“Yes, I will go in alone, and I will promise not to reveal anything you don’t wish me to,” she cried. “I will tell you the truth, Mrs. Smith. I simply want to find a little book that I believe Mr. Seabright has hidden away. It belongs to my mother, and she wants it very much.” “Oh, if that is all,” began the woman, “perhaps I can find it for you. What is the title?” “I must search for it myself,” the girl answered resolutely, and, with a long-drawn sigh, the woman yielded the point. “Come, then,” she said abruptly, and, after returning a moment to her friends in the parlor, Italy followed her up-stairs to her own room. She was trembling with excitement. She felt herself on the eve of a terrible discovery of some sort. Mrs. Smith went to a secrétaire in her room, pushed back what seemed to be a hidden or secret drawer, and took out a brass key. With this she unlocked a door across the room and left Italy a moment, saying: “Wait till I light the gas.” She carried in a step-ladder and lighted a gas-jet near up to the ceiling, then came back and said with sullen acquiescence: “You may come in now.” And with a wildly throbbing heart Italy stepped over the threshold of the mysterious chamber. Mrs. Smith quickly closed the door, and they were alone together. Italy raised her eyes and gazed curiously around her. The next moment a cry of startled comprehension escaped her lips: “I was right. Percy Seabright is a maniac!” The room in which she stood was one of those small padded chambers used to imprison the violently insane to prevent them from injuring themselves in their paroxysms of madness. It was devoid of furniture with the exception of a large cushioned chair that stood before a small secrétaire similar to the one in Mrs. Smith’s room. This was piled with a quantity of dilapidated-looking books, from all of which the backs had been stripped. “Percy Seabright is a maniac!” repeated Italy, and Mrs. Smith cried out remonstratingly: “Oh, no, Miss Vale, you’re quite mistaken. The room was like this when he bought the house. The former owner had an insane wife that he kept in here.” Italy did not take the trouble to tell the woman that she was speaking falsely. She was eagerly turning over the books, and pulling open the little drawers in search of the diary. She looked around at the woman. “There must be a secret drawer in this secrétaire, the same as in yours. Open it,” she commanded. Mrs. Smith touched a hidden spring, and a little drawer shot out instantly. Lying in it was a small book bound in dark velvet, clasped in gold, and lettered in gilt: “Diary.” At that moment the peal of the door-bell resounded loudly through the house. Mrs. Smith gave a violent start. “Heavens, what does that mean? I must go instantly. Miss Vale, you cannot leave for a moment or two until I return. Will you have the goodness to lock yourself into this room until I return?”