“The treasure trove!” gasped the professor.
“Beyond a doubt,” said the major. Then he added gloomily, “but what good is it to us now? If we cannot escape from here before long we shall perish miserably, and nothing but dynamite can release us.”
“At any rate we must not give up hope,” counselled the professor; “suppose we investigate these boxes. At any rate it will give us something to do. It is better than doing nothing.”
“That is right,” declared the major; “it may keep us from dwelling on the situation.”
Merritt’s axe was called into requisition, and, as the others stood round with upraised lanterns, the boy swung the weapon down on the iron lock of the first of the old chests. It was old and rotten, and, after a few blows, it gave way.
With trembling, nervous hands the lid of the box was pushed back. But a surprise greeted the fortune hunters. Instead of a mass of gold objects or coins meeting their eyes only a faded piece of red velvet, covering the contents of the box, met their gaze.
“Pull it off!” ordered the major.
Merritt and the professor raised the bit of fabric and then started back with startled faces. Under the velvet was a picture. A grim portrait of a tall man in black garments holding a skull in his hands, while he knelt beside an open grave. Under it was painted in old fashioned letters:
“The End Of The Quest for Riches.”
“Good heavens,” exclaimed the major, who had paled a little under his tan, “that seems almost like a warning.”