The decision to try and find him somehow in his room was made at last, on another rainy day early in June when Aunt Effie was going to the local sewing circle, and Sabrina would have the rest of the afternoon to herself. It was only part of the game, to try to guess at him through the things he had lived among. And surely he wouldn’t have left anything too intimate lying about in plain sight. She would only look at the things any housemaid with a duster could have seen—things she could inspect without lifting or touching. She would keep her hands behind her the whole time....

Each escape into the sanctuary was always an adventure, but this time she closed the door behind her and stood with her back against it, gazing at the room with a new excitement, wondering where to begin. The rain came down soundlessly outside, the streaming window panes blotting out the extraneous world. And in the room it was almost as though he watched her, amused by his incognito, waiting for her to make the first move, willing to be discovered if she was clever enough.

Uncertainly she went to the hearthrug and stood there looking up at the objects on the mantelpiece, her hands behind her back. Surely there must be an inscription, a signature, somewhere, recognizable as his. Recognizable how? She drew nearer the mantelpiece. That large blue porcelain jar — potpourri? Her itching fingers succumbed to temptation. Gingerly she lifted the lid and stood on tiptoe — tobacco! She dipped exploring fingertips and held the crisp brown shreds to her nose — a clean, exciting, mannish smell which was new to her. Father smoked cigars.

She replaced the lid of the tobacco-jar soundlessly, and moved on to her right. The tall ivory carving came next, in which the sail of a Chinese fishing-boat followed the natural bend of the tusk in an oddly logical curve — a fragile, priceless piece, yellow with age. Those candle sticks — massive Georgian silver — family candlesticks, or else he liked the weight and sheen of them — the room could be lighted by electricity. No clock on the mantel piece. No clock anywhere. That was one reason for the timeless serenity of the room. There was no stopped clock in it to make it seem dead, and no busy ticking to remind one of meals and obligations below stairs. Then he must depend on a watch. Probably a wrist watch. Score one to the mantelpiece.