Presently she brushed the tears from her eyes and slit open the flap of the envelope.  Inside was a half-sheet of notepaper wrapped about a small old-fashioned key, and on the outer fold was written:  “The key of the Chippendale bureau.”  That was all.

For an instant Sara was puzzled.  Then she remembered that amongst Patrick’s personal bequests to her had been that of the small mahogany bureau which stood near the window of his bedroom.  It had not occurred to her at the time that its contents might have any interest for her; in fact, she had supposed it to be empty.  But now she realized that there was evidently something within it which Patrick must have valued, seeing he had guarded the key so carefully and directed its delivery to her through the reliable hands of his solicitor.

Rather glad of anything that might help to occupy her thoughts, she decided to investigate the bureau at once, and accordingly made her way to Patrick’s bedroom.

On the threshold she paused, her heart contracting painfully as the spick and span aspect of the room, its ordered absence of any trace of occupation, reminded her that its one-time owner would never again have any further need of it.

Everything in the house seemed to present her grief to her anew, from some fresh angle, forcing comparison of what had been with what was—­the wheeled chair, standing vacant in one of the lobbies, the tobacco jar perched upon the chimney-piece, the pot of heliotrope—­Patrick’s favourite blossom—­scenting the library with its fragrance.

And now his room—­empty, swept, and garnished like any one of the score or so of spare bedrooms in the house!

With an effort, Sara forced herself to enter it.  Crossing to the window, she pulled a chair up to the Chippendale bureau and unlocked it.  Then she drew out the sliding desk supports and laid back the flap of polished mahogany that served as a writing-table.  She was conscious of a fleeting sense of admiration for the fine-grained wood and for the smooth “feel” of the old brass handles, worn by long usage, then her whole attention was riveted by the three things which were all the contents of the desk—­a packet of letters, stained and yellowing with age and tied together with a broad, black ribbon, a jeweller’s velvet case stamped with faded gilt lettering, and an envelope addressed to herself in Patrick’s handwriting.

Very gently, with that tender reverence we accord to the sad little possessions of our dead, Sara gathered them up and carried them to her own sitting-room.  She felt she could not stay to examine them in that strangely empty, lifeless room that had been Patrick’s; the terrible, chill silence of it seemed to beat against the very heart of her.

Laying aside the jeweller’s case and the package of letters, she opened the envelope which bore her name and drew out a folded sheet of paper, covered with Patrick’s small, characteristic writing.  Impulsively she brushed it with her lips, then, leaning back in her chair, began to read, her expression growing curiously intent as she absorbed the contents of the letter.  Once she smiled, and more than once a sudden rush of unbidden tears blurred the closely written lines in front of her.