"This is July," said he. "And yet there are cinders here in the fireplace."
"People sometimes neglect to clean them out in the spring."
"True; but are not these very clean and distinct? I don't find any of the light dust and soot on them which ought to be there after they have lain several months."
He went into the second room whither he had sent the men after they had completed their task, and said:
"I wish one of you would get me a pickaxe."
All the men rushed out; M. Lecoq returned to his companion.
"Surely," muttered he, as if apart, "these cinders have been disturbed recently, and if they have been—"
He knelt down, and pushing the cinders away, laid bare the stones of the fireplace. Then taking a thin piece of wood, he easily inserted it into the cracks between the stones.
"See here, Monsieur Plantat," said he. "There is no cement between these stones, and they are movable; the treasure must be here."
When the pickaxe was brought, he gave a single blow with it; the stones gaped apart, and betrayed a wide and deep hole between them.