Now that the forest has again closed over me I feel that I am welcome, that under the dense mysteries of vegetation must be the answer – well, not the answer but a readiness to sense what it should be. One cannot live here without the genes of far-distant ancestors responding. I see in myself some resemblance to a werewolf. When I have to appear by day I am a good and reputable citizen whose name is not unknown in learned circles; by night I am a prowler under the oaks, determined to find out why I was worth killing. Why was I so important? Which of his precious secrets, mostly bogus but one undeniably solid, did he suspect I might discover? And discover where it is, what is its date and what its source I will. Meanwhile, I wish to prepare a record of events which will explain my own actions and serve as the basis of my defence if I am run in on a charge of murder and, perhaps, of burglary. When I was safely on the bank after the fight with the Severn for my life and wondering why Simeon Marrin should have encouraged me in what he must have known was sheer suicide, I remembered having told him that nobody knew where I was.
