Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 116: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

742 his gun. “TI believe she’s found some- thing.”” With his lantern over his left arm, he scrambled up the steep rock on hands and knees. The cat rose as he approached, purring louder than ever, and rubbed against his shoulder. “‘ Nothing here that I can see,” he called back. “Solid rock. Why—what the devil!” “What is it?” asked Ruth, startled by the excitement and amazement in his tone. ‘“‘T don’t know,” he replied, his face close to the stone. “It’s a miracle, I guess, an anachronism. A piece of cloth—linen— growing out of the solid rock. Can you get up here, Miss Bradley? Leave the gun on the ground.” In a moment she was beside him, bend- ing over the strange thing—a three-cornered bit of linen, protruding apparently from the solid granite. “Why, why!” she cried excitedly. “ It’s a handkerchief! Look at the hemstitching, and look close, isn’t that a crack it’s caught in—that fine line?” - Graham did not answer; his face almost touching the rock, he was following the scarcely visible crack with his fingers. For four feet, to the right of the piece of linen, it ran horizontally, then turned downward at right angles; three feet down it turned to the left, running for four feet, and again upward until it joined the first line, just be- side the linen—forming a perfect paralello- gram approximately four feet by three. With a deep breath of astonishment, Graham rose to his knees; then he drew the heavy revolver, and with the butt, struck the rock three hard blows; they all fell with dull, dead thuds. Several times he repeated the blows in different places, with the same result, and at last silently assisted Miss Bradley to the ground. Til. For a moment they stood in the black cavernlike cellar, staring into each other’s eyes. The lanterns, which only served to emphasize the thick darkness, sent fantastic shadows flickering among the dust and cob- webs, of a hundred years, and in the death- like silence, the purring of the big tawny ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. cat, sounded like the roar of an approaching train. ‘* What is it?” asked Ruth at last tensely. “I am not sure,” replied Dick, anxiety in his tone, “but one thing is certain— those cracks are the work of human hands and skilled hands at that. Old Trueworthy Dennet was a master mason, you tell me. I believe it’s a trap door. I believe there is a secret chamber—a treasure vault per- haps—the other side of that rock.” ‘“And—and you think—they—are in there?” asked the girl in a stifled voice. “Good Heavens, I don’t know what to think!” cried Graham, anxiety and bewil- derment robbing him of his usual poise. “Why should they be? Why in the name of common sense should a whole household, jump up, in the middle of breakfast, and rush into a secret cellar—that so far as we know they didn’t realize existed—and shut themselves in? And yet,” he added thoughtfully, “there is the handkerchief, and the cat, and if it comes to that, where else can they be?” He straightened up and turned to Ruth, with sudden determination. ““ Do you know where I can get any blast- ing powder?” he asked. Ruth’s eyes opened. ‘“ Father has some dynamite—for blasting stumps, but—what are you going to do, Mr. Graham?”’ “Do! I am going to blow out that trap first of all. I’m going to see what’s back of that rock!” returned Dick. “ Will you go for the dynamite. I’ve got to have drills and a sledge, too.” ‘““But—suppose they are there,” pro- tested Ruth. ‘ Won’t they be hurt?” “We must take the chance,” he answered gravely. “If they were there and conscious —even if the rock is several feet thick, they would have heard the blows I struck and answered. Anyway, we must find out. Let us go.” “ But if it is a door,” persisted the girl, “there must be some way of opening it from this side.” ‘“* Doubtless,” returned Dick, as he led the way upstairs, “ but it would probably take us ten years to discover it, if we ever—”’ A shout from the front of the house in- Gomichbooks:co