“I believe it’s under one of those pegs,” she said. “See what’s under them.”
Round and round the room we went, pulling at every peg that joined the sealed walls. Under each was a nail. Tom picked up one of the pegs as we drew it forth.
“Humph!” he cried. “Insulated by caema. That explains why the nails were left. What a careful job this was, anyway.”
Hamerly and Swenton nodded. I started to ask what caema was, but I was pulling on a particularly refractory peg just then and let it go. The word stuck fast in my memory, however. It was the same one I had seen in Tom’s book on our journey up from Portsmouth. As each peg came out, the little electro-magnet was brought up to the hole and its action watched. Not a nail stirred. We had gone around three sides of the room, when Tom called out, “This peg came easily. Bring over the magnet.”
Before I could bring the magnet within an inch of the hole, the nail within sprang out and attached itself to the magnet, just as a needle springs up and clings to the horseshoe magnet of a child. As it sprung, the whole panel, four feet high and three feet across, opened on easy hinges and swung outward, showing a small inner door. Tom gave a long, low whistle. “Right again, sister,” he remarked. “What should we do without you?”
The stout oak door, strong as it was, proved no obstacle to our attack, and readily swung outward. Stooping, we peered within. Empty shelves on one side. A row of drawers on the other. One by one we drew the drawers from their places. Every one was empty. From top to bottom of the recess we searched, but without avail. Finally we straightened up with blank faces.
“There must have been something there,” said Dorothy slowly.
“Hang it,” ejaculated Tom, “I know there was. If you want to know my real opinion, there has been somebody here ahead of us. I don’t believe we’ll find a thing.”
We did not, and the last inspection over, we were ready to take our leave, when Tom broke in.