Nothing happened as she descended the stairs, nothing happened as she passed along the corridor; the house was as silent and as solitary as ever.  She crossed the Banqueting-Hall this time without hesitation; the events of the night had hardened her mind against all imaginary terrors.  “Now, I have got it!” she whispered to herself, in an irrepressible outburst of exaltation, as she entered the first of the east rooms and put her candle on the top of the old bureau.

Even yet there was a trial in store for her patience.  Some minutes elapsed—­minutes that seemed hours—­before she found the right key and raised the lid of the bureau.  At last she drew out the inner drawer!  At last she had the letter in her hand!

It had been sealed, but the seal was broken.  She opened it on the spot, to make sure that she had actually possessed herself of the Trust before leaving the room.  The end of the letter was the first part of it she turned to.  It came to its conclusion high on the third page, and it was signed by Noel Vanstone.  Below the name these lines were added in the admiral’s handwriting: 

“This letter was received by me at the same time with the will of my friend, Noel Vanstone.  In the event of my death, without leaving any other directions respecting it, I beg my nephew and my executors to understand that I consider the requests made in this document as absolutely binding on me.

“ARTHUR EVERARD BARTRAM.”

She left those lines unread.  She just noticed that they were not in Noel Vanstone’s handwriting; and, passing over them instantly, as immaterial to the object in view, turned the leaves of the letter, and transferred her attention to the opening sentences on the first page.  She read these words: 

“DEAR ADMIRAL BARTRAM—­When you open my Will (in which you are named my sole executor), you will find that I have bequeathed the whole residue of my estate—­after payment of one legacy of five thousand pounds—­to yourself.  It is the purpose of my letter to tell you privately what the object is for which I have left you the fortune which is now placed in your hands.

“I beg you to consider this large legacy as intended—­”

She had proceeded thus far with breathless curiosity and interest, when her attention suddenly failed her.  Something—­she was too deeply absorbed to know what—­had got between her and the letter.  Was it a sound in the Banqueting-Hall again?  She looked over her shoulder at the door behind her, and listened.  Nothing was to be heard, nothing was to be seen.  She returned to the letter.

The writing was cramped and close.  In her impatient curiosity to read more, she failed to find the lost place again.  Her eyes, attracted by a blot, lighted on a sentence lower in the page than the sentence at which she had left off.  The first three words she saw riveted her attention anew—­they were the first words she had met with in the letter which directly referred to George Bartram.  In the sudden excitement of that discovery, she read the rest of the sentence eagerly, before she made any second attempt to return to the lost place: