A strange compelling feeling drove her to the library where the fateful
panel was. With a strange sense that her wrong-doing was modified by the
fact, she had left the will where she had found it. She had a
superstition that fate would deal less harshly with her if
she did. It was not her way to temporise. She had concealed the
discovery of the will with an unswerving determination. It was for
Louis, it was for his peace, for the ease of his fading life, and she had
no repentance. Yet there it was, that curious, useless concession to old
prejudices, the little touch of hypocrisy--she left the will where she
had found it. She had never looked at it since, no matter how great the
temptation, and sometimes this was overpowering.

To-day it overpowered her. The house was very still and the blinds were
drawn to shut out the heat, but the soft din of the locusts came through
the windows. Her household were all engaged elsewhere. She shut the
doors of the little room, and kneeling on the table touched the spring.
The panel came back and disclosed the cupboard. There lay the will. She
took it up and opened it. Her eyes went dim on the instant, and she
leaned her forehead against the wall sick at heart.

As she did so a sudden gust of wind drove in the blind of the window.
She started, but saw what it was, and hastily putting the will back,
closed the panel, and with a fast-beating heart, left the room.

Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself.
It ran:

You've shipped me off like dirt. You'll be shipped off, Madame,
double quick. I've got what'll bring the right owner here. You'll
soon hear from