The old man struggled hard within himself. Should he treacherously disclose the secret of her life as he had already betrayed the secret of her death? But was there not, in this case, a good deed to be done? Did it not mean freeing him whom she had loved above all things, from the torments to which--either a mistaken idea or a secret consciousness of guilt--condemned him? It seemed like a miracle, like special heavenly grace, that the mouth which seemed closed for ever, should once more be permitted to open, to bring peace to the loved one. The old man gave a deep sigh. He had taken his resolution. "And supposing she should have taken thought, Robert," he said, "to give an account to you from beyond the grave?" Robert uttered a cry, and clutched his wrists. "What do you mean by that, uncle?" "If you had not burrowed in your grief like a mole, and taken flight before every human face, you would have known long ago what is in every one's mouth, namely, that on the morning of her death I received a letter from her----" "You--uncle--from her----?" "Goodness, my boy, you are breaking the bones in my body. Do first listen to me patiently"--and he told him the contents of the letter. Robert had started to his feet and was nervously running his fingers through his hair. His eyes, which were staring down upon the old man, gleamed through the darkness. "And the book--give it to me--where is it?" The old man informed him how great was the danger in which Olga's secret was hovering, and what anxiety he had himself passed through on its account. "Wait, I will fetch it," cried Robert, and hurried towards the door. The old man held him back. "Your mother has the key--take care that her suspicion is not aroused." "The door is half broken, I will smash it entirely." "They will hear you downstairs." "They are enjoying themselves much too well!" answered Robert, and laughed grimly. "Come, we will go together." And through a back door, along the dark corridor, up the creaking stairs, the two men crept like two thieves who have come to take advantage of some festive occasion. Opening the door proved even easier than they had hoped. The loosened hinge of the lock moved out of its joints almost without pressure. At the door both stopped, overcome with emotion, as the dark room, faintly illumined by the starry clearness of the night, lay before their eyes. All traces of death had been removed: the empty bedstead--whose supports stood out darkly against the grey wall--alone indicated that its occupant had sought another resting-place. The odour of her dresses, the faint scent of her soap, still filled the room with their fragrance. Even the towels on which she had dried herself were still hanging, in fantastic whiteness, near the black Dutch stove.