The drawers of the writing-desk were locked.  Its revolving top was also locked.  I could see no indications of the keys, and there were none in the pockets of my trousers.  I shuffled back at once to the bedroom, and went through the dress suit, and afterwards the pockets of all the garments I could find.  I was very eager, and one might have imagined that burglars had been at work, to see my room when I had done.  Not only were there no keys to be found, but not a coin, nor a scrap of paper—­save only the receipted bill of the overnight dinner.

A curious weariness asserted itself.  I sat down and stared at the garments flung here and there, their pockets turned inside out.  My first frenzy had already flickered out.  Every moment I was beginning to realise the immense intelligence of the plans of my enemy, to see more and more clearly the hopelessness of my position.  With an effort I rose and hurried hobbling into the study again.  On the staircase was a housemaid pulling up the blinds.  She stared, I think, at the expression of my face.  I shut the door of the study behind me, and, seizing a poker, began an attack upon the desk.  That is how they found me.  The cover of the desk was split, the lock smashed, the letters torn out of the pigeon-holes, and tossed about the room.  In my senile rage I had flung about the pens and other such light stationery, and overturned the ink.  Moreover, a large vase upon the mantel had got broken—­I do not know how.  I could find no cheque-book, no money, no indications of the slightest use for the recovery of my body.  I was battering madly at the drawers, when the butler, backed by two women-servants, intruded upon me.

* * * * *

That simply is the story of my change.  No one will believe my frantic assertions.  I am treated as one demented, and even at this moment I am under restraint.  But I am sane, absolutely sane, and to prove it I have sat down to write this story minutely as the things happened to me.  I appeal to the reader, whether there is any trace of insanity in the style or method, of the story he has been reading.  I am a young man locked away in an old man’s body.  But the clear fact is incredible to everyone.  Naturally I appear demented to those who will not believe this, naturally I do not know the names of my secretaries, of the doctors who come to see me, of my servants and neighbours, of this town (wherever it is) where I find myself.  Naturally I lose myself in my own house, and suffer inconveniences of every sort.  Naturally I ask the oddest questions.  Naturally I weep and cry out, and have paroxysms of despair.  I have no money and no cheque-book.  The bank will not recognise my signature, for I suppose that, allowing for the feeble muscles I now have, my handwriting is still Eden’s.  These people about me will not let me go to the bank personally.  It seems, indeed, that there is no bank in this town, and that I have an account in some part of London.  It seems