That night, I seriously couldn't sleep. I mean, how can you if you're high in the air? I don't know how Hector and Isadora managed to fall asleep.

I was in the mood to surf the Web, so I crept out of bed with my flashlight and new commonplace book, in case I wanted to start recording useless new things. I probably never would have been able to return to V.F.D., so I figured what the heck?

I took Hector's laptop up to the forbidden room, where I knew it was safe, and went to the internet. I turned the sound off and went to my email.

Earlier I got a fresh email, but Hector said, "Let's put the laptop away for now, okay?" He shoved us off to dinner, and none more about the mail was said.

I clicked on the email, and nothing happened. I hit the refresh button on the toolbar and the page reloaded. I clicked the email link again. Still nothing happened.

I pounded the mouse so hard the email actually came up, but it said that it was expired.

Frustrated, I hit a strange combination of keys. V-e-r-y-F-u-n-n-y-D-e-r-m-o-t-t.

David Dermott also invented the V.F.D. computer with some of his colleagues. He made a code that was in that key order. It could refresh any expired page, and I realized this was a V.F.D. computer, not just some laptop.

The email popped up, clear as can be. It was addressed to me, but it said,

To Duncan—

The enclosed papers are V.F.D. pieces of evidence for a very important case. We realize you are hardly near any V.F.D. headquarters, but you are with H and your sister. But do not let anyone else see these. The first is a brief letter from Giuseppe Verdi to B, transferred quite a few years ago. We found it in the ruins of the Baudelaire Fire. The second is an entry from the journal of Lucius Snicket that we managed to steal very recently.

Dear Mr. Baudelaire,

I am so happy you found the time to also see my opera tonight, La Forza del Destino. I understand you, Bertrand Baudelaire, under some circumstance, despite what sort it was, had some business to attend to, and had to depart early. Some murdering is dreadful. You know our business is noble, and business murder is not part of it. Some things have to be done, and though you had work, I'm glad you attended my opera. To be able to make a volunteer's acquaintance, to be able to have time like you, Bertrand, and it's great. I noticed your clothing, however. That was perfectly, splendidly fine. I hope that perhaps one of these fine days we'll meet at the Veritable French Diner. Or, maybe even possibly at Mount Fraught. There's a nice building up near there. The Café Salmonella is not an option, as I'm allergic to dairy salmon, an awful dish they serve. Hotel Denouement is spectacular, but I've only heard so. A friend of mine suggested to don't go alone, as it's fun with friends or family. To go is another matter, as it is far. More like at home, except with room service and classic spas, pools, sunbathing rooftop salons, banquet rooms, and etc. is their motto. I hope we meet someday.

Yours truly,

Giuseppe Verdi.

Dear journal, February 16, 1991

Today was a very important day. The schism was almost twenty years ago, and my accomplice, Olaf Snicket, burnt down the Baudelaire Mansion. I never knew the hairy trip had it in him. One died, as did others at the meeting. But I do believe one survived and escaped to the Fountain of Victorious Finance. And they sent their children away to Briny Beach where I do believe that fat, coughing banker, Arthur Poe, head of Orphan Affairs at Mulctuary Money Management, drove them to his home where he decided their fate: send them to Olaf's house. After all, he is their distant relative, but closest relative geographically. It is almost midnight, but I am truly excited. I think a bottle of wine, finger puppets and practicing the use of poison darts would be appropriate to celebrate. Also, I hope that those blasted Baudelaire kids are murdered soon. When will that hairy fool get it over with?

I was fiercely angry. This was very important evidence. The Sebald in Giuseppe Verdi's letter to Mr. Baudelaire was something important. I had to print out the email. But Hector would hear the noise, and be awoken. V.F.D. printers were loud.

I had no choice but to write it all down in my commonplace notebook. It took a while, but I did. Then the door creaked open.

I grabbed the laptop and dashed under the table I was at. Footsteps clopped around. They stopped at the table. They were large brown boots. Hector's.

Then Hector leaned down and peered into my face.

I couldn't believe it. Hector was…Isadora!

"Izzy! What the heck…you scared the crap out of me!" I almost screamed.

"Hey, that's what you get for entering the forbidden room," she hissed. "What's that on your email?"

"Nothing." I closed the laptop. She grabbed at my commonplace book.

"You wrote it down!"

"I wrote what down?" I asked innocently, keeping my red notebook out of her reach.

She grabbed one ring and pried it from my hand. Part of the ring came out and scratched my palm. I yelped and jerked my hand back, reaching for my commonplace book with my other hand.

She read the first two pages. She gasped at me. "What is this?" she asked.

"Evidence," I said. "They're both in the Baudelaire case. The first implies that Giuseppe Verdi was a volunteer, and he knew that Olaf planned to originally burn the Baudelaire Home down one night, but Bertrand and probably his wife stayed at Valorous Farms Dairy, and someone went to get the kids unless they were in peril. And the other tells that Olaf burnt the Baudelaire Mansion down, and he's pretty sure one of the parents survived."

Isadora's hand went to her mouth, and she said, "We have to tell Hector."

"I can't," I said. "The volunteer told me not to let anyone know."

"Why would they trust you?" Isadora asked. "No offense."

I shrugged. "They just somehow know me."

"Well, turn the laptop back on," Isadora urged. "We need to know who sent you the email, and why they trust you with that information."

I went back to my email website and clicked on the link. I refreshed the message and I scrolled down to the return email address. There was nothing except a QQ.

"Quigley," Isadora breathed.