He must rewrite that note at all hazards.
So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from under the door.

But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyond the sill, and he could not reach it.

The thing was done for better or for worse.

Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashed mournfully back to the lights.

In the lantern room of the right-hand tower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out on the gallery to note the weather.
The storm was dying out.