At some time, the library had been stripped of most of its contents. The remaining volumes were either valueless or decayed beyond hope of repair.

Then, by the dust-coated windows, I saw something that looked more interesting. It was a tall cupboard, or Schrank, black with age, but still sound. It was locked. I tried the keys the countess had given me, and found one that worked.

The Schrank contained several books, a metal box, and a roll of parchments. I took the last object first and carried it to a table. Tony and Schmidt looked on as I unrolled it.

The parchments were all plans of the castle and its grounds. They were very old.

I let the sheets roll themselves up again, and twisted them out of Tony’s clutching hand.

“Naughty, naughty,” I said gaily. “We don’t care about these old things, do we? Nothing valuable here. Let’s see what else there is.”

The books were three in number—heavy volumes, bound in leather, with metal clasps and studs. I wondered why they had not been sold with the other valuables, for they could be considered rare books. When I tried to open one, I understood. Hardly a page remained legible. Water, mildew, worms and rats had all taken their toll.

“Amazing,” said Tony, breathing heavily over my shoulder.

“Rather peculiar volumes to find here,” I agreed, picking up the next book. It was in equally poor condition.

“What is it?” Schmidt asked.

“You might call them books of philosophical speculation. In their day, they verged on the heretical. I’m surprised to find them here because the Counts of Drachenstein don’t strike me as intellectuals. This is Trithemius; this one is Albert of Cologne, better known as Albertus Magnus—”

“The great magician!” Schmidt exclaimed. “Fascinating! May I please—”

I handed him the book. He glanced at it, and shook his head.

“I cannot make it out. You two perhaps understand?”

“I read medieval Latin,” Tony said. Schmidt let him have the volume, and he opened it.

I was too distracted to indulge in my usual bragging. Of course I read Latin, classical and medieval, as well as most of the European languages. I had a feeling Schmidt did, too. Whatever his other talents, he had no gift for dissimulation. In other words, he was a lousy liar. When he said he couldn’t read the book, his eyes shifted and he changed color, the way Matthew Finch did back in fifth grade when he was trying to psych the teacher.

I left Tony deep in the heresies of Trithemius, and turned to the object that interested me most. If papers could survive for four centuries, it would be in just such a metal box.