I kept on hoping that I should find someone.”

“Did you enter _all_ the rooms?” he asked, with the same intent gaze. “Well, all that I could enter.”

“Oh, then you _did_ notice it!” said he, and he shrugged his shoulders
with the air of a man who makes the best of a bad job. “Notice what?”

“Why, the door with the seal on it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Weren’t you curious to know what was in it?”

“Well, it did strike me as unusual.”

“Do you think you could go on living alone in this house, year after
year, just longing all the time to know what is at the other side of
that door, and yet not looking?”

“Do you mean to say,” I cried, “that you don’t know yourself?”

“No more than you do.”

“Then why don’t you look?”

“I mustn’t,” said he. He spoke in a constrained way, and I saw that I had blundered on to some
delicate ground. I don’t know that I am more inquisitive than my
neighbours, but there certainly was something in the situation which
appealed very strongly to my curiosity. However, my last excuse for
remaining in the house was gone now that my companion had recovered his
senses. I rose to go. “Are you in a hurry?” he asked. “No; I have nothing to do.”

“Well, I should be very glad if you would stay with me a little. The
fact is that I live a very retired and secluded life here. I don’t
suppose there is a man in London who leads such a life as I do. It is
quite unusual for me to have any one to talk with.”

I looked round at the little room, scantily furnished, with a sofa-bed
at one side. Then I thought of the great, bare house, and the sinister
door with the discoloured red seal upon it. There was something queer
and grotesque in the situation, which made me long to know a little
more. Perhaps I should, if I waited. I told him that I should be very
happy. “You will find the spirits and a siphon upon the side table. You must
forgive me if I cannot act as host, but I can’t get across the room. Those are cigars in the tray there. I’ll take one myself, I think. And
so you are a solicitor, Mr. Alder?”

“Yes.”

“And I am nothing. I am that most helpless of living creatures, the son
of a millionaire. I was brought up with the expectation of great wealth;
and here I am, a poor man, without any profession at all. And then, on
the top of it all, I am left with this great mansion on my hands, which
I cannot possibly keep up. Isn’t it an absurd situation? For me to use
this as my dwelling is like a coster drawing his barrow with a
thoroughbred. A donkey would be more useful to him, and a cottage to
me.”

“But why not sell the house?” I asked. “I mustn’t.”

“Let it, then?”

“No, I mustn’t do that either.”

I looked puzzled, and my companion smiled. “I’ll tell you how it is, if it won’t bore you,” said he. “On the contrary, I should be exceedingly interested.”

“I think, after your kind attention to me, I cannot do less than relieve
any curiosity that you may feel. You must know that my father was
Stanislaus Stanniford, the banker.”

Stanniford, the banker! I remembered the name at once. His flight from
the country some seven years before had been one of the scandals and
sensations of the time. “I see that you remember,” said my companion. “My poor father left the
country to avoid numerous friends, whose savings he had invested in an
unsuccessful speculation. He was a nervous, sensitive man, and the
responsibility quite upset his reason. He had committed no legal
offence. It was purely a matter of sentiment. He would not even face his
own family, and he died among strangers without ever letting us know
where he was.”

“He died!” said I. “We could not prove his death, but we know that it must be so, because
the speculations came right again, and so there was no reason why he
should not look any man in the face. He would have returned if he were
alive. But he must have died in the last two years.”

“Why in the last two years?”

“Because we heard from him two years ago.”

“Did he not tell you then where he was living?”

“The letter came from Paris, but no address was given. It was when my
poor mother died. He wrote to me then, with some instructions and some
advice, and I have never heard from him since.”

“Had you heard before?”

“Oh, yes, we had heard before, and that’s where our mystery of the
sealed door, upon which you stumbled to-night, has its origin. Pass me
that desk, if you please. Here I have my father’s letters, and you are
the first man except Mr. Perceval who has seen them.”

“Who is Mr. Perceval, may I ask?”

“He was my father’s confidential clerk, and he has continued to be the
friend and adviser of my mother and then of myself. I don’t know what we
should have done without Perceval. He saw the letters, but no one else. This is the first one, which came on the very day when my father fled,
seven years ago. Read it to yourself.”

This is the letter which I read:—

    “MY EVER DEAREST WIFE,—

    “Since Sir William told me how weak your heart is, and how harmful
    any shock might be, I have never talked about my business affairs
    to you. The time has come when at all risks I can no longer
    refrain from telling you that things have been going badly with
    me. This will cause me to leave you for a little time, but it is
    with the absolute assurance that we shall see each other very
    soon. On this you can thoroughly rely. Our parting is only for a
    very short time, my own darling, so don’t let it fret you, and
    above all don’t let it impair your health, for that is what I want
    above all things to avoid. “Now, I have a request to make, and I implore you by all that
    binds us together to fulfil it exactly as I tell you. There are
    some things which I do not wish to be seen by any one in my dark
    room—the room which I use for photographic purposes at the end of
    the garden passage. To prevent any painful thoughts, I may assure
    you once for all, dear, that it is nothing of which I need be
    ashamed. But still I do not wish you or Felix to enter that room. It is locked, and I implore you when you receive this to at once
    place a seal over the lock, and leave it so. Do not sell or let
    the house, for in either case my secret will be discovered. As
    long as you or Felix are in the house, I know that you will comply
    with my wishes. When Felix is twenty-one he may enter the room—not
    before. “And now, good-bye, my own best of wives. During our short
    separation you can consult Mr. Perceval on any matters which may
    arise. He has my complete confidence. I hate to leave Felix and
    you—even for a time—but there is really no choice. “Ever and always your loving husband,

                                                STANISLAUS STANNIFORD. “June 4th, 1887.”

“These are very private family matters for me to inflict upon you,” said
my companion, apologetically. “You must look upon it as done in your
professional capacity.