He felt in little blue bags; he tried to raise the hearth-
stone; he shook each book, till the old leaves fell down in showers on the
floor.
It was getting dark, and Bonaparte stood with his finger on his nose
reflecting. Finally he walked to the door, behind which hung the trousers
and waistcoat the dead man had last worn. He had felt in them, but
hurriedly, just after the funeral the day before; he would examine them
again. Sticking his fingers into the waistcoat pockets, he found in one
corner a hole. Pressing his hand through it, between the lining and the
cloth, he presently came into contact with something. Bonaparte drew it
forth--a small, square parcel, sewed up in sail-cloth. He gazed at it,
squeezed it; it cracked, as though full of bank-notes. He put it quickly
into his own waistcoat pocket, and peeped over the half-door to see if
there was any one coming. There was nothing to be seen but the last rays
of yellow sunset light, painting the karoo bushes in the plain, and shining
on the ash-heap, where the fowls were pecking. He turned and sat down on
the nearest chair, and, taking out his pen-knife, ripped the parcel open.
The first thing that fell was a shower of yellow faded papers. Bonaparte
opened them carefully one by one, and smoothed them out on his knee. There
was something very valuable to be hidden so carefully, though the German
characters he could not decipher.
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