The lights were held up, and they stopped short, for a few yards before them was a narrow, nail-studded door, very similar to the one leading into the chamber, but heavier looking, and with a great rusty bolt at top and bottom.
“That’s the end of it, then,” said Fred. “I say, I know what it is. That’s the vault where they used to bury the old Markhams.”
“That it can’t be, for they were all buried at the church.”
“Well, it looks like it,” said Fred. “Shall we go any farther?”
“Yes, of course. I want to see what’s behind the door.”
Nerving himself to the effort, Scarlett stepped over the intervening space, and took hold of the top bolt, which, like its fellow, was shot into a socket in the stone wall.
But the bolt was rusted to the staples, and he could not move it with one hand.
“Hold the light, Fred,” he exclaimed; and his companion stood behind him, bearing both candles, as Scarlett tugged and strained and wrenched vainly at the corroded iron.
“Wants a hammer to start it,” said Fred, as the interest in these proceedings drove away the sensations of nervousness. “Shall we go back and fetch one?”
“I’m—afraid—we shall have to,” panted Scarlett, as he toiled and strained at the stubborn bolt. “It’s of no use to try and—”