A sharp crack of the lock, and Peter lifted the lid. The odour of camphor, in a great whiff, filled his nostrils, almost choking him. He drew back and took a long breath. "Gosh, they've used plenty of it," he exclaimed, half aloud. "I'd be sorry for the poor devil of a moth that took a chance with that!" Carefully he lifted up the ends of the various articles in the trunk, in such a way as not to disarrange them. Except for a pair of woollen blankets at the bottom, there was nothing there but winter clothing of various sorts. Extremely various sorts, Peter saw, for first there was a magnificent evening wrap trimmed with almost priceless fur. Beneath it lay a plain, rough, dark, heavy winter cloak rubbed a little at the cuffs and collar, as with constant wear. There were carriage boots, satin, lined with fur, and next them, wrapped in newspaper, was a pair of high, fleece-lined goloshes, old and shabby. Peter looked at the date on the newspaper. "The _Planet_, May 25," he read. "Somebody packed this trunk not more than three days before----Well, I don't see where that gets you, old top. Come get a move on." In replacing the bundle of goloshes, he noticed that an article had been cut from the paper, not torn out, but cut with sharp scissors. The fact merely caught his attention in passing. "Probably a notice of 'Dark Roads,'" he thought, and dismissing the subject from his mind, he went on with his task. It proved somewhat trying, owing to the camphor fumes, which became more overpowering as he delved deeper into the trunk, and once they became so strong that he sneezed. He tried to choke it back, but it would come, a loud "Atchi!" which resounded horribly in the stillness. Peter held his breath and listened. Nothing stirred. Far away he could hear the faint "whir--ee--ee" of a passing street car, over on Broadway, and the low murmuring of thunder overhead, but within was the silence of the tomb. "Cheerful, I calls it," said Peter, to himself, drawing a long breath. "Well, I guess that'll be about all here." He closed and locked the trunk, flashed his light inside the open drawers of the small white chiffonier, and found nothing that could give him any help. Not a letter, not a card. No piece of writing of any sort. The very few articles of clothing which remained were old and worn. A pair of gray leather gloves, shabby with wear, still held the shape of slender, long hands. There was something almost pathetic about them as they lay there, palms upward, an appeal--but Peter was in no mood for sympathy.