No; it was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what
is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson.
Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"
The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on
the right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.
"I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you'll always find scratches
round a keyhole."
"This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where
it is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
Look at it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth
on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?"
A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.
"Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you notice this scratch?"
"No, sir, I did not."
"I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away
these shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"
"The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."
"Is it a simple key?"
"No, sir; it is a Chubb's key."
"Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go.
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