But the locked drawer would not open. Stubbornly its lock fought against her lever. Panic gripped her by the throat. She must be quick--quick. Suppose Ronnie were home, suppose Ronnie heard? Ronnie would hate her--hate her for damaging his mother's desk. Julia's beautiful desk. Never mind--never mind the desk.
Frantically, her hands dragged at the poker. The mahogany splintered and splintered. God! what a noise she was making. Would the lock never yield?
Her eyes blurred. Her breasts ached. Her wrists ached. She could feel sweat under her armpits, feel the breath whistling through her lips. She was beaten, beaten. She would not be beaten--she would conquer the stubbornness of that lock. Conquer it.
Teeth set, little hands steel on steel, Aliette propped both feet against the pedestal, and flung back her full weight from the lever.
The poker was bent in her hands, the mahogany desk-top splintered to white slivers. But the lock had yielded, the drawer stood out open from its pedestal. There--there lay the will, the will Sir Peter had told her she must burn. Quickly, she snatched at it. Quickly, she dashed to the fireplace, dashed it on the fire. Quickly, she snatched up the shovel, pressed the will down among the flames.
But the flames would not kindle. The thick parchment would not take fire. It would only curl--curl. The words on the curling parchment hypnotized her. "Twenty thousand pounds for the benefit of Aliette, née Fullerford, at present the wife of----"
Slowly, slowly, the parchment was kindling.
But even as Aliette's eyes saw the parchment blacken to the flames, her ears caught the sound of a key in the lock of the front door, of the door closing, of feet--Ronnie's feet--coming swiftly down the passage.
"Alie, Alie! I say, darling, are you in the library?"