As a thief in the night

by R. Austin Freeman

“As far as is possible,” I repeated. “Yes, of course, you are quite right, Thorndyke. But forgetfulness is not a thing which we can command at will.”

“Very true,” he replied. “But yet we can control to a large extent the direction of our thoughts. We can find interests and occupations. And, speaking of occupations, let me show you some of Polton’s productions.”

He rose, and putting a small table by the side of my chair, placed on it one or two small copper plaques and a silver medallion which he had taken from a drawer. The medallion was the self-portrait of Stella which had lain dormant in the wax mould through all the years which had passed since her death, and as I took it in my hand and gazed at the beloved face, I found it beautiful beyond my expectations.

“It is a most charming little work,” I said, holding it so that the lamp light fell most favourably on the relic, “I am infinitely obliged to you, Thorndyke.”

“Don’t thank me,” said he. “The whole credit is due to Polton. Not that he wants any thanks, for the work has yielded him hours of perfect happiness. But here he is with the products of another kind of work.”

As he spoke, Polton entered with a tray and began in his neat, noiseless way, to lay the table. I don’t know how much he knew, but when I caught his eye and his smile of greeting, it seemed to me that friendliness and kindly sympathy exuded from every line of his quaint, crinkly face. I thanked him for his skilful treatment of my treasures and then, observing that he was apparently laying the table for supper, would have excused myself. But Thorndyke would hear of no excuses.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “you are the very picture of physical exhaustion. I suspect that you have had practically no food to-day. A meal will help you to begin to get back to the normal. And, in any case, you mustn’t disappoint Polton, who has been expecting you to supper and has probably made a special effort to do credit to the establishment.”

I could only repeat my acknowledgments of Polton’s goodness (noting that he certainly must have made a special effort, to judge by the results which began to make themselves evident) and, conquering my repugnance to the idea of eating, take my place at the table.

It is perhaps somewhat humiliating to reflect that our emotional states, which we are apt to consider on a lofty spiritual plane, are controlled by matters so grossly material as the mere contents of our stomachs. But such is the degrading truth, as I now realized. For no sooner had I commenced a reluctant attack on the products of Polton’s efforts and drunk a glass of Burgundy—delicately warmed by that versatile artist to the exact optimum temperature—than my mental and physical unrest began to subside and allow a reasonable, normal outlook to develop, with a corresponding bodily state. In effect, I made quite a good meal and found myself listening with lively interest to Thorndyke’s account of the technical processes involved in converting my little plaster plaques and the wax mould into their final states in copper and silver.

Nevertheless, in the intervals of conversation the unforgettable events of the morning and the preceding night tended to creep back into my consciousness; and now a question which I had hitherto hardly considered began to clamour for an answer. Towards the end of the meal, I put it into words. Apropos of nothing in our previous conversation, I asked: