Grave possibilities forced themselves on his attention. Suppose
they did not believe him, what would they do to him? Would his
unblemished high character count for nothing? Technically he was
a burglar, beyond dispute. Following out this train of thought,
he was composing a lucid apology for "this technical crime I have
committed," to be delivered before sentence in the dock, when
the stout gentleman got up and began walking about the room. He
locked and unlocked drawers, and Mr. Ledbetter had a transient hope
that he might be undressing. But, no! He seated himself at the
writing-table, and began to write and then tear up documents.
Presently the smell of burning cream-laid paper mingled with the odour
of cigars in Mr. Ledbetter's nostrils.
"The position I had assumed," said Mr. Ledbetter when he told me of
these things, "was in many respects an ill-advised one. A transverse
bar beneath the bed depressed my head unduly, and threw a
disproportionate share of my weight upon my hands. After a time, I
experienced what is called, I believe, a crick in the neck. The
pressure of my hands on the coarsely-stitched carpet speedily became
painful.
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