So, for two or three weeks, Sam Yates occupied Mr. Belcher’s library—­the very room in which that person was first introduced to the reader.  There, under the shade of the old Seven Oaks, he worked during the day, and there, in the evening, he held his consultations with the agent.

One day, during his work, he mislaid a paper, and in his search for it, had occasion to examine the structure of the grand library table at which he wrote.  The table had two sides, finished and furnished exactly alike, with duplicate sets of drawers opposite to each other.  He pulled out one of these drawers completely, to ascertain whether his lost paper had not slipped through a crack and lodged beyond it.  In reaching in, he moved, or thought he moved, the drawer that met him from the opposite side.  On going to the opposite side, however, he found that he had not moved the drawer at all.  He then pulled that out, and, endeavoring to look through the space thus vacated by both drawers, found that it was blocked by some obstacle that had been placed between them.  Finding a cane in a corner of the room, he thrust it in, and pushed through to the opposite side a little secret drawer, unfurnished with a knob, but covered with a lid.

He resumed his seat, and held the little box in his hand.  Before he had time to think of what he was doing, or to appreciate the fact that he had no right to open a secret drawer, he had opened it.  It contained but one article, and that was a letter directed to Paul Benedict.  The letter was sealed, so that he was measurably relieved from the temptation to examine its contents.  Of one thing he felt sure:  that if it contained anything prejudicial to the writer’s interests—­and it was addressed in the handwriting of Robert Belcher—­it had been forgotten.  It might be of great importance to the inventor.  The probabilities were, that a letter which was deemed of sufficient importance to secrete in so remarkable a manner was an important one.

To Sam Yates, as to Mrs. Dillingham, with the little book in her hand, arose the question of honor at once.  His heart was with Benedict.  He was sure that Belcher had some foul purpose in patronizing himself, yet he went through a hard struggle before he could bring himself to the determination that Benedict and not Belcher should have the first handling of the letter.  Although the latter had tried to degrade him, and was incapable of any good motive in extending patronage to him, he felt that he had unintentionally surrounded him with influences which had saved him from the most disgraceful ruin.  He was at that very moment in his employ.  He was eating every day the bread which his patronage provided.

After all, was he not earning his bread?  Was he under any obligation to Mr. Belcher which his honest and faithful labor did not discharge?  Mr. Belcher had written and addressed the letter.  He would deliver it, and Mr. Benedict should decide whether, under all the circumstances, the letter was rightfully his.  He put it in his pocket, placed the little box back in its home, replaced the drawers which hid it, and went on with his work.