Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The
scrivener's pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers,
in its shivering winding sheet.
Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open
sight left in the lock.
I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity,
thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will
make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the
papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the
files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt
something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna
handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings'
bank.
I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I
remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals
he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him
reading--no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand
looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick
wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house;
while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like
Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any
where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk,
unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling
who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the
world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health.
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