"You're not in the part," I cried, with what was almost an ecstasy of impatience. "What you've got to do is live, over that day. If you can't do that you've got to _live over_ at least one part of it. No; don't think this is all foolishness. It's only going back to a very old law of association. I'm only trying to do something to bring up sight, touch, sound. We both know those are things that act quickest in reviving memory. Can't you see--out of similar conditions I want to catch at something that will suggest the similar action! There's no need telling you that my mind and your mind each has a permanent disposition to do again what it has once done under the same circumstances. There's no use delving into psychology. It's all such ordinary every-day common sense." He sat looking at me a little blankly as I pounded this out at him. His pallid face, twitching in the light from the fire, was studious, but only passively so. The infection of my rhapsodic effort had not reached him. I knew that, even before he spoke. "I can see what you're aiming at," he explained. "But no matter how hard I think, I can't get beyond the blank wall. I'm still in this library of yours. And this is still a table and nothing like Lockwood's office desk." "And that makes it seem rather silly to you?" "Yes, it _does_ seem silly," he acknowledged. Then a sudden idea fell like a hailstone out of the heavens themselves. "I know what's the matter," I cried. "I know why you're not acting out the part. It's because you're not on the right stage. You know it's an empty rehearsal--you haven't been able to let yourself go!" "I'm sorry," he said, with the contrition of a child, and with his repeated hand-gesture of helplessness. I swung about on him, scarcely hearing the words he was uttering. "We've got to get into that office," I declared. "We've got to get into Lockwood's own office." He shook his head, without looking up at me. "I've been over that office, every nook and cranny of it!" he reiterated. "But what I want to know is, _can_ we get into it?" "At this time of night?" he asked, apparently a little frightened at the mere idea of it. "Yes, now," I declared. "I'd rather not," he finally averred. "But you still carry those office-keys, don't you?" I asked. "Yes; I still have my keys. But it wouldn't look right, the way things are. It would be only too easy for them to misinterpret a midnight visit of mine to those offices. And they're watching me, every move I make." "Then let them know you're going to make the move," I maintained. "And then we'll slip down in my car, with no chance of being followed." He seemed to be turning the matter over in his mind. Then he looked up, as though a sudden light had clarified the whole situation. "You know Mary Lockwood, don't you?" he demanded. "Y-yes," I hesitatingly admitted. "Then wouldn't it be easier for you to call her up on the telephone and explain just what you propose doing?"