She did not dare to even trust herself to the inactivity of waiting for the break of day, but set about looking for the papers of which Liz had spoken, and which she knew must exist somewhere. But where was she to begin to look? She glanced about her helplessly.
"I feel quite sure they are not in the secretary down-stairs!" she muttered. "There was not a drawer in it locked, and surely Ben would not leave things like that about carelessly. However, there was that letter that I read, and which I still have. No, they were not there, or I should have discovered at least some trace of them. Let me see!"
Carefully she gazed about her, then realizing that she could hope for nothing without making a beginning, she began a thorough investigation of the premises, hampered by the scarcity of the light.
Behind boxes, in closets, between the pictures and back of an old chromo that adorned the wall, under everything that promised a place of concealment, she looked, but all to no purpose.
She was about to give it up in despair, when, as a last resort, she tore the clothing from the bed upon which Dick had died.
Between the mattress and the cords that were drawn across the bed in lieu of either springs or slats, she saw an old tin box!
With a cry of joy, she seized it.
The box was locked, but after a delay that was most exasperating in her excited state, Leonie succeeded in breaking the lock with a hammer.
As the lid opened, she grasped the papers within, and seating herself at a table, began looking over them eagerly.
There were extracts from old, yellow newspapers, photographs that seemed to be the relics of ages, and letters by the score.