space. Along the very top of the desk, as it lay open, was a narrow
channel, perhaps a couple of inches wide and deep, divided into three
sections; two square ones, at the opposite ends, held the ink-bottle
and the sand-bottle; the long central one was for quill pens. These,
in the aggregate, appeared to the superficial eye to account for all
that remained of the cubic contents of the structure; but the supreme
mystery and charm of the affair was that they did not!

No; there was an esoteric secret still in reserve; and for years it
remained a secret to me. The bottle-sockets and pen-tray did not reach
down to the level of the long drawer by nearly an inch. Measurement
would prove that; but you would have said that the interval must be
solid wood; for nothing but a smooth panel met the eye when you pulled
aside the sheets of writing-paper in their receptacle to investigate.
But the lesson of this world, and of the desk as a part of it, is that
appearances are not to be trusted. The guile of those old desk-makers
passes belief.

I will expose it. In the pen-tray lay a sort of brass nail, as long as
your little finger, and blunt at the end. Now take the sand-bottle
from its hole. In one corner of the bottom thereof you will see a
minute aperture, just big enough to admit the seemingly useless brass
nail. Stick it in and press hard. With an abrupt noise that makes you
jump, if you are four or five years old, that smooth, unsuspected
strip of panel starts violently forward (propelled by a released
spring) and reveals--what? Nothing less than the fronts of two minute
drawers. They fit in underneath the pen-tray, and might remain
undiscovered for a hundred years unless you had the superhuman wit to
divine the purpose of the brass nail. The drawers contain diamonds,
probably, or some closely folded document making you the heir to a