That which Stephen occupied had once served as a sleeping-place, for the bedstead of iron still remained there.

Also there were a hanging bookcase, now fallen, and some tattered remnants of books.

One of these, that oddly enough was well-preserved, perhaps because the white ants or other creatures did not like the taste of its morocco binding, was a Keble's _Christian Year_, on the title-page of which was written, "To my dearest Elizabeth on her birthday, from her husband." I took the liberty to put it in my pocket.

On the wall, moreover, still hung the small watercolour picture of a very pretty young woman with fair hair and blue eyes, in the corner of which picture was written in the same handwriting as that in the book, "Elizabeth, aged twenty." This also I annexed, thinking that it might come in useful as a piece of evidence.
"Looks as if the owners of this place had left it in a hurry, Quatermain," said Stephen.
"That's it, my boy.

Or perhaps they didn't leave; perhaps they stopped here." "Murdered ?" I nodded and said, "I dare say friend Hassan could tell us something about the matter.