“All right,” he reported. “It seems to be still nailed fast.”
“Now,” said Alva, impatiently, “to work. And let us get out of this hole. I can feel the dampness creeping into my very bones.”
The watchers saw them cluster about the point indicated by Ashton-Kirk a short time before. The yellow light of the lantern played about them quaveringly; Alva, with his misshapen head and his burning eyes, sat propped up in his chair, waiting.
Iron chinked against stone; there came a grinding and a straining as the men threw their weights on the bars; then followed a panting of breath, muffled exclamations, and a huge slab of stone from the floor leaned against the wall.
“The light!” cried Shaw.
The rays shone down on the place which the flag had covered a few moments before.
“There they are!” came the smothered cry of the soft man.
Shaw snatched at something; in a moment it was out upon the floor. It was a flat package, wrapped in lead foil and tied with cord. A knife-blade cut the binding, the foil was torn away, as was layer after layer of oiled paper; then the rays of the lantern glanced upon the surface of a number of metal plates.
“They are the plates! It’s Joe’s work!” The soft man was exultant and waved his arms.
“How many are there?” asked Alva.