sunk in a settled gloom. As the dusk was falling he told the steward to
send him two men, strong ones. These he ordered to take the trunk to his
bedroom. In that room he then sat on into the night, without pausing
even to take any food. His mind was in a whirl, a fever of excitement.
The result was that when, late in the night, he locked himself in his
room his brain was full of odd fancies; he was on the high road to mental
disturbance. He lay down on his bed in the dark, still brooding over the
mystery of the closed trunk.

Gradually he yielded to the influences of silence and darkness. After
lying there quietly for some time, his mind became active again. But
this time there were round him no disturbing influences; his brain was
active and able to work freely and to deal with memory. A thousand
forgotten--or only half-known--incidents, fragments of conversations or
theories long ago guessed at and long forgotten, crowded on his mind. He
seemed to hear again around him the legions of whirring wings to which he
had been so lately accustomed. Even to himself he knew that that was an
effort of imagination founded on imperfect memory. But he was content
that imagination should work, for out of it might come some solution of
the mystery which surrounded him. And in this frame of mind, sleep made
another and more successful essay. This time he enjoyed peaceful
slumber, restful alike to his wearied body and his overwrought brain.

In his sleep he arose, and, as if in obedience to some influence beyond
and greater than himself, lifted the great trunk and set it on a strong
table at one side of the room, from which he had previously removed a
quantity of books. To do this, he had to use an amount of strength which
was, he knew, far beyond him in his normal state. As it was, it seemed
easy enough; everything yielded before his touch. Then he became
conscious that somehow--how, he never could remember--the chest was open.