to be inferred that
they were consumed in idleness: what then was the nature of his
employment over which a veil of such impenetrable secrecy was cast?

Will you wonder that the design of entering this recess was insensibly
formed? Possibly it was locked, but its accessibleness was likewise
possible. I meant not the commission of any crime. My principal purpose
was to procure the implements of writing, which were elsewhere not to be
found. I should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. I would merely
take a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects that
spontaneously presented themselves to my view. In this there surely was
nothing criminal or blameworthy. Meanwhile I was not unmindful of the
sudden disappearance of the candle. This incident filled my bosom with
the inquietudes of fear and the perturbations of wonder.

Once more I paused to catch any sound that might arise from without. All
was still. I seized the candle and prepared to mount the stairs. I had
not reached the first landing when I called to mind my midnight meeting
with Welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. The chamber was now
desolate; perhaps it was accessible; if so, no injury was done by
entering it. My curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no
precise object. Three steps would bear me to the door. The trial,
whether it was fastened, might be made in a moment; and I readily
imagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble of
examination. The door yielded to my hand, and I entered.

No remarkable object was discoverable. The apartment was supplied with
the usual furniture. I bent my steps towards a table over which a mirror
was suspended. My glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to
another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. I
scrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook its
resemblance to my own visage. This was so great that for a moment I
imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn.
This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of
similitude between me and the genuine original.

The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by
a new object. A small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay
upon the toilet. I opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas
of Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted my
sight. A single glance informed me that it was En