"I beg its humble pardon," said the Secretary, approaching the door and putting his shoulder against it. "It's as steady as a rock."
"Oh, yes. Nothing but dynamite or the proper combination could ever move it the fraction of an inch."
Stanley regarded it as it stood framed in its low Saxon portal, a magnificent piece of black oak, sprinkled from top to bottom with at least a hundred huge, silver-headed nails, driven in without any apparent design. Another peculiarity was that neither lock, hinges, nor keyhole were visible.
"Does it lead anywhere?" he asked, greatly interested.
"To an unexplored tower," she replied. "To which this appears to be the only entrance; at least it has no windows."
"How interesting. I wonder how they ever got it open."
"Tradition says that this is the original of our modern combination lock. No human strength can move it; but once exert the slightest pressure on the proper combination of those silver nails, five I believe, one for every digit, and the portal swings open of itself."
"And discloses, what?"
"Open it and see," she answered.
"Are you sure the house won't tumble down if I do, or that you'll never smile again—or that some unpleasant ancestral prognostication isn't only awaiting the opening of that door to fall due and take effect?"