Our systems have been shaken by some kind of doubling of names reminding me of a certain village dance among the hill-people here: the weaving in of the first man, the two women following and the next man diving through the arch of their arms to lock elbows with the first, etc. As a child I never could follow the sense of it, only the feeling. Such is my position now, about this: unprecedentedly strange as it is, someone seems clearly to have been in the office last night after the last clerk left & I locked up. When I came this morning and unlocked the door, it would not open: this because it had not in fact been locked and so my unlocking had locked it. On entering, finally, puzzled, the first things I noticed were an odor of attar, a tension in my chest, and a large photograph on my desk. After these, nothing, against an hour's meticulous investigation. The photograph is beautiful. On its reverse is written a woman's name, nine characters, the first and last of which are S; I happen to know positively, however, that the holder of that name who invests it with a particular significance for me is at present bodily & heartily resident in a snowbound town some thousands of kilometers away from here. I can't begin to figure out who the gentle enterer was, or where they got their key.