They ran down the passage into the study and locked the door.
“Which is the drawer?”
“The writing-table—the one to the right.”
Herold flew to it and tried it. His vision had been false: it was locked. He sat down in John's worn leather writing-chair and pulled out his bunches of keys. One after another he tried them. Some were too large, others too small. Now and then one fitted into the keyhole and turned slightly in the wards.
“It 's coming.”
“Yes—no.”
“Let me try; it won't do.”
The perspiration streamed upon their faces, and their fingers shook. Sometimes the tried keys slid back into the bunch, and all had to be tried over again. A piano organ which had been playing maddeningly in front of the house ceased suddenly, and there was the silence of death in the room, broken only by the rattle of the keys and the tense breathing of the two.
At last they assured themselves that none of the keys would fit. They tried to wrench the drawer open by the handles, but the workmanship was stout. It was clattering discord. They searched the room for some instrument to pick or break open the lock. They rummaged among unlocked drawers filled with papers, old letters, bits of sealing-wax, forgotten pipes thrown together haphazard after the fashion of an untidy man. They found many rusty keys, which they tried in vain.
“We must break it open,” said Herold.