He wanted to examine the Infant.
He looked round the room, and there, on a wide settee under one of the windows, lay a polished rosewood 'cello-case.
Ronnie, springing forward, bent down eagerly.

The key was in the lock.
He turned it, and lifted the lid.
There lay the Infant, shining and beautiful as ever, in a perfectly-fitting bed, lined with soft white velvet.

The whole thing carried out exactly Ronnie's favourite description of his 'cello: "just like the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur." The open rosewood case, with its soft white lining, was the bursting bur; and within lay his beautiful Infant! Helen had done this.
Ronnie's pleasure was largely tinged with pain.

Helen, who did not like his 'cello, had done this to please him, yet was not here to see his pleasure.
Ronnie drew forth the bow from its place in the lid, opened a little nest which held the rosin, then tenderly lifted the Infant of Prague and carried it to the light.
At first sight, its shining surface appeared perfect as ever.

Then, looking very closely, and knowing exactly where to look, Ronnie saw a place just above the _f_ hole on the right, where a blow had evidently been struck deeply into the 'cello.