r and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of
Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The
scrivener's pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers,
in its shivering winding sheet.

Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open
sight left in the lock.

I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity,
thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will
make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the
papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the
files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt
something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna
handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings'
bank.

I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I
remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals
he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him
reading--no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand
looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick
wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house;
while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like
Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any
where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk,
unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling
who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the
world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health.
And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid--how
shall I call it?--of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere
reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance
with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the
slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his
long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be
standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.

Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently
discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and
home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these
things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions
had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but j