The stone bottom was not of quite the same colour as the walls of the chest, and there was a crack across it. Harold felt in his pocket and drew out his knife, which had at the back of it one of those strong iron hooks that are used to extract stones from the hoofs of horses. This hook he worked into the crack and managed before it broke to pull up a fragment of stone. Then, looking round, he found a long sharp flint among the rubbish where the wall had fallen in. This he inserted in the hole and they both levered away at it.
Half of the cracked stone came up a few inches, far enough to allow them to get their fingers underneath it. So it was a false bottom.
“Catch hold,” gasped the Colonel, “and pull for your life.”
George did as he was bid, and setting their knees against the hollowed stone, they tugged till their muscles cracked.
“It’s a-moving,” said George. “Now thin, Colonel.”
Next second they both found themselves on the flat of their backs. The stone had given with a run.
Up sprang Harold like a kitten. The broken stone was standing edgeways in the kist. There was something soft beneath it.
“The light, George,” he said hoarsely.
Beneath the stone were some layers of rotten linen.
Was it a shroud, or what?