nailed up. We must look into this! Yes, those are boxes, or
I'm ... oho, this is an adventure!"

On that wall of his sitting-room there were two windows (the third was in
another corner), and, beyond the open bedroom door, on the same wall, was
another. The seats of all had been painted, repainted, and painted again;
and Oleron's investigating finger had barely detected the old nailheads
beneath the paint. Under the ledge over which he stooped an old keyhole
also had been puttied up. Oleron took out his penknife.

He worked carefully for five minutes, and then went into the kitchen for
a hammer and chisel. Driving the chisel cautiously under the seat, he
started the whole lid slightly. Again using the penknife, he cut along
the hinged edge and outward along the ends; and then he fetched a
wedge and a wooden mallet.

"Now for our little mystery--" he said.

The sound of the mallet on the wedge seemed, in that sweet and pale
apartment, somehow a little brutal--nay, even shocking. The panelling
rang and rattled and vibrated to the blows like a sounding-board. The
whole house seemed to echo; from the roomy cellarage to the garrets
above a flock of echoes seemed to awake; and the sound got a little on
Oleron's nerves. All at once he paused, fetched a duster, and muffled the
mallet.... When the edge was sufficiently raised he put his fingers under
it and lifted. The paint flaked and starred a little; the rusty old
nails squeaked and grunted; and the lid came up, laying open the box
beneath. Oleron looked into it. Save for a couple of inches of scurf and
mould and old cobwebs it was empty.