It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and bars before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased.  And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any importance.  In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden locker, one amongst many in a small strong room:  it reminded Spargo irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake smuggled in from the tuck-shop.  Marbury’s name had been newly painted upon it; the paint was scarcely dry.  But when the wooden door—­the front door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and expectation still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders.

“The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please,” commanded the chairman, “the duplicate key!”

Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a curious-looking key:  the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about to christen a battleship:  the steel door swung slowly back.  And there, in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box.

It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary’s room that the procession became more funereal-like than ever.  First walked the chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary authorization from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying the box:  followed two other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with watching official and police interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up the rear.  He whispered something of his notions to the detective; Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding.

“Let’s hope we’re going to see—­something!” he said.

In the secretary’s room a man waited who touched his forelock respectfully as the heads of the procession entered.  Myerst set the box on the table:  the man made a musical jingle of keys:  the other members of the procession gathered round.

“As we naturally possess no key to this box,” announced the chairman in grave tones, “it becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in opening it.  Jobson!”

He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity.  He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see that he was anxious to fall upon it.  While he considered matters, Spargo looked at the box.  It was pretty much what it had been described to him as being; a small, square box of old cow-hide, very strongly made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for many a long day.

There was a click, a spring:  Jobson stepped back.

“That’s it, if you please, sir,” he said.