And then an idea occurred to Pauline, and shone on her brow like a light. “Listen,” she said kindly to the aged woman. “I will ask you some questions. The answers will be only yes or no. If you mean ‘no’ try to keep your eyelids still, but if you mean ‘yes’ blink them! as much as you can. Do you understand?” The eyelids blinked; and then they continued their terrible entranced stare at a spot on the ceiling exactly above their owner’s head. “Good,” said Pauline. “Are you in pain?” No movement of the eyelids. “Are you thirsty?” A slight flickering, which the patient clearly endeavoured to suppress. “You want something?” The eyes blinked. “Is it some person?” The eyelids were steady. “Something in this room?” A violent blinking. “Is it in a drawer?” The eyelids were steady. “Then I can see it as I stand here?” The eyes blinked again. Pauline set the cup down on the night-table, and gazed round the room. She went to the mantelpiece, and gave a list of the things on it: candlestick, clock, matches, vases, keys, medicine-bottle, a piece of crochet work, a long knitting-needle, a picture post-card. There was no response from the invalid. “How foolish I am!” murmured Pauline. “She cannot possibly want any of these things.” Then she saw a few old letters half-hidden behind the clock. “Is it there?” she asked, holding the letters near to Mrs. Ilam. But there was still no response. She put back the letters and went to the ottoman, on which was a large family Bible. But it was not the Bible that Mrs. Ilam wanted, nor a spectacle case that lay on the Bible. Then Pauline catalogued one by one the contents of the dressing-table, and then the contents of the washstand, still with no result. At last, she came to a chest of drawers, covered with a piece of white crewelwork, and bearing some wax flowers, two small vases, a black lacquered box, sundry folded linen, several books, and a few faded photographs. She described the photographs and the linen and the books, as these seemed to be the most likely objects, and then she came to the lacquered box. And suddenly, the eyes began to blink furiously. “You want this box?” The eyes continued to blink. She brought it to the bed: It was about eight inches square and three inches in depth, and beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a design to resemble a bunch of roses--just such a little cabinet as our grandmothers valued, such as was scorned as being Early Victorian during the aesthetic movement of the eighties and nineties, but such as we ourselves are beginning to recognize as beautiful. It had prominent brass hinges, and a keyhole, and it was locked. “Do you want me to open it? It’s locked.” The eyes were moderately still. “Then you wish it put somewhere else?” They blinked. “In a drawer?” No response. “On the dressing-table?” No response. “Near you?” The eyes blinked, “On the bed?” No response. “Under the bed?” No response. Pauline was at a loss.