When Mrs. Weston returned, he was standing as patiently as possible in the middle of the room, saying over and over to himself to insure remembrance till he could jot the lines down in his notebook:  Bossberg, Lucerne....  I love but thee—­and thee will I love to eternity.

His interest in this slight and doubtful clue, however, sank into insignificance when, having unlocked and unstrapped the trunk which Mrs. Weston pointed out, he saw to his infinite satisfaction that it held Mr. Roberts’ clothing—­the one thing in the world toward which at this exact moment his curiosity mainly pointed.  If only he might help her handle the heavy coats which lay so temptingly on top!  Should he propose to do so?  Looking at her firm chin and steady eye, he felt that he did not dare.  To rouse the faintest suspicion in this woman’s intelligent mind would be fatal to all further procedure, and so he stood indifferent, while she lifted garment after garment and laid them carefully on the bed.  He counted five coats and as many vests—­and was racking his brains for some plausible excuse for a nearer inspection, when she stopped in the midst of her work, with the cheery remark: 

“That will do for to-night.  To-morrow I will look them all over for moths before hanging them away in the closet.”

And he had to go, leaving them lying there within reach of his hand, when one glance at the lining of a certain coat which had especially attracted his eye might have given him the one clue he most needed.

The room which had been allotted to him in this house was in the rear and at the top of a steep flight of stairs.  As he sought it that night, he cast a quick glance through the narrow passageway opening just beyond his own door.  Would it be possible for him to thread those devious ways and reach Mr. Roberts’ room without rousing Mrs. Weston, who in spite of her years had the alertness of a watchdog with eye and ear ever open?  To be found strolling through quarters where he had no business would be worse than being suspected of taking a personal interest in the owner’s garments.  He was of an adventurous turn, and ever ready to risk something on the turn of a die, but not too much.  A false move might hazard all; besides, he remembered the airing these clothes were to get and the nearness of the clothes-yard to the pump he so frequently patronized, and all the chances which this gave for an inspection which would carry little danger to one of his ready wit.

So he gave up the midnight search he might have attempted under other circumstances, and shut his room from the moon and his eyes to sleep, and dreamed.  Was it of the great museum, with its hidden mystery enshrouding its many wonders of high art, or of a far-off time and a far-off scene, where in the stress of some great emotion the trembling hand of Carleton Roberts had written on the back of this foolish clock for which he still retained so great a fancy the couplet which he himself had so faithfully memorized: