Leonard was left alone. He threw himself into a chair and tried to think. He could not. The power of concentration had left him. The tension of the last three weeks, followed by the wholly unexpected nature of the discovery, was too much for a brain even so young and strong as his. The horror of the discovery was not even felt: he tried to realise it: he knew that it ought to be there: but it was not: all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. He fell asleep in the chair before the fire. It was then about noon on Sunday. From time to time his man looked in, made up the fire, for the spring day was still chilly, but would not awaken his master. It was past seven in the evening when he woke up. Twilight was lying about the room. He remembered that Constance had laid the papers in a drawer. He opened the drawer. He took out the papers and the book. He held them in his hand. For the first time since his possession of those documents he felt no loathing of the book and its accursed pages: nor did he feel the least desire to open it or to read any more about the abominable case. He returned the packet to the drawer. Then he perceived that he was again down-laden with the oppression of sleep. He went into his bedroom and threw himself dressed as he was upon the bed, when he instantly fell sound asleep. He was neither hungry nor thirsty: he wanted no food: he wanted nothing but sleep: he slept the clock round, and more. It was ten on Monday morning when he woke up refreshed by his long and dreamless sleep, and in a normal condition of hunger. More than this, although the discovery--the tragic discovery--was fresh in his mind, he found himself once more free to think of anything he pleased. He dressed, expecting the customary summons to the Book and the Case. None came. He took breakfast and opened the paper. For three weeks he had been unable to read the paper at all. Now, to his surprise, he approached it with all his customary interest. Nothing was suggested to his mind as to the book. He went into the study, he again opened the drawer; he was not afraid, though no compulsion obliged him, to take out the book: since he was not constrained, as before, to open it, he put it back again. He remarked that the loathing with which he had regarded it only the day before was gone. In fact, he heeded the book no longer: it was like the dead body of a demon which could do no more harm. He turned to the papers on his writing-table; there were the unfinished sheets of his article lying piled up with notes and papers in neglect. He took them up with a new-born delight and the anticipation of the pleasure of finishing the thing; he wondered how he had been able to suspend his work for so long. There was a pile letters, the unopened, unanswered letters of the last three weeks; he hurriedly tore them open: some of them, at least, must be answered without delay.