We rode along in silence for a while. "Say, Foster," I said. "Have you still got that notebook of yours?" Foster tried several pockets, came up with the book. He looked at it, turned it over, frowning. "You remember it?" I said, watching him. He shook his head slowly, then ran his finger around the circles embossed on the cover. "This pattern," he said. "It signifies...." "Go on, Foster," I said. "Signifies what?" "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't remember." I took the book and sat looking at it. I didn't really see it, though. I was seeing my future. When Foster didn't turn up, they'd naturally assume he was dead. I'd been with him just before his disappearance. It wasn't hard to see why they'd want to talk to me—and my having vanished too wouldn't help any. My picture would blossom out in post offices all over the country; and even if they didn't catch me right away, the murder charge would always be there, hanging over me. It wouldn't do any good to turn myself in and tell them the whole story; they wouldn't believe me, and I wouldn't blame them. I didn't really believe it myself, and I'd lived through it. But then, maybe I was just imagining that Foster looked younger. After all, a good night's rest—— I looked at Foster, and almost groaned again. Twenty was stretching it; eighteen was more like it. I was willing to swear he'd never shaved in his life. "Foster," I said. "It's got to be in this book; who you are, where you came from——It's the only hope I've got." "I suggest we read it, then," Foster said. "A bright idea," I said. "Why didn't I think of that?" I thumbed through the book to the section in English and read for an hour. Starting with the entry dated January 19, 1710, the writer had scribbled a few lines every few months. He seemed to be some kind of pioneer in the Virginia Colony. He complained about prices, and the Indians, and the ignorance of the other settlers and every now and then threw in a remark about the Enemy. He often took long trips, and when he got home, he complained about those,