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verisylum. There was only ever one before this, built in 1847. We believe it is the only real treatment for dramatic cases of chronic lying, cases where the lying ends up compromising the identity of the individual. Instead of giving medications, or applying truth-rubrics, Margret Selm came up with her own method. She established the parameters for the creation of a country house in which all behavior would be governed by a set of arbitrary rules. There would be no prohibition against lying, but the individuals present in the house, the chronic liars, would find in the arbitrary rules, which, as you'll come to see, are many, a sort of structure that allowed them, as time passed, to construct an identity for themselves. The idea is that when many lies are told, unfettered by immediate comparison to fact, they end up comprising a kind of truth. On that truth too lies can be based.

    This was all a bit too much for James, who after all had just been abducted for the first time in his life, abducted and carried away in a car.

    —Then I can go up to my room now? he said. I can go where I like? And leave when I like?

    —We ask that you stay here for the next few days, just so you're around to speak to our little circle of intimates. It would mean so much to us. . . .

    —I just want to be clear, said James. I'm not a prisoner?

    —A prisoner? said McHale, laughing. You were never a prisoner. I'm sorry if Torquin gave you that impression. He and the others were just a bit worried after the business on Verit Street. You did, after all, throw a man out a window.

    —I did not! said James. Who do you think I am? That man jumped! I didn't even know him. He jumped!

    —Yes, yes, said McHale, laughing. They always do, don't they?

    He went to the door, opened it, and went out into the passage. After a minute, he stepped back in.

    —Oh, another thing: we ask that you leave the pistol in your room. If you want, of course, we can dispose of it for you. Better certainly that you not keep on your person anything linking you to Mayne's murder, don't you think? Yes, well, think about it. It's yours, after all.

    And with that, he went away.

 

    Beneath the Bell

    there was indeed a finely wrought key. The metal of the key handle curved in a circle, in the midst of which had been formed the number 17.

    —Number seventeen is this way, sir, said the maid, who stood now in the door, holding across her arm his coat.

    Up James stood and crossed the room, taking not a moment to look back as perhaps he ought to have at the relative position of the two chairs. McHale's was pointing at the chair in which James had sat, while James's chair looked meekly off towards the empty fireplace.

    With a curt nod, the maid closed the room and locked it so that no one thereafter could get in.

 

    Room no. 17

    was upon the fourth floor. As houses in London, so rooms in this mansion, their numbers and assignments varying not to suit their neighbors. Beside 17 was 3, beside 3 was 22. How many rooms there were, James could not say for sure.

    His room was quite nice, however, and neatly set up. A large bed before a bay window, easy chairs by a fireplace, a broad reading table with stationery stamped upon with a peculiar sigil. All bore his look well.

    To his great surprise, the wardrobe set against one wall contained his own clothing. How it had come to be there was a question he could not answer; nor did he feel capable even of asking it. So totally was he overcome by doubt as to that which he could be certain of, that he needed some time to reassemble in his mind certain tenets that he could rely upon, the others to dismiss.

    Upon the reading table, the newspapers of the last three days. Also, the book of the house.

 

    The Book of the House

    Beside the book of the house was an envelope addressed to James Sim. He opened it. Inside was a letter.

----

    Father,

    Here is my report on the man James Sim who was with McHale when he died.

    James