Papers were scattered over the
floor: the drawers of an old escritoire had been jerked out of place and
their contents strewn far and near. The doors of a wardrobe were open,
and a few shabby coats and pairs of trousers thrown about, with the
pockets wrong side out or torn in rags. A chest of drawers had been
ransacked, and a narrow, hospital bed stripped of sheets and blankets,
the stuffing of the mattress pulled into small pieces. The room looked
as if a whirlwind had swept through it, and as I forced myself to go
near the body I saw that it had not been left in peace by the murderer.
The blood-stained coat was open, the pockets of the garments turned out,
like those in the wardrobe, and all the clothing disarranged, evidently
by hands which searched for something with frenzied haste and merciless
determination.
The cunning forethought of the wretched man had availed him nothing. I
could imagine how joyously he had arrived at this house, believing that
he had outwitted the enemy. I pictured his disappointment on not finding
the friend who could have helped and supported him. I saw how he had
planned to defend himself in case of siege, by locking and bolting the
door (both lock and bolt were broken); I fancied him driven by hunger to
search his friend's quarters for food, and fearfully beginning a supper
in the midst of which he had probably been interrupted.
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