He went to the safe and walked slowly from it to the door, flicking his hand as he went. Then he looked out of the windows.
"No exit or entrance that way," he said. "There is only the door. Is that the chest that won't open?"
He turned the key and tried the lid. He could not lift it. He locked the chest, then unlocked it again, and hammered upon the lid with his fist.
"The bolts sound as if they worked properly," he said. "I think it's only that the lid has caught somehow."
We tackled it together, and, after several efforts, we succeeded in raising the lid. The chest was empty. Quarles examined it very closely without and within. We could not move it, it was too heavy, but the professor produced a magnifying glass and studied the marks on the wood. He measured the length and depth of the chest, and shut it and opened it several times.
"Opens quite easily now, Wigan," he remarked.
Very carefully he had put two newspapers into it, and some odd bits of paper, which he took from his pocket.
"You see how I have placed them, Wigan, which way up the newspapers are, and the scraps of writing on this piece of paper? We'll set a trap," and he closed the chest and locked it. "This is an old house, and there may be a way into this room which we know nothing about. We shall see."
We left the room, but Quarles told me not to lock the door. He beckoned me to follow him to the kitchen.
"Mrs. Eccles, how long has your master had that oaken chest in his room?" he asked the housekeeper.