I sprang from my seat and peered into the opening. It was a kind of cubby-hole between the pigeon-holes at the front and the back of the desk, its door cunningly concealed by a strip of molding—a secret compartment, if there ever was one—and in it lay a black tin box, the very counterpart of the one Mr. Chester had shown us the night before!
I took but a glance at it, and then, snapping the little door shut, ran frantically for mother. I wanted her to share the joy of the discovery—to be present when the lid was raised.
I found her in the dining-room down-stairs, putting the final touches to the dinner-table.
“Why, Cecil!” she cried, as I burst in upon her. “What has happened? You look—”
“Never mind, mother,” I said, in a kind of hoarse whisper. “Come along. And oh, hurry! I’ve found it!”
Her face whitened suddenly, and she put one hand on the table to steady herself.
“You’ve found it?” she repeated.
I nodded. I was past words. Then I turned to the door, and she followed me—out into the hall, up the stair, into grandaunt’s room. I stopped before the desk.
“See,” I said, my composure partially regained, “this is grandaunt’s desk—the natural place for her to keep her papers—and here is the rose of Sharon,” I went on, showing her the calendar with its Oriental picture and the line beneath. “Here are four pigeon-holes to the right and three diagonally; I press this little spring at the back, and that little door flies open. What do you see inside, mother?”
“A tin box,” answered mother, almost in a whisper.