10He sat in the kitchen, having tried to make as little noise as possible, conscious of Sinclair and Miles sleeping a few doors away. The worst thing would be for them to wake and bombard him with questions. He needed peace, some quiet time to reflect and try to understand what had happened to him. The dawn, still some way off, made no impression upon the gloom of his room, but he did not care. Nothing but the experiences of just a few moments ago troubled his thoughts. He knew as certain as anything, somebody had shared his bed. The photograph, pushed under his door, may confirm the identity of the person, but such a thought was so outlandish, so fantastic, he did not dare to ponder it. Instead, he sat and gazed into nothing and tried to come up with a satisfactory explanation. For the mo
