"It has two rows of drawers down each side; and the whole top is made in an odd, old-fashioned way to slope upward, like a very large writing-desk."
"Does the top open?"
Rosamond went to the table, examined it narrowly, and then tried to raise the top. "It is made to open, for I see the key-hole," she said. "But it is locked. And all the drawers," she continued, trying them one after another, "are locked too."
"Is there no key in any of them?" asked Leonard.
"Not a sign of one. But the top feels so loose that I really think it might be forced open—as I forced the little box open just now—by a pair of stronger hands than I can boast of. Let me take you to the table, dear; it may give way to your strength, though it will not to mine."
She placed her husband's hands carefully under the ledge formed by the overhanging top of the table. He exerted his whole strength to force it up; but in this case the wood was sound, the lock held, and all his efforts were in vain.
"Must we send for a locksmith?" asked Rosamond, with a look of disappointment.
"If the table is of any value, we must," returned her husband. "If not, a screw-driver and a hammer will open both the top and the drawers in any body's hands."
"In that case, Lenny, I wish we had brought them with us when we came into the room, for the only value of the table lies in the secrets that it may be hiding from us. I shall not feel satisfied until you and I know what there is inside of it."
While saying these words, she took her husband's hand to lead him back to his seat. As they passed before the fire-place, he stepped upon the bare stone hearth; and, feeling some new substance under his feet, instinctively stretched out the hand that was free. It touched a marble tablet, with figures on it in bass-relief, which had been let into the middle of the chimney-piece. He stopped immediately, and asked what the object was that his fingers had accidentally touched.