He handed the mirror to Thorndyke, who, having confirmed his observations, produced a pair of surgical scissors from his pocket. These Polton cautiously inserted into the opening, and as he closed them there was an audible snip. Then he slowly withdrew them and again inserted the mirror.
“It’s all right,” said he. “The string is cut clean through. I think we can open the lid now.” With a sharp penknife he cut through the paper binding-strips and then, grasping the front of the lid, continued: “Now for it. Perhaps you two gentlemen had better stand a bit farther back, in case of accidents.”
I thought the suggestion an excellent one, but as Thorndyke made no move, I had not the moral courage to adopt it. Nevertheless, I watched Polton’s proceedings with my heart in my mouth. Very slowly and gently did that cunning artificer raise the lid until it had opened some two inches, when he stooped and peered in. Then, with the cheerful announcement that it was “all clear,” he boldly turned it right back.
Of course, the photograph had shown us, in general, what to expect, but there were certain details that had not been represented. For instance, both the pistol and the jar were securely wedged between pieces of cork—sections of wine-bottle corks, apparently—glued to the bottom of the box.
“How is it,” I asked, “that those corks did not appear in the photograph?”
“I think there is a faint indication of them,” Thorndyke replied; “but Polton gave a rather full exposure. If you want to show bodies of such low density as corks, you have to give a specially short exposure and cut short the development, too. But I expect Polton saw them when he was developing the picture, didn’t you, Polton?”
“Yes,” the latter replied; “they were quite distinct at one time, but then I developed up to get the pistol out clear.”
While these explanations were being given, Polton proceeded methodically to “draw the teeth” of the infernal apparatus. First, he cut a little wedge of cork which he pushed in between the threatening hammer and the nipple and having thus fixed the former he quietly removed the percussion-cap from the latter; on which I drew a deep breath of relief. He next wrenched away one of the corks and was then able to withdraw the pistol from the jar and lift it out of the box. I took it from him and examined it curiously, not a little interested to note how completely it corresponded with Thorndyke’s description. It had a blued octagon barrel, a folding trigger which fitted snugly into a recess, a richly-engraved lock-plate and an ebony butt, decorated with numbers of tiny silver studs and a little lozenge-shaped scutcheon-plate on which a monogram had been engraved in minute letters, which, however, had been so thoroughly scraped out that I was unable to make out or even to guess what the letters had been.
My investigations were cut short by Thorndyke, who, having slipped on a pair of rubber gloves now took the pistol from me, remarking: “You haven’t touched the barrel, I think, Mayfield?”
“No,” I answered; “but why do you ask?”