Noiselessly he turned it and pushed the door open.
The house was still, there were no lights on, save a low glimmer in the front hall.
He remembered that had always been left on.
But the street lights faintly illumined the living-room, and he went in. With a wave of desperate homesickness he threw himself on the big davenport and buried his face into a pile of cushions.
He couldn't go away,—he couldn't.
But—he must!
And so, he forced himself to put aside his emotion, he bravely fought down his nostalgia, and promising himself one look into his father's study he vowed to go directly after.
He stepped into the little room where Douglas had been received. He couldn't resist the temptation to look about it, and, cautiously he snapped on the desk light.
There was the table with the drawer in it.
Carefully, Peter opened the drawer and saw for himself the tobacco pouch, the handkerchief, and the letter, signed "Peter."