There was to be no sleep for me that night. I felt so wide awake that I saw it would be useless getting to bed. I was agitated and superstitious. The house was so still that I could hear the ticking of the clock in the hall. The wind swept past the windows at intervals and faintly rattled the casements. How calmly she slept! I could not reconcile her profound slumber with the misery in her face. Was there a sorrow there, or was it her madness that made her face so plaintive? If a sorrow, why should it be undiscoverable? I had searched her boxes; what else remained to be searched? I went to the wardrobe, noiselessly pulled out the drawers and examined them. In the top drawer was her jewel case. It was open. I raised the tray; there was nothing there beyond a few articles of jewelry. I inspected the middle drawer. Here was her desk; a large old-fashioned rosewood box, at which I had once or twice found her writing in the dressing-room. It was locked. I took the keys, fitted the right one, and opened the desk. There were papers here, at all events; bundles of letters, some of them yellow and faded, connected by bits of elastic. Eager as I was to know the truth _for her sake_, I found my curiosity strongly repelled by my sense of delicacy and honour. Before I could force myself to open the bundle I held, I had to subdue my aversion to the task by recalling the benefit she would derive by my knowing her past. That the rustling of the papers should not disturb her, I retreated with the desk to the dressing-room, leaving the door ajar, that I might hear if she moved. I then trimmed the light and addressed myself to my necessary but odious task.