I explained Adrian's whimsy.
"What a funny devil the poor old chap was," said Jaffery, with a laugh at the harmless foible of the artist who would not give even an incurious housemaid a clue to his mystery.

"Well, clear the rubbish away, and we'll look at the second shelf." The second shelf was more or less a replica of the first.

There were more pages of consecutive composition--of such we sorted out perhaps a couple of hundred, but the rest were filled with the same incoherent scribble, with the same drawings, and with bits of scenarios of a dozen stories.
"The whole damn thing seems to be waste-paper basket," said Jaffery, standing over me.

There was but one chair in the room--Adrian's famous wooden writing chair with the leathern pad for which Barbara had pleaded, the chair in which the poor fellow had died, and I was sitting in it, as I sorted the manuscript which rose in masses on the table.
"There's quite a lot of completed pages," said I, putting together those found on the two shelves.

"Let us see what we can make of them." We piled the obvious rubbish on the floor, and examined the salvage.