assistance to the opposite camp that he lay awake
nights and kept his imagination hot. Laura was a serene person, so
neutral--outwardly, at least--and so little concerned for herself
in any matter he could bring to mind, that for purposes of revenge
she was a difficult proposition. And then, in a desperate hour, he
remembered her book.

Only once had he glimpsed it, but she had shown unmistakable
agitation of a mysterious sort as she wrote in it, and, upon
observing his presence, a prompt determination to prevent his
reading a word of what she had written. Therefore, it was
something peculiarly sacred and intimate. This deduction was
proved by the care she exercised in keeping the book concealed
from all eyes. A slow satisfaction began to permeate him: he made
up his mind to find that padlocked ledger.

He determined with devoted ardour that when he found it he would
make the worst possible use of it: the worst, that is, for Laura.
As for consequences to himself, he was beyond them. There is an
Irish play in which an old woman finds that she no longer fears
the sea when it has drowned the last of her sons; it can do
nothing more to her. Hedrick no longer feared anything.

The book was somewhere in Laura's room, he knew that; and there
were enough opportunities to search, though Laura had a way of
coming in unexpectedly which was embarrassing; and he suffered
from a sense of inadequacy when--on the occasion of his first new
attempt--he answered the casual inquiry as to his presence by
saying that he "had a headache." He felt there was something
indirect in the reply; but Laura was unsuspicious and showed no
disposition to be analytical. After this, he took the precaution
to bring a school-book with him and she often found the boy seated
quietly by her west window immersed in study: he said he thought
his headaches came from his eyes and that the west light "sort of
eased them a little."

The ledger remained undiscovered, although probably there has
never been a room more thoroughly and painstakingly searched,
without its floor being taken up and its walls torn down. The most
mysterious, and, at the same time, the most maddening thing about
it was the apparent simplicity of the task. He was certain that
the room contained the book: listening, barefooted, outside the
door at night, he had heard the pen scratching. The room was as
plain as a room can be, and small. There was a scantily filled
clothes-press; he had ex