Tuckerman pulled out the drawers and emptied their contents, small objects, keys, pencils, bits of sealing-wax, a few sheets of blank paper. He put his hand in the pigeonholes and drew out several bundles of letters. “I’ve been through all these things before,” he said with a shake of his head.
“That place in the middle,” Tom suggested.
“Only an ink-stand,” said Tuckerman; and unlocking the little door he drew forth a big glass inkstand with a brass top. That was all there was in the little cupboard; all the contents of the upper part of the secretary were arrayed on the lid.
“No go,” said David. “The man hasn’t anything in his pocket to give us any clue.”
“I must say,” said Tom, “it does seem ridiculous to me that anyone could have meant that desk——”
“I’ve heard,” mumbled Ben, who was paying no attention to what the others were saying, “that old desks have secret compartments. My grandfather has an old one that looks something like this. Let me see——” He slipped his hand into the pigeonhole on the right of the little door Tuckerman had unlocked, and began to feel around. “I say! Here’s something. It feels like a wooden spring.”
Tuckerman put his hand into the central compartment. “Push on the spring,” he directed.
Ben pushed and Tuckerman at the same moment pulled out the cupboard that had harbored the inkstand. It was a box that fitted snugly into the centre of the secretary.
“Well, that’s a great stunt,” said Tom. “It comes to pieces like a nest of drawers.”
The four, their heads close together, looked into the space from which the cupboard had come.