He turned off all the lights, and went through into the room at the front. Here the little candle lamp on the desk threw a gentle, intimate glow over the rather austere old furniture and neutral-tinted walls. There was nothing here that even remotely suggested the theatrical; none of the customary signed photographs, and but few pictures. Over the mantel, the Mona Lisa smiled her enigmatic smile, there were a few fine old Japanese prints, and that was all. In front of the centre window, on a slender pedestal, was an exquisite little plaster cast of an Andromeda, chained to a rock. Scratched in the base was the signature, D.V.L. Morris. All these generalities Peter could see in the quiet light, but they did not appear to have any particular significance. He felt that he needed all the light, both mental and material, that he could get, so without wasting any precious moments he took off the shade of the lamp which stood on the table and turned on both its high-powered bulbs. Again, as on that first day, he stirred the dead, cold ashes in the fireplace. No, there was nothing. Every particle of the paper was consumed. He could not even tell what sort of papers had been burned. Sighing, he rose and looked again about the room. On each side of the fireplace were built-in shelves laden with books and magazines. There was a good deal of fiction which Peter had never read. Thackeray, George Meredith (Stevenson, Peter knew, and heartily approved), Henry James, Edith Wharton, and many others, including the novels and plays of Bernard Shaw. There was a good deal of poetry, and many plays, old and new. On the top shelf stood a worn set of Shakespeare, in a quaint, old-fashioned leather binding. Without knowing just why he did it, Peter took down one of the volumes at random. It chanced to be "Julius Cæsar," and on the fly leaf, in a bold, flowing hand, was the name, "Winthrop Curwood." "Winthrop Curwood," Peter repeated, half aloud. "I've heard that name before somewhere.... Winthrop Curwood.... No, dammit, I can't place it.... And anyway, it may not mean a thing. The books are old enough to have been bought second-hand. I'll just see----" He ran rapidly through a number of the older books. The name did not occur again. "However, I'll just make a note of it. There doesn't seem to be any other owner's name written in any of 'em," he thought, and in a little pocket memorandum book he copied the name "Winthrop Curwood," in his clear, microscopic hand. In returning "Julius Cæsar" to his place on the top shelf Peter's hand struck a pile of magazines which were closely stacked at the end. One of the slippery pamphlets loosened, and in a rush the whole lot came cascading down.