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UNABLE TO SLEEP, JACK Winston swung his legs out of bed and padded over to his desk. He lit the lamp and fetched the desk key from his jacket where it hung on the coat stand. The lock released and he sat to read.
Winston rubbed his eyes. The question remained on the page, written in someone else’s hand. In the rooms around him, Mrs. Bradley’s other tenants slept. None of them had any business in his space. The maid? Mrs. Bradley? Both had only ever shown him respect, polite in manner and not overly curious. Certainly not brazen enough to write in his journal.
And when could they have done it? He had made sure to lock the journal in his desk before going to bed. He inspected his desk, finding no indication the lock had been picked. When he’d first returned from the station, Winston had eaten a quiet meal, thoughtfully set aside by Mrs. Bradley’s cook. During the meal, the journal had sat in his rooms inside his bag. But surely nobody entered his rooms during that brief time. He took a look around the room. Everything else appeared as it should be.
He considered his options and settled on a short reply.