THE HUNDRED-AND-FORTY-FIRST PAGE

And just to be on the safe side, I took the gun from behind a bookshelf, where I had hidden it, (Ah, the many uses of our friend, the book) loaded it, and placed it under the bed.

I tried to read for a while because I was too keyed up sleep, but I couldn’t concentrate on the Spanish mystery, which only served to remind me that my state was as perilous as that of the figure in the novel.

What was My Editor trying to tell me? Did he really intend great harm? Or was it only a simple threat calculated to throw me off my sleep? He had succeeded. I couldn’t read; sleep didn’t seem conceivable.

I went downstairs for a glass of seltzer. The dog had found the comforts of sleep. I’d feared his earlier behavior augured his being thrown off his sleep--no way; he slept through my waking nightmare in his traditional death position.

Returning to my bedroom, I turned out the light and lay down. I groped under the bed for the gun. It hadn’t gone anywhere. What did I think I going to do with the thing, anyway? Take potshots at the red Rover from an upstairs window? I wasn’t even certain I’d loaded it correctly. Despite my lifelong bout with claustrophobia, it was not unusual for me to pull the covers over my head. It was done again.