"Send a man down with a spade," called Felgate to those above, and presently a man came down the ladder, followed by Drake. In less than an hour the mud was heaped in one corner of the vault, laying bare a hard, roughly paved floor. Still there was no sign of the much-sought-for prize. The damp, unhealthy atmosphere made our heads swim, so for a time the work was suspended and we gained the upper air, where a crowd of morbid countrymen were dividing their attention between the corpse of the unfortunate Increase Joyce and the gaping hole from which we had emerged. A rest of half an hour revived us, and we returned to the attack with feverish anxiety. "Three feet down and we’ll come across it right enough," said Drake, and lustily two stout countrymen plied their tools. The cobbles, set in cement, were like an iron plate, but once these were removed the work of digging a hole became easy. As the depth increased our excitement rose, till at length one of the mattocks struck something that emitted a metallic sound. It was a heavy iron chest. When laid bare, the box was about three feet in length, about two feet in breadth, and a foot and a half in depth. Two handles, rusted with age, were sufficiently strong to enable the chest to be hoisted by means of a stout rope, and with a shout of suppressed excitement from the crowd the precious box was hauled up and deposited on the grass. [Illustration: THE CHEST IS HOISTED TO THE SURFACE] As we had no keys a cold chisel was required, but, this not being forthcoming, a man was dispatched to the village to procure one. While we were waiting, the bailiff, who was now most civil and obliging, placed in my hands an object that had been found in Joyce’s pocket. It was the long-lost metal box which my father had mentioned in his will, but its contents were simply two pieces of faded and much-handled paper containing one-third of the mysterious directions that had so puzzled the murderer and would-be thief. On the messenger’s return we used the cold chisel to such good purpose that the massive lid flew open with a clang and a groan, disclosing a number of canvas sacks filled with coins of all sorts. Underneath were a few pieces of silver-plate, such as had not been melted down for the use of His Late Majesty King Charles, the martyr, while at the bottom of the chest was a package carefully protected by a covering of oiled silk. Tearing open the covering, I found all the documentary evidence that was required to prove my right to the Manor of Holwick--the cup of joy was filled to overflowing, and, in spite of my surroundings, I sought relief in a flood of tears. ―――― Concerning the events that marked the close of the strange history of my father’s will there is but little to write.