stood at the side of one.  On the floor, under and about them, were piles of books, portfolios, and official-looking documents.  Every available foot of wall space on three sides of the room was lined with shelves, full as they could hold with books.  On the fourth side, facing the door, was a large lock-up oak bookcase, and, in the farther corner, a quaint old bureau.  So soon as I saw this bureau I went for it, straight as an arrow from a bow,—­indeed, it would be no abuse of metaphor to say that I was propelled towards it like an arrow from a bow.

It had drawers below, glass doors above, and between the drawers and the doors was a flap to let down.  It was to this flap my attention was directed.  I put out my hand to open it; it was locked at the top.  I pulled at it with both hands; it refused to budge.

So this was the lock I was, if necessary, to practise the arts of a thief to open.  I was no picklock; I had flattered myself that nothing, and no one, could make me such a thing.  Yet now that I found myself confronted by that unyielding flap, I found that pressure, irresistible pressure, was being put upon me to gain, by any and every means, access to its interior.  I had no option but to yield.  I looked about me in search of some convenient tool with which to ply the felon’s trade.  I found it close beside me.  Leaning against the wall, within a yard of where I stood, were examples of various kinds of weapons,—­among them, spear-heads.  Taking one of these spear-heads, with much difficulty I forced the point between the flap and the bureau.  Using the leverage thus obtained, I attempted to prise it open.  The flap held fast; the spear-head snapped in two.  I tried another, with the same result; a third, to fail again.  There were no more.  The most convenient thing remaining was a queer, heavy-headed, sharp-edged hatchet.  This I took, brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon the refractory flap.  The hatchet went through,—­before I had done with it, it was open with a vengeance.

But I was destined on the occasion of my first—­and, I trust, last—­experience of the burglar’s calling, to carry the part completely through.  I had gained access to the flap itself only to find that at the back were several small drawers, on one of which my observation was brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite impossible to disregard.  As a matter of course it was locked, and, once more, I had to search for something which would serve as a rough-and-ready substitute for the missing key.

There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,—­I could hardly for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question was such a little one that to have done so would have been to shiver it to splinters.  On the mantelshelf, in an open leather case, were a pair of revolvers.  Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes stand in actual peril of their lives.  It is possible that Mr Lessingham, conscious of continually threatened danger, carried them about with him as a necessary protection.  They were serviceable weapons, large, and somewhat weighty,—­of the type with which, I believe, upon occasion the police are armed.  Not only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the case itself there was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to charge them all again.