It seems strangely like old times to me to be making these jottings inPitman's shorthand. I was surprised to find I remembered as much of itas I do, for I dropped it suddenly when Archie Merridew died, andArchie's clear, high-pitched voice was the last that ever dictated tome for speed, while I myself have not dictated since Archie took downhis last message from my reading. That will be—say a dozen years ormore ago next August. It may be a little more, or a little less. Nor,since I do not keep it as an anniversary, does the day of the monthmatter.

Either in my rooms or his, we had a good deal of this sort of practisetogether about that time, young Archie and I—reading aloud, takingdown and transcribing. I am wrong in speaking of my "rooms" though; Ihad only one, a third-floor bedroom near the very noisiest corner ofKing's Cross. It was just opposite one of these running electricadvertisements that changed from green to red and from red to greenth

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IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE EVIDENCE

OLIVER ONIONS