He seemed to hear again around him the legions of whirring wings to which he had been so lately accustomed.

Even to himself he knew that that was an effort of imagination founded on imperfect memory.

But he was content that imagination should work, for out of it might come some solution of the mystery which surrounded him.

And in this frame of mind, sleep made another and more successful essay.

This time he enjoyed peaceful slumber, restful alike to his wearied body and his overwrought brain.
In his sleep he arose, and, as if in obedience to some influence beyond and greater than himself, lifted the great trunk and set it on a strong table at one side of the room, from which he had previously removed a quantity of books.