He looked down a pa.s.sageway, with a flooring partly of brick and partly of stone. Where it led to, there was no telling.

Feeling that it would be unwise to use the light longer, he put it out.

But he kept the lantern in his hand, for possible use in the future, either to show the way or as a weapon.

The pa.s.sageway made several turns, and in the darkness he had to feel his way along. Then he reached a flight of stone steps, leading downward.

"I don't want to go down--I want to go up," he reasoned. But there seemed no help for it, and down he went, sixteen steps, to land in a small room at the bottom.

Here all was pitch-dark, and for the moment he stood still, not knowing in what direction to move next. All around him were stone walls.

Presently he felt a small iron door. He took bold of the handle and found the door locked.

Curious to learn his whereabouts, he felt for a match, struck it, and lit the lantern once more. A brief glance at the door caused a look of wonder to overspread his face. The door was locked with a combination lock similar in make-up to the lock on a safe.

He gazed around, and soon learned that there was no exit from where he was, save by the flight of stone steps. To get out, he would have to go back.

He gazed again at the small iron door, set in an iron frame, embedded in the stone wall. What could be behind that barrier? Most likely something of great value.

On the floor at his feet was a bit of dirty white paper. Mechanically, he picked it up and looked it over. On it was the following:

O--4 L 2--12 R 3 53 L 2 44

"The combination!" he murmured. "Somebody had it on that paper and dropped it. Shall I try to work it, or try to get out?"

His better judgment told him he should try to make his escape. But he was curious to know what was behind that iron door; and, setting the lantern down, he commenced to work the combination k.n.o.b. He twirled the k.n.o.b around four times and stopped at O. Then he began on the combination proper--twice to the left, stopping at 12; three times to the right, stopping at 53; and then twice to the left again, stopping at 44. Then he came around slowly to O again. There followed a click.

The combination was off.

He twisted the handle of the iron door and pulled upon it. It came open noiselessly, revealing a stone chamber beyond, eight feet square, and equally high.

Lantern in hand, Adam Adams stepped into the vault and gazed around eagerly. On two sides were wooden shelves, six in number. On the shelves rested several boxes, of wood and of metal.

He opened one of the boxes, and gazed at the contents with interest.

It contained a quant.i.ty of haired paper, almost an exact duplicate of the haired paper used in the making of banknotes.

He looked at another box. This also contained paper. The third box held a quant.i.ty of counterfeits, the amount of which made even the matter-of-fact detective gasp.

"If they ever floated these, they would be the richest gang of counterfeiters in the world!" was his mental comment. He had no idea of the exact amount, but saw that it would total up to a tremendous sum.

He turned to one of the metal boxes. It was empty, and he set it down again. Then he took up another box that was fairly heavy, and threw open the cover.

There, resting on some thick blotting paper, was a counterfeit plate--a plate undoubtedly used for printing the backs of the spurious $100 bills!

Adam Adams could not help but gaze at that plate with interest. How the Secret Service men had worked to bring that plate to light, and arrest the users! And here he, in following up the clues of one crime, had stumbled upon the broad trail of another.

As he put the plate down, a noise reached his ears. By instinct, he blew out the lantern and listened. The noise was that from footsteps at a distance. Then he heard a murmur of voices, quickly growing louder.

"They have discovered my escape," he told himself. And then he blamed himself for not having made better use of his time in an endeavor to get away.

He stepped out of the vault, and listened with strained ears. The counterfeiters had separated, and were searching in all directions for him.

"If they come this way, I'll have to fight," he reasoned. "I might as well die that way, as to be killed in cold blood."

But then a sudden idea came to him, and as quickly as he had left the vault, he returned to it. Footsteps were coming closer, and he had no time to spare.

One of the shelves of the vault was close to the top and very broad.

Up on this climbed the detective, and laid out at full length, as close to the wall as possible. In front of him he held two of the wooden boxes containing the haired paper.

Somebody came closer, and he heard talking in the pa.s.sageway at the foot of the stone steps. A hand was placed on the door of the vault.

"Who left this unlocked?" came in Matlock Styles' voice.

"Is it unlocked?" asked another of the band.

"Yes."

"That is strange. It was locked yesterday; I am sure of it."

"Maybe that b.l.o.o.d.y rascal got here!" growled the Englishman.

"How could he work the combination?"

"Oh, some of those chaps are keener than you think. Wait, hold up the light."

Matlock Styles opened the door and gazed into the vault. For the moment he saw nothing.

"Not here," he said briefly. "Come on; we'll have to look elsewhere."

CHAPTER XXVI

DOOMED TO DIE

"Wait a minute!" came from the other man, as Matlock Styles was on the point of coming out of the vault.

"What do you want?"

"I want to get some of that new paper."

"Oh, you can get there after we have caught our man."

"I'll take it now--it won't take a minute."

The man pushed his way into the vault. He took hold of a box. Then he suddenly backed away.

"He's in there!" he gasped.