“That’s her desk?”
“Yes.”
“I must search it.”
“Please do. You’ll only find my manuscript in there; but do go through it. I’d love you to. I’d like to be sure somebody read it. Publishers are such unkind people.”
I heard a smothered oath from the other room. The door was open, and I saw an officer with my stocking bag. He had evidently run his finger on a darning needle. He cast the bag from him, and turned his attention to my chest of drawers.
The officer in charge opened the top of the desk. The Bulletins were in the bottom drawer; but one that I had been reading was on top of the desk. It lay face downwards almost under his hand. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to take the bull by the horns and own up to them, or try my luck. My luck stood me in good stead. He picked up a horoscope I had been casting. He had another attack of humanity. He put down the gun he had in his hand, and turned to me with the map.
“By Jove, are you interested in astrology? I started it during the war, and before I came on this stunt.”
“I started it when Curfew was long and life became perceptibly shorter.”