I couldn't find her at all--
as, indeed, how should I, since Harley had not taken me into his
confidence as to his intentions in the new story? He might have laid
the scene of it in Singapore, for aught I knew, and, wander where I
would in my fancy, I was utterly unable to discover her whereabouts,
until one evening a very weird thing happened--a thing so weird that
I have been pinching myself with great assiduity ever since in order
to reassure myself of my own existence. I had come home from a hard
day's editorial work, had dined alone and comfortably, and was
stretched out at full length upon the low divan that stands at the
end of my workshop--the delight of my weary bones and the envy of my
friends, who have never been able to find anywhere another exactly
like it. My cigar was between my lips, and above my head, rising in
a curling cloud to the ceiling, was a mass of smoke. I am sure I was
not dreaming, although how else to account for it I do not know.
What happened, to put it briefly, was my sudden transportation to a
little mountain hotel not far from Lake George, where I found myself
sitting and talking to the woman I had so futilely sought.
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