encountered some object which he quickly
brought out from its place of concealment, and
which actually proved to be a bottle or phial.
The other two hastened forward to look at it.
Alas! it was not the phial which they were in
search of. It had no label, no hint of laudanum
inscribed on it, and, to crown all, there was at
the bottom of it a small quantity of a dark liquid
which, on examination, proved to be a remnant
of black draught. It had been stuck there, no
doubt, by some sufferer who had just swallowed
the dose, in days long gone by, to be out of the
way, and, above all things, out of sight.

This was indeed a bitter disappointment.
Julius Lethwaite, down upon his knees in front
of the fireplace, his hands and face covered with
soot, presented a picture of discomfiture
infinitely pitiable as he held up that small bottle
and smelt it, and turned it about and about.
"No," he said, "that phial is not the one we
are in search of; there is no hint even of
laudanum in it." And he put it down on one
of the hobs with a sigh. The others could hardly
persuade themselves to give it up. A bottle—
a chemist's bottle even—and thrust away in
what seemed like a place of concealment—it
must be what they were in search of. Was
Lethwaite sure? Was that liquid really the
remains of a black draught? The discoverer
handed them the bottle. They smelt, and were
convinced, with loathing. Lethwaite continued
his search behind the register, nay, he even
groped among the cinders in the grate, for there
had been nothing disturbed since that night, and
he thought it possible that even some fragments
of broken glass might be found there which
would still be better than nothing. But nothing
came of his labours, except an increase of sootiness.

All were now beginning to lose hope, and a
great sadness had descended upon each one of
those present. The search was very nearly over,
and had been attended with no sort of success.
There was a pause in the work, only one of the
seekers—Jonathan Goodrich—going on with it
just then. This good man was doing what he had
to do with the greatest completeness. He had
an especial mechanical turn, it seemed, and was
thus particularly well fitted to the undertaking.
He was now engaged with that bureau or
escritoire, of which mention has been made,
and was subjecting it to every test which his
ingenuity could suggest. He had a rule in his
hand, and was making some measurements which
seemed to puzzle him a little for the moment.

"There is something here," he said, presently,
"which I do not altogether understand."

Julius Lethwaite got up from his position
before the grate, and Gilbert from another part
of the room came forward, and both stood
together in silence behind the old clerk, who
was evidently fairly puzzled.

He had got the lid of the escritoire open. It
was a slanting lid that was made for writing
upon, and when lifted it disclosed, in the ample
space within it, a great variety of small drawers,
and a row of little recesses, or, as some call
them, pigeon-holes, into which papers may be
thrust at pleasure. It was evidently a somewhat
old-fashioned piece of furniture, but was
—having been at the beginning a handsome
and expensive article—solid enough, and in
thoroughly good condition.

"That piece of furniture," said Gilbert, looking
on with his friend by his side, "was the property
of Miss Carrington herself. She bought it at
a second-hand shop, as I think, one day soon
after she came here, and had it sent home."

"Her own, was it?" said Julius. "That
makes it the more important to examine it very
carefully." He considered a little while, and
then added: "Her own. If we are to find
what we are looking for anywhere, it will be
here."

Jonathan Goodrich had his rule in his hand,
and proceeded to make some measurements in
the inside of the piece of furniture. The
interior of the desk, which occupied the whole
upper part of the bureau, was of considerable
size. The back of it was, as has been said,
divided into drawers and pigeon-holes. There
was a row of these last, ten in number, then a
row of three long flat drawers under the ten
pigeon-holes, and again under the drawers three
very low arches; a sort of oubliettes where
objects not likely to be wanted might be stowed
away and forgotten. It was with these last
that Jonathan appeared to be just now occupied.

"What I cannot make out," he said, "is
this. These ten pigeon-holes in a row are all
of them of the same depth, nine inches; the
three drawers beneath them are also nine inches
deep; but the arches under the drawers have,
as you see by measurement of this rule, a depth
of only five inches."

Neither of the two lookers-on spoke, but
each of them looked hastily down the
outside walls, so to speak, of the escritoire
to see if there was anything in its external
structure to account for this. There was
nothing. The back and sides of this piece
of furniture were perfectly smooth and
uniform. Next they proceeded to test Goodrich's
measurements. They agreed entirely with his
statement. There was a space of the same
height and width as each of these arches, and four
inches in depth, unaccounted for. Was that
space solid, or was it hollow? The old clerk
struck the wood at the back of the arches with
the handle of a screw-driver, and the sound
produced certainly appeared to be of a hollow
kind.

"It seems to me," he said, "that these
arches have a false back."

Those present looked one another in the face
for a moment, as if uncertain how to act. Then
a candle was introduced into the desk, and being
lowered, regardless of the dripping of grease,
almost into a horizontal position, those low
arches were lighted up, and Jonathan Goodrich
looking in was able to see what was inside.

"There are hinges," he cried, much excited,
"and keyholes. The backs are false, and would
let down, if we had the keys to unlock them."