It is midnight. Leila is still out, bent on frivolaty. The rest of the Familey sleeps quietly, except father, who has taken cold and is breathing through his mouth, and I sit here alone, with my secret.
William is a Spy. I have the proofs. How my hand trembles as I set down the terrable words.
I discovered it thus.
Feeling somewhat emty at bed time and never sleeping well when hollow inside, I went down to the pantrey at eleven P. M. to see if any of the dinner puding had been left, although not hopeful, owing to the servants mostly finishing the desert.
William was in the pantrey.
He was writing somthing, and he tried to hide it when I entered.
Being in my robe de nuit I closed the door and said through it:
“Please go away, William. Because I want to come in, unless all the puding is gone.”
I could hear him moving around, as though concealing somthing.
“There is no puding, miss,” he said. “And no fruit except for breakfast. Your mother is very particuler that no one take the breakfast fruit.”