One chamber in Inglefield's house was usually reserved for visitants. In
this chamber thy unfortunate brother died, and here it was that I was to
sleep. The image of its last inhabitant could not fail of being called
up, and of banishing repose; but the scheme which I had meditated was an
additional incitement to watchfulness. Hither I repaired at the due
season, having previously furnished myself with candles, since I knew
not what might occur to make a light necessary.

I did not go to bed, but either sat musing by a table or walked across
the room. The bed before me was that on which my friend breathed his
last. To rest my head upon the same pillow, to lie on that pallet which
sustained his cold and motionless limbs, were provocations to
remembrance and grief that I desired to shun. I endeavoured to fill my
mind with more recent incidents, with the disasters of Clithero, my
subterranean adventures, and the probable issue of the schemes which I
now contemplated.

I recalled the conversation which had just ended with the housekeeper.
Clithero had been our theme, but she had dealt chiefly in repetitions of
what had formerly been related by her or by Inglefield. I inquired what
this man had left behind, and found that it consisted of a square box,
put together by himself with uncommon strength, but of rugged
workmanship. She proceeded to mention that she had advised her brother,
Mr. Inglefield, to break open this box and ascertain its contents; but
this he did not think himself justified in doing. Clithero was guilty of
no known crime, was responsible to no one for his actions, and might
some time return to claim his property. This box contained nothing with
which others had a right to meddle. Somewhat might be found in it,
throwing light upon his past or present situation; but curiosity was not
to be gratified by these means. What Clithero thought proper to conceal,