Harker sat at his desk and looked at the piece of paper in front of him. There was something written on the piece of paper a short poem.
Harker had written the poem himself. It was not a very good poem, but then Harker was not a poet, and he had written the poem in a hurry. He hadn't got much time left.
About an hour earlier, the telephone had rung in the hut. Harker had answered it.
'Harker?' said a voice. Harker recognized the voice.
'Ezra?' said Harker. 'What do you want?'
Where is it?' asked Ezra.
"Where is what?' asked Harker.
'You Know,' said Ezra.
'I don't know,' said Harker.
'Stop playing games,' said Ezra.
"I'm not playing games,' said Harker.
Oh yes you are,' said the voice. 'I'm coming to see you.'
Now look,' began Harker. But Ezra had put the phone down.
It was then that Harker wrote the poem.
He sat at his desk and wrote fast. He tore up two or three pieces of paper before he was satisfied.
At last the poem was finished. Harker folded the paper and wrote across the front,
'To John Samuel Fame - please read carefully.'
Harker put his pen in his pocket and looked at his watch: half past nine.
Without warning, the hut door opened.
A tall man with a pale face and a moustache stood in the doorway. Behind him were two other men who carried guns.
Harker stood up. 'Now, just a minute,
Ezra', he said, 'Let's talk.'
'You're the one who's going to talk,' said Ezra. 'Where is it?'
I've told you,' said Harker, 'I don't know what you're talking about.
Hold his arms,' shouted Ezra to the two men. The men moved fast across the room and got hold of Harker. Ezra walked over to the desk.
He saw the folded piece of paper and picked it up. He looked at it, then unfolded piece of paper and picked it up. He looked at it, then unfolded it and read the poem.
'What's this?' he said.
Harker said nothing. He was sweating.
