Charlie is already glancing around the room.

There's no mud either, he says, pointing to the puddle on the floor.

He and Gil exchange a look, which Gil seems to take as an accusation. If the screen was cut from inside, then we're back to the unlocked door.

That doesn't make sense, Gil says. If they knew the door was open, they wouldn't leave through the window.

It doesn't make sense anyway, I tell him. Once you're inside, you can always leave through the door.

We should tell the proctors about this, Charlie says, gearing up again. I can't believe she didn't even look for it.

Paul says nothing, but runs a hand across the diary.

I turn to him. You still going to Taft's lecture?

I guess. It doesn't start for almost an hour.

Charlie is placing books back on the top shelves, where only he can reach. I'll stop by Stanhope on the way, he says. To tell the proctors what they missed.

It was probably a prank, Gil says to no one in particular. Nude Olympians having some fun.

After a few more minutes of picking up, we all seem to decide that enough is enough. Gil begins changing into a pair of wool trousers, throwing Katie's dress shirt into a bag of dry cleaning. We could get a bite to eat at Ivy on the way.

Paul nods, leafing through his copy of Braudel's Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, as if pages might've been stolen. I need to check on my stuff at the club.

You guys might want to change, Gil adds, looking us over.

Paul is too preoccupied to hear him, but I know what Gil means, so I return to the bedroom. Ivy isn't the sort of place I'd be caught dead dressed like this. Only Paul, a shadow in his own club, lives by different rules.

What dawns on me as I check my drawers is that nearly all of my clothes are dirty. Rummaging in the far back of my closet, I find a rolled-up pair of khakis and a shirt that's been folded for so long that the folds have become creases, and the creases pleats. I search for my winter jacket, then realize it's still hanging from Charlie's duffel bag in the steam tunnels. Settling for the coat my mother bought me for Christmas, I head into the common room, where Paul is sitting by the window, eyes on the bookshelves, puzzling something out.

Are you bringing the diary with you? I ask.

He pats the bundle of rags in his lap and nods.

Where's Charlie? I say, looking around.

Already gone, Gil tells me, guiding us out to the hall. To see the proctors.

He takes the keys to his Saab and places them inside his coat. Before closing the door behind us, he checks his pockets.

Room keys… car keys… ID…

He's so careful, it makes me uneasy. It isn't Gil's way to concern himself with details. Staring back into the common room, I see my two letters sitting on the table. Then Gil locks the door with the same odd precision, rolling the knob in his palm twice afterward to be sure that it yields nothing. We walk toward his car, and now the silence is heavy. As he revs the engine, proctors shift in the distance, shadows of shadows. We watch them for a second, then Gil jerks the gearshift and brings us gliding into the darkness.

Past the security kiosk at the north entrance to campus, we turn right onto Nassau Street, Princeton's main drag. At this hour it's lifeless, prowled by two plows and a salt truck that someone has roused from hibernation. Stray boutiques glow in the night, snow gathering below their storefront windows. Talbot's and Micawber Books are closed at this hour, but Pequod Copy and the coffee shops manage a small bustle, filled with seniors rushing to complete their theses in the eleventh hour before departmental deadlines.

Glad to be done with it? Gil asks Paul, who has retreated into himself again.

My diesis?

Gil looks into the rearview mirror.

It's not finished yet, Paul says.

Come on. It's done. What do you have left to do?

Paul's breath frosts the rear window. Enough, he says.

At the stoplight, we turn onto Washington Road, then toward Prospect Avenue and the eating clubs. Gil knows better than to ask more questions. As we approach Prospect, I know his thoughts are gravitating elsewhere. Saturday night is the Ivy Club's annual ball, and it has been left to him, as club president, to oversee the arrangements. After falling behind while finishing his thesis, he's gotten into the habit of making little trips to Ivy just to convince himself that everything is under control. According to Katie, by the time I arrive to escort her tomorrow night, I'll barely recognize the inside of the club.

We pull up beside the clubhouse, into the space that seems to be reserved for Gil, and when he disengages his key from the ignition a cold silence echoes in the cabin. Friday is the lull in the weekend storm, a chance to sober up between the traditional party nights of Thursday and Saturday. The recent snow has dampened even the hum of voices that usually drifts in the air as juniors and seniors return to campus from dinner.

According to administrators, the eating clubs at Princeton are an upperclass dining option. The reality is that the eating clubs are basically the only option we have. In the early days of the college, when refectory fires and surly innkeepers forced students to fend for themselves, small groups banded together to take meals under the same roof. Princeton being what it was in those days, the roofs they ate under, and the clubhouses they built to support those roofs, were no mean affair; some of them are nothing short of manors. And to this day the eating club remains Princeton's peculiar institution: a place, like a coed fraternity, where junior and senior members hold parties and eat meals, but do not reside. Almost one hundred and fifty years after the institution first appeared, social life at Princeton is simple to explain. It lies firmly in the hands of the clubs.

Ivy looks grim at this hour. Cloaked in darkness, the sharp points and dark stonework of the building are uninviting. Cottage Club, next door, with its white quoins and round accents, easily outshines it. These two sister clubs, older than the other surviving ten on Prospect Avenue, are Princeton's most exclusive. Their rivalry for the best of each class has endured since 1886.

Gil looks at his watch. They're not seating for dinner anymore. I'll bring us up some food. He holds the front door open, then guides us up the main stairs.

It's been awhile since my last visit here, and the dark oak-paneled walls with their severe-looking portraits always give me pause. 7b the left: is Ivy's dining room, with its long wooden tables and century-old English chairs; to the right is the billiards room, where Parker Hassett is playing a game of pool alone. Parker is Ivy's village idiot, a half-wit from a wealthy family who is just bright enough to realize what a fool some people think he is, and just dumb enough to blame everyone else for it. He plays pool with both hands moving the cue, like a vaudeville actor dancing with a cane. Though he glances over at us when we pass, I ignore him as we mount the stairs, heading for the Officers' Room.

Knocking twice at the door, Gil enters without awaiting a reply. We follow him into the warm light of the room, where Brooks Franklin, Gil's portly vice president, sits at a long mahogany table extending lengthwise just past the door. Atop the table stand a Tiffany lamp and a phone. Around its edge are tucked six chairs.

I'm glad you showed up when you did, Brooks says to all of us, politely ignoring the fact that Paul is wearing women's clothes. Parker was telling me his costume plans for tomorrow night, and I was starting to think I might need backup.

I don't know Brooks very well, but ever since we shared an introductory economics class sophomore year, he has related to me as an old friend. I'm guessing that Parker's plans have to do with Saturday's dance, which is traditionally a Princeton-themed costume ball.