No one sought to reply. Every eye was on Adrian Ducie, who had found a cold chisel among the tools and was working now at the hinges and now at the lock, wherever there seemed best promise of entrance. The hinges were forced apart finally, the lock was broken, and once more the box was opened here where it was packed forty-odd years ago. A covering of chamois lay over the top, and as Adrian Ducie put it aside with trembling fingers the lamplight gloated down on a responsive glitter of gold and silver, with a glint here and there, as of a precious stone. There was obviously insufficient room in the box for the vanished table service of the family silver, but several odd pieces of such usage were crowded in, of special antiquity of aspect, probably heirlooms, and thus saved at all hazards. The method of packing had utilized the space within to the fraction of an inch. Adrian drew out a massive gold goblet filled with a medley of smaller articles, a rare cameo bracelet, an emerald ring, an old seal quaintly mounted, a child’s sleeve-bracelets, a simple ornament set with turquoise, and a diamond necklace, fit for a princess. None of these were in cases, even the protection of a wrapping would have required more space than could be spared. “You know that face?” Ducie demanded, holding a miniature out to Floyd-Rosney, catching the lamplight upon it. “Can’t say I do,” Floyd-Rosney responded, cavalierly and with apparent indifference. “Perhaps Colonel Kenwynton will recognize it,” said Ducie, with composure. “Eh, what? Why certainly--a likeness of your grandfather, George Blewitt Ducie,--an excellent likeness! And this,” reaching for a small oval portrait set with pearls, “is his wife--what a beauty she was! Here, too,” handling a gold frame of more antiquated aspect, “is your great grandfather--yes, yes!--in his prime. I never saw him except as an old man, but he held his own--he held his own!”