The doctor stepped to my side.  He lifted the wrist, let it fall, and shook his head.  “Don’t you see?” he said.  I looked at the eyes, and saw.

Some days later I went to the lonely house.  The old man was sitting in a loose, disconsolate heap in his seat by the apple-tree.  The tears rolled down the wrinkles into his beard, when I spoke of his daughter.

“There were some letters and papers she wished me to have,” I said.  In the closet by the chimney.  “If you are willing—­”

The old man shuffled into the house, and threw open the blinds of the darkened room.  Some one had set the books in neat piles on the table; the chairs were placed against the wall.  The drapery had been washed and stretched smoothly across the mattress.  There were two or three dark stains on the floor that could not be washed out.  The slim little slipper still decked the wall.

I looked up at the door by the chimney.  “Here’s the key,” said the old man, brokenly.  “I found it to-day under the mattress.”  I tried it, but it did not turn in the lock.  I was hardly tall enough to reach it.  The old man fetched me a chair on which I stood, and after a moment or two I felt the rusty lock yield.  The little door gave and opened.

Nothing was there, nothing but the dust of years that blackened my fingers, as I put in my hand, unconvinced by my sense of sight.

“Are you sure no one has been here, no one who could open the closet?”

“Nobody,” he proclaimed in the cracked tone of extreme age.  “She must have wandered when she told you that.  People wander when they are dying, you know.  Her mother—­but that was long ago.”  He tapped the key thoughtfully on the mantel.  “You see how the lock stuck, and the door.  I don’t expect Agnes had it open for years.  I expect she wandered, like her mother.”  He peered vaguely in at the empty space, and then turned to me.  “I forget a great deal now.  I’m getting an old man, a very old man,” he said, in an explanatory tone.

“But did you know she had letters somewhere, a pile of papers?  You remember her getting letters, do you not, letters from her lover?”

He looked up at me apologetically, with dim, watery blue eyes.  “I don’t expect I remember much,” he confessed.  “Not of later years.  I could tell you all about things when I was a boy, but I can’t seem to remember much that’s happened since mother died.  That must have been along about twenty years ago.  I’m all broken down now, old—­very old.  You see I am a very old man.”

I left him shutting the room into darkness, and passed out into the sunlight, sorely perplexed.

Mrs. Libby was baking when I returned, and the air of the kitchen was full of the sweet, hot smell that gushed from the oven door she had just opened.  She stood placidly eating the remnants of dough that clung to the pan.

“Mrs. Libby,” said I, sinking down on the door-step, “what was the name of Agnes Rayne’s lover?  You told me once you could not remember.  Will you try to think, please?”