“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.

“No treasure there,” said Oleron, a little amused that he should have fancied there might have been. “Romilly will still have to be out by the autumn.  Let’s have a look at the others.”

He turned to the second window.

The raising of the two remaining seats occupied him until well into the afternoon.  That of the bedroom, like the first, was empty; but from the second seat of his sitting-room he drew out something yielding and folded and furred over an inch thick with dust.  He carried the object into the kitchen, and having swept it over a bucket, took a duster to it.

It was some sort of a large bag, of an ancient frieze-like material, and when unfolded it occupied the greater part of the small kitchen floor.  In shape it was an irregular, a very irregular, triangle, and it had a couple of wide flaps, with the remains of straps and buckles.  The patch that had been uppermost in the folding was of a faded yellowish brown; but the rest of it was of shades of crimson that varied according to the exposure of the parts of it.

“Now whatever can that have been?” Oleron mused as he stood surveying it....  “I give it up.  Whatever it is, it’s settled my work for today, I’m afraid—­”

He folded the object up carelessly and thrust it into a corner of the kitchen; then, taking pans and brushes and an old knife, he returned to the sitting-room and began to scrape and to wash and to line with paper his newly discovered receptacles.  When he had finished, he put his spare boots and books and papers into them; and he closed the lids again, amused with his little adventure, but also a little anxious for the hour to come when he should settle fairly down to his work again.

III