He walked to the foot of the steel stairway and mounted. He stopped for breath half-way up. He was on a little landing, and facing him was the polished block of granite that marked where the ashes of old Reale reposed.
Pulvis
Cinis
et
Nihil
said the inscription. “‘Dust, cinders and nothing,’” muttered the lawyer, “an apt rebuke to one seeking the shadows of vanity.”
They watched him climb till he reached the broad platform that fronted the safe door. Then they saw him pull a paper from his pocket and examine it. He looked at it carefully, then twisted the dials cautiously till one by one the desired letters came opposite the pointer. Then he twisted the huge handle of the safe. He twisted and pulled, but the steel door did not move. They saw him stoop and examine the dial again, and again he seized the handle with the same result. A dozen times he went through the same process, and a dozen times the unyielding door resisted his efforts. Then he came clattering down the steps, and almost reeled across the floor of the hall to the little group. His eyes burnt with an unearthly light, his face was pallid, and the perspiration lay thick upon his forehead.
“The word!” he gasped. “It’s the wrong word.”
Angel did not answer him.
“I have tested it a dozen times,” cried the lawyer, almost beside himself, “and it has failed.”
“Shall I try?” asked Angel.
“No, no!” the man hissed. “By Heaven, no! I will try again. One of the letters is wrong; there are two meanings to some of the symbols.”
He turned and remounted the stairs.