“There must be a spring concealed in the paneling. If we strike one of those stars––”
St. Hilary did not finish his sentence. He carried a console table toward the mantel. For once I was the quicker. I caught the mantel, braced myself on one of the giants, and so lifted myself up on it.
I struck each of the stars in turn sharply with my palm.
“Here–the dagger,” cried St. Hilary, and taking the dagger he wore from his belt he tossed it up to me. Again I struck each of the stars with the hilt of the dagger. One moment I was staring at the paneling; the next, the paneling to the right of the chimney had slid noiselessly up and I was looking into a square hole big enough to admit one’s body.
A clock somewhere in the palace struck the hour of four.
“It is the hour,” I whispered, staring down at St. Hilary. “We are to inherit Time’s legacy at last.”
St. Hilary did not answer. He was scrambling up on the table.
I waved him back imperatively. His lack of self-control restored mine. Now that I was here I had no intention of giving way to him.
“Get down,” I cried. “Are you mad? One of us must keep watch. Before I crawl up into the shaft I shall lower the paneled door. Push away the table there. If any one should come––”
The sentence died on my lips. His sallow face, lighted by the feeble flicker of the candle, was flushed with intense excitement. One thinks of the taper as standing before holy altars, shining on meek-eyed Madonnas and saints. But the candle he held before him revealed something of the cunning greed of the miser in his glittering eyes, something of the fierce desire of the madman. He stood perfectly motionless, gazing upward at the ceiling. One might have thought he was in a trance.