I went directly to the bay window where I had entered the library before, and effected an entrance without any difficulty. I found the key of the safe under the cushion, where I had left it, and opened the door. Eagerly I seized the pile of papers I had seen before, and began to examine them. Most of them were unintelligible to me, and apparently had no connection with my father's affairs; but there were several letters dated at London, which I thrust into my pocket. I could find nothing else which promised to be of service to me, and I was about to close the door, when I discovered a sealed letter lying in a pigeon hole by itself. I took it from its place, and read the direction: "Robert G. Bunyard, 47 Old Jewry, Chambers, London." This letter, I was convinced, would afford me some information; indeed, the address would give me a clew to what I wanted. I was kneeling on one knee, with this letter in my hand, when the door of the library suddenly opened, and my uncle stepped into the room. "Ernest Thornton!" cried he, in tones so full of terror that they pierced my soul. He sprang towards me; but I stepped out of his way, though I was nearly paralyzed by this unexpected interruption. I thrust the letter into my pocket, and stood at bay near the window by which I had entered. "What have you done?" gasped uncle Amos, as he staggered towards me, his face pale as a sheet, and his limbs trembling in every fibre. "What papers have you taken?" "My father's will for one," I replied, almost as much disturbed as he was. "O Heaven!" groaned he. "Uncle Amos, will you tell me now where my mother is?" "O, Ernest! I am ruined!" exclaimed he, sinking into a chair. "Will you tell me where my mother is?" I repeated, with all the earnestness I could command. "Is this the return you make to me for all my kindness to you?" he added, in a choking voice. "I have given you all you wanted--boats, money, everything. Have pity on me, Ernest. I--I shall--I shall go mad!" "I should think you would," I replied, having in some degree recovered my self-possession. "You told me my father left nothing for me; that my mother was in an insane asylum." "She is, Ernest--she is," said he. "Where?" I demanded, in a loud, fierce tone. "I cannot tell you. Where is Thomas? Send for him, and he will make it all right. You shall have every dollar that belongs to you, Ernest. I am a miserable wretch; but I did not do this deed for my own sake. Send for Thomas." "I have had enough of Thomas. He would cut my throat as readily as he would turn his hand. Will you tell me where my mother is, or shall I find her myself?" "You cannot find her, Ernest. Be calm, and you shall have all. Send for Thomas." "I will not send for him. I don't care so much for the money as I do for my mother. Tell me where she is, or send for her." "She could not come." "Then I can go to her." "Sit down, Ernest, and be calm."