"Oh, damn!" he exclaimed, and had half a mind to abandon the
search and have a go with hammer and chisel at the cupboard in
the shed. By this time it was almost dusk in the library, and
Desmond, before abandoning the search, struck a match to have a
final rapid glance over the shelves. The light showed him a
curious flatness about the backs of the last six volumes of
Shakespeare. He dropped the match and laid hold of a volume of
the Comedies. It resisted. He tugged. Still it would not come.
Exerting all his strength, he pulled, the gilt-lettered backs of
the last six volumes came away in his hands in one piece and he
crashed off the ladder to the ground.
This time he did not swear. He picked himself up quickly, lit the
lamp on the table by the window, and brought it over to the
bookcase. Where Shakespeare's Comedies had stood was now a gaping
void with a small key stuck in a lock, above a brass handle.
Desmond mounted on the steps again and eagerly turned the key.
Then he grasped the handle and puled, the section of bookshelves
swung back like a door, and he found himself face to face with a
great stack of petrol cans. They lay in orderly piles stretching
from the floor to the top of the bookshelves near the railing,
several tiers deep.
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