Had he laid down again in his bed? Was he
still asleep? She listened at the door. Not a
sound was audible in the room. She tried the
door; and, finding it not locked, softly opened it
a few inches, and listened again. The rise and
fall of his low, regular breathing instantly caught
her ear. He was still asleep.

She went into the room, and, shading the
candlelight with her hand, approached the
bedside to look at him. The dream was past; the
old man's sleep was deep and peaceful— his lips
were still; his quiet hand was laid over the
coverlid, in motionless repose. He lay with his
face turned towards the right-hand side of the
bed. A little table stood there, within reach of
his hand. Four objects were placed on it: his
candle; his matches; his customary night-drink
of lemonade—and his basket of keys.

The idea of possessing herself of his keys that
night (if an opportunity offered when the basket
was not in his hand), had first crossed her mind
when she saw him go into his room. She had
lost it again, for the moment, in the surprise of
discovering the empty truckle-bed. She now
recovered it, the instant the table attracted her
attention. It was useless to waste time in trying
to choose the one key wanted from the rest— the
one key was not well enough known to her to be
readily identified. She took all the keys from
the table, in the basket as they lay, and noiselessly
closed the door behind her, on leaving the
room.

The truckle-bed, as she passed it, obtruded
itself again on her attention; and forced her
to think of it. After a moment's consideration,
she moved the foot of the bed back to its
customary position across the door. Whether he was
in the house or out of it, the veteran might
return to his deserted post at any moment. If
he saw the bed moved from its usual place, he
might suspect something wrong—he might rouse
his master—and the loss of the keys might be
discovered. As she descended the stairs, the
fear of a sudden meeting with old Mazey was so
vividly present to her, that she carried the little
basket close at her side, half hidden in the folds
of her dress.

Nothing happened on the stairs; nothing
happened in the corridor—the house was as silent
and as solitary as ever. She crossed the
Banqueting-Hall, this time, without hesitation; the
events of the night had hardened her mind against
all imaginary terrors. " Now I have got it!"
she whispered to herself, in an irrepressible
outburst of exultation, as she entered the first of the
east rooms, and put her candle on the top of the
old bureau.

Even yet, there was a trial in store for her
patience. Some minutes elapsed, minutes that
seemed hours, before she found the right key,
and raised the lid of the bureau. At last, she
drew out the inner drawer! At last, she had
the letter in her hand!

It had been sealed, but the seal was broken.
She opened it on the spot, to make sure that
she had actually possessed herself of the Trust,
before leaving the room. The end of the letter
was the first part of it she turned to. It came
to its conclusion high on the third page, and it
was signed by Noel Vanstone. Below the
name, these lines were added in the admiral's
handwriting:—

"This letter was received by me, at the same
time with the will of my friend, Noel Vanstone.
In the event of my death, without leaving any
other directions respecting it, I beg my nephew
and my executors to understand that I
consider the requests made in this document as
absolutely binding on me.

"ARTHUR, EVERARD BARTRAM."

She left those lines unread. She just noticed
that they were not in Noel Vanstone's
handwriting; and, passing them over instantly, as
immaterial to the object in view, turned the
leaves of the letter, and transferred her attention
to the opening sentences on the first page.

She read these words:—

"Dear Admiral Bartram. When you open my
Will (in which you are named my sole executor),
you will find that I have bequeathed the whole
residue of my estate— after payment of one legacy
of five thousand pounds— to yourself. It is
the purpose of my letter to tell you privately
what the object is for which I have left
you the fortune which is now placed in your
hands.

"I beg you to consider this large legacy as
intended—— "

She had proceeded thus far, with breathless
curiosity and interest—when her attention
suddenly failed her. Something—she was too
deeply absorbed to know what—had got between,
her and the letter. Was it a sound in the
Banqueting-Hall again? She looked over her
shoulder at the door behind her, and listened.
Nothing was to be heard; nothing was to be
seen. She returned to the letter.

The writing was cramped and close. In her
impatient curiosity to read more, she failed to
find the lost place again. Her eyes, attracted by
a blot, lighted on a sentence lower in the page
than the sentence at which she had left off.
The first three words she saw riveted her attention
anew—they were the first words she had
met with in the letter which directly referred
to George Bartram. In the sudden excitement
of that discovery, she read the rest of the sentence
eagerly, before she made any second attempt
to return to the lost place:—

"If your nephew fails to comply with these
conditions—that is to say, if being either a
bachelor or a widower at the time of my decease,
he fails to marry in all respects as I have here
instructed him to marry, within Six calendar
months from that time—it is my desire that he
shall not receive—— "

She had read to that point, to that last word,
and no farther—when a Hand passed suddenly