“Do so.”
I picked it up and fished out the papers and miscellany, piling them on my desk. It was a thin crop — tennis racket, empty handbag, pair of stockings, a copy of Is Germany Incurable?, a jar of cream, other similar items. There was nothing among the papers to quicken my pulse — a copy of Army Regulations, four issues of Yank, a dozen or so G.I. postcards. I flipped the pages of the Regulations, and when a folded sheet of paper fluttered out I picked it up and unfolded it. It had typewriting on one side:
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree ,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made ;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee ,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
There was more of it. “This may be something,” I told Wolfe. “Where’s Innisfree?”
He was scowling at me. “What?”
“She writes poetry.” I placed the sheet on the desk before him, stepping around so I could finish reading it. “She’s going to Innisfree and build a cabin and start a victory garden and keep bees. Maybe there’s more clues in it.” I read on: