Someone had been using my mail program, but instead of sending messages, he'd opened about 100 note documents. And he didn't know how to hide the evidence.
By now, I don't need proof to know the perpetrator. Snalbert.
Snictoria and Wendy have no interest in communicating with the outside world. They know you can't email a mouse to come over for a slumber party on the carpet, or a bird to fly down the chimney to entertain them. "So why bother?" they say. And Possum's large, distinguished nose is usually in some edifying book.
But Snalbert is more enterprising and he has more-or-less figured out how to type and open programs on my laptop. I have also just discovered that, in the past week, he was secretly corresponding with a French lady-cat who lives with someone who follows this blog. They struck up an acquaintanceship (and I must say that Snalbert has very good taste; the lady-cat attached a photo). He proposed marriage; she agreed to elope with him. They were making plans to honeymoon behind the cheese shop at the Haymarket and figuring out where to live (both have annoying roommates) when I found their emails.
The thing is: Snalbert is a coward, not a gallant cat-about-town. If he sneaks out the front door, he panics and starts howling to come back inside within seconds. He'd never be able to get across town to his ladyfriend without being packed into a carrier and transported there — howling all the way — by his people. And he knows it, which makes him a complete cad, to use the old-fashioned term.
I gave him a stern warning not to break any more hearts, and told him to buy a laptop of his own, rather than sneaking onto mine for his nefarious purposes.