He threw open the door. The room was empty, yet both Quest and French were conscious of a curious conviction that it had been occupied within the last few seconds. French even shook out the curtains and swung open the doors of a bureau. There was no sign of anybody, however, nor any evidence as to how they could have left the room.
“Queer, but it seemed to me I heard some one,” French muttered.
“I was sure of it,” Quest replied, shaking the curtains at the back of the door.
They stood still for a moment and listened. The silence in the empty house was almost unnatural. Quest turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.
“At any rate,” he said, “Craig’s dying thoughts must have been truthful. Come.”
He led the way to the fireplace, went down on his knees and passed his hands over the bricks. The third one he touched, shook. He tapped it—without a doubt it was hollow. With his penknife he loosened the mortar a little and drew it out easily. The back was open. Inside was the black box.
“Craig’s secret at last!” French muttered hoarsely. “Bring it to the light, quick!”
They were unemotional men but the moment was supreme. The key to the mystery of these tragical weeks was there in their hands! Their eyes almost devoured those few hastily scrawled words buried with so much care:
See page 62, January number, American Medical Journal 1905.
They looked at one another. They repeated vaguely this most commonplace of messages. As the final result of their strenuous enterprise, these cryptic words seemed pitifully inadequate. Quest’s face darkened. He crumpled the paper in his fingers.