arted as you; and I confess I should have been very glad to
hear that the wicked old witch had been sent to prison and hard labour--I
should. And what do you suppose she was looking for--what did she want to
steal? I think I can guess--what do _you_ think?'

'To read the papers; maybe to take bank-notes--I'm not sure,' I answered.

'Well, I think most likely she wanted to get at your poor papa's
_will_--that's _my_ idea.

'There is nothing surprising in the supposition, dear,' she resumed. 'Did
not you read the curious trial at York, the other day? There is nothing
so valuable to steal as a will, when a great deal of property is to be
disposed of by it. Why, you would have given her ever so much money to get
it back again. Suppose you go down, dear--I'll go with you, and open the
cabinet in the study.'

'I don't think I can, for I promised to give the key to Dr. Bryerly, and
the meaning was that _he_ only should open it.'

Cousin Monica uttered an inarticulate 'H'm!' of surprise or disapprobation.

'Has he been written to?'

'No, I do not know his address.'

'Not know his address! come, that is curious,' said Knollys, a little
testily.

I could not--no one now living in the house could furnish even a
conjecture. There was even a dispute as to which train he had gone
by--north or south--they crossed the station at an interval of five
minutes. If Dr. Bryerly had been an evil spirit, evoked by a secret
incantation, there could not have been more complete darkness as to the
immediate process of his approach.

'And how long do you mean to wait, my dear? No matter; at all events you
may open the _desk_; you may find papers to direct you--you may find Dr.
Bryerly's address--you may find, heaven knows what.'

So down we went--I assenting--and we opened the desk. How dreadful the
desecration seems--all privacy abrogated--the shocking compensation for the
silence of death!

Henceforward all is circumstantial evidence--all conjectural--except the
_litera scripta_, and to this evidence every note-book, and every scrap of
paper and private letter, must contribute--ransacked, bare in the light of
day--what it can.

At the top of the desk lay two notes sealed, one to Cousin Monica, the
other to me. Mine was a gentle and loving little farewell--nothing
more--which opened afresh the fountains of my sorrow, and I cried and
sobbed over it bitterly and long. The other was for 'Lady Knollys.' I did
not see how she received i