The two criminals seemed on better terms now, and were working in harmony. Advancing by the intermittent flashes of the electric torch, they approached a large, old-fashioned desk where Deacon Blackford kept books, papers and many other things, partly connected with his business, and partly with his home life.
The desk was one of those old-fashioned ones, with an upper part made in the form of a bookcase, with two glass doors. Below this was a sort of flap, that could be let down. This formed a writing table, and when the flap was down it disclosed rows of pigeonholes, small drawers and compartments for books and papers. Still below this section, and on either side of a hollowed-out place, were more drawers.
“Come on, get busy!” directed Harrison. “You’re better at opening desks than I am. Get out your keys. I’ll hold the torch.”
Denton passed the flashing torch over, and while his companion held it, having slipped the switch to a permanent place, so that there was a steady beam of light, the man with the keys proceeded to try one after another in the keyhole of the desk. He was attempting to lower the writing flap, to come to the compartments and drawers inside.
Key after key he tried, making none but the slightest sounds. But the lock did not give.
“Guess we’ll have to jimmy it after all,” said Denton. “Hold the light nearer, can’t you? Can’t see a thing.”
“The light’s as near as I can get it, and not be in your way,” was the retort. “Oh, look! Hang it all! the battery’s giving out!”
As he spoke the light quickly began to fade from a bright, white glow of the tungsten filament to a dull yellow. From this it became only a little red streak, and the two men were suddenly left in darkness.
“This is a nice pickle!” said Harrison, angrily. “Why didn’t you put in a fresh battery?”
“I did. You must have been flashing it too often.”