The light relieved her from that sickening spasm of terror. There was nobody there--of course she knew there could be nobody there: but it was impossible to think of going to sleep again, thrice impossible to return to the darkness and once more imagine stealthy steps about the room and the pallid face bending over her. She put on a dressing-gown, and, taking out the scraps of paper, began with more leisure and real pains to put them together. Now that she knew it was not Dolff’s name that was written at the bottom of the page, the sense of mystery returned to her mind. It seemed impossible that his father’s copy-books should be still in being, or that it could be of any importance who saw them. Janet shivered with cold, but it was better than lying trembling in the dark, thinking that the old man of the wing was walking about the room. And she had promised to send the bits of paper to Meredith. She put them all together, piecing them as well as she could. Sometimes she could only join a triangular or oblong scrap to a square one. Sometimes there was an absolute break which in no way could be filled out. She succeeded in making out something like this: “I can’t get---- I want to get out. I can’t get out. I can’t g--get out: could pay--could p----can’t get----can’t get--out, out, out----Money, plenty money. Could pay, could p----but can’t, can’t, can’t get out.” It was mere gibberish Janet thought. She knew no meaning in it. After she had worked for an hour at it, she had almost thrown it away again, feeling that it was mere nonsense; whether written by the prisoner, whether, as was more likely, some childish repetitions out of a copybook, she could not tell; but at all events nonsense, throwing no light upon anything, doing no one any good. She fixed the scraps on a sheet of paper, however, as well as she could piece them together, and especially the sprawling, childish signature “Adol----Char--es Har--w----.”