hip, and he felt a sudden sense of pleasant anticipation. That
key opened the Byzantine chest opposite, somewhere in whose cunningly
hidden recesses lay, he was convinced, the papers which he had once
seen in his grandmother's clenched hands. He did not believe she had
destroyed them; she had remarked a few days before her death--which
had been sudden and unexpected--that she must soon devote an
unpleasant hour to the burning of old letters and papers. She
had spoken lightly, but there had been a gleam in her eyes and a
tightening of her lips which had suggested the night he had seen her
look as if she wished that the papers between her fingers were a human
throat. Should he find those papers and pass away a dull evening?
There was certainly nothing but the obstinacy of the chest to prevent,
and she would forgive him more than that. He had always had a strong
curiosity in regard to those papers, but his curiosity so far had been
an inactive one; he had never before been alone at the Hall since
his grandmother's death. He wheeled about on his chair and looked
whimsically at the divan. "Have I your permission, O most fascinating
of grandmothers?" he demanded aloud. "No answer. That means I have. So
be it."

He wrote to Weir, then went over and kneeled on one knee before the
chest. It looked outwardly like a high, deep box, and was covered
with heavy Smyrna cloth, and ornamented with immense brass handles
and lock. Dartmouth fitted the key into a small key-hole hidden in
the carving on the side of the lock, and the front of the chest fell
outward. He let it down to the floor, then gave his attention to the
interior. It was as complicated as the exterior was plain. On one side
of the central partition were dozens of little drawers, on the other
as many slides and pigeon-holes and alcoves. On every square inch of
wood was a delicate tracery, each different, each telling a story. The
handles of the drawers, the arcades of the alcoves, the pillars of
the pigeon-holes--all were of ivory, and all were carved with the
fantastic art of the Mussulman. It was so beautiful and so intricate
that for a time Dartmouth forgot the papers. He had seen it before,
but it was a work of art which required minute observation and study
of its details to be appreciated. After a time, however, he recurred
to his quest and took the drawers out, one by one, laying them on the
floor. They were very small, and not one of them contained so much as
a r