But, myself, I was not so sanguine. I preferred to work steadily without undue excitement, for I saw that in such an investigation quietness and method were essential to success.
I don’t, of course, deny that I was actually on the tiptoe of expectation, for I, like Mr. Staffurth and Philip, had arrived at the firm conclusion that if the old Italian’s treasure still existed it was hidden somewhere in that house.
Therefore, at any blow of the hammer, the secret, so well guarded through three hundred years, might become revealed to us.
The clouds of white dust that I had raised rendered it thirsty work; therefore Philip, on going downstairs for the pickaxe, also brought up a bottle of ale, which we drank with avidity—from the bottle. That closed door proved a more formidable barrier than we had anticipated. Of well-seasoned oak, it was studded with rusty nails, and resisted all our efforts to prise it open. There was no lock, so far as we could see, nor any bolt; only the two long rusty hinges. Again and again we tried to insert a crowbar between the lintel and the door, but although both of us toiled through the greater part of the morning the door would not budge.
Reilly, with his long, athletic arms, attacked it with the pick, but the noise he made sounded through the empty house like the explosion of bombshells, and the dust raised was suffocating. All these efforts being futile, we resolved to cut the door out bodily, and with that object I commenced with centre-bit at a spot where the lock would, in ordinary circumstances, be situated. I drilled and drilled, slowly cutting a circular hole in the wood, and had penetrated to a depth of fully four inches when a harsh grating sound told us the unwelcome truth.
The back of the door was covered by an iron plate.
“We can’t cut it; that’s very certain!” I declared, withdrawing the drill. On examining the hole by aid of a candle I could see where the drill had cut a scratch on the face of the plate. I sounded the iron with a small crowbar and noted that it seemed of considerable thickness. Moreover, it was probably bolted to the woodwork by the nails which studded the side of the door towards us.
“There must be something inside,” Reilly declared. “No one would have taken such precaution if there was nothing of value within. Let’s persevere!”
“Of course,” I agreed, “but we must proceed scientifically; it’s useless working in the dark. Now, my own idea is that we might perhaps cut away the wall on the side where the door is fastened and thus get a hole for leverage. I believe that’s the only way.”
Reilly was of similar opinion, therefore we both set to work with a will, I holding the chisel and my companion swinging the heavy hammer. The plaster was, of course, soon cut out, but when we came to the rough stone of the wall our hard work commenced. By dint of constant labour, with pick and crowbar, we gradually loosened one of the larger stones, and in half an hour had levered it out upon the floor of the room.