Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.  The big room indeed was still full to her of unexplored territory, with caches of all kinds in it, new and ancient, waiting to be discovered.  She looked round her in perplexity, not knowing where to begin.  A large part of the room was walled with glass cases, holding vases, bronzes, and other small antiquities, down to about a yard from the floor, and the space below being filled by cupboards and drawers.  Elizabeth made a vague movement towards a particular set of cupboards which she knew she had not yet touched, but the Squire irritably stopped her.

’It’s certainly not there.  That bit of the room hasn’t been disturbed since the Flood!  Now those drawers’—­he pointed—­’might be worth looking at.’

She hurried towards them.  But the Squire, instead of helping her in her search, resumed his walk up and down, muttering to himself.  As for her, she was on the verge of laughter, the laughter that comes from nerves and fatigue; for she had had a long day’s work and was really tired.  The first drawer she opened was packed with papers, a few arranged in something like order by her predecessor, the London University B.A., but the greater part of them in confusion.  They mostly related to a violent controversy between the Squire and various archaeological experts with regard to some finds in the Troad a year or two before the war, in which the Squire had only just escaped a serious libel suit, whereof indeed all the preliminaries were in the drawer.

On the very top of the drawer, however, was a conveyance of a small outlying portion of the Mannering estate, which the Squire had sold to a neighbour only a year before this date.  Hopeless!  If that was there, anything might be anywhere!

Was she to spend the night searching for the needle in this bottle of hay?  Elizabeth’s face began to twitch with uncomfortable merriment.  Should she go and knock up the housekeeper and instal her as chaperon, or take a stand, and insist on going to bed like a reasonable woman?

She hunted through three drawers.  The Squire meanwhile paced incessantly, sometimes muttering to himself.  Every time he came within the circle of lamplight his face was visible to Elizabeth, wrinkled and set, with angry eyes; and she saw him as a person possessed by a stubborn demon of self-will.  Once, as he passed her, she heard him say to himself, ’Of course I can write another at once—­half a sheet will do.’

She replaced the third drawer.  Was the Squire to have a monopoly of stubbornness?  She thought not.  Waves of indefinite but strong indignation were beginning to sweep through her.  Why was the Squire hunting for his will?  What had he been saying to his son—­his son who bore on his breast and on his body the marks of his country’s service?

She rose to her feet.

’I can’t find anything, Mr. Mannering.  And I think, if you will allow me, I will go to bed.’