“St. Hilary! St. Hilary!” I cried, shocked at this display of emotion. “What is it, man?”
His lips tried hard to speak, but no words came from them. Then he pointed upward to the beams above his head. I followed his tense gaze. Then I understood his strange excitement.
As in all Venetian palaces, the ceiling of this sala grande was made of massive beams stretching from wall to wall. The space between these sunken beams was covered with boards nailed on top of them.
In one of these sunken beams da Sestos had hidden the casket. I could see it as I stood on the mantel, just out of my reach.
The spring that had released the paneling must have opened at the same time a tiny door at the side of this beam. As I moved my candle, I caught the gleam of shining metal. We had found the casket. The last three scenes of the hours, then, were meaningless.
I crawled into the shaft. I stood erect. My head was on a level with a space hardly more than a foot high between the ceiling of the sala and the floor of the apartment above. I drew myself painfully along this narrow interstice, St. Hilary’s dagger in one hand and the candle in the other. When I had reached what I thought to be the location of the casket, I brushed the dust away, and I saw several brass nails driven into the boards, forming a small circle. I struck at the circle with the sharp dagger until I could thrust my arm through the aperture I had made. I felt along the beam immediately below, and I touched the cold metal. My fingers traveled lovingly over its smooth surface. Slowly and carefully I drew the casket from its hiding-place. It was heavy–incredibly heavy. Very faintly I heard St. Hilary utter a cry of joy. I closed the little door of the beam, then I lowered myself into the shaft again, the precious casket clasped in both my hands. But the shaft was too narrow for me to leave it and still hold the casket. I must hand it first to St. Hilary. I stooped down and held it out. I had heard him step from the table to the mantel.
“Here it is, St. Hilary,” I said hoarsely.
It was clutched, brutally, out of my lingering grasp. A sharp blow struck my hand, then there was darkness. The paneled door had been closed. I heard the spring click as it shut tight. St. Hilary had played me false. Too late I thought of my distrust of him.
I pulled myself up into the shaft again to fetch the dagger I had left on the floor above. I struck the paneling along the edge of the top until I had located the spring. Then I hacked at the hard board till I felt it give way. I raised it cautiously and stepped out on the mantel. It had taken me half an hour to free myself.