"In there? Where?"

"There--on the shelf! Look out!"

"Ha! So he is!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Matlock Styles. He, too, leaped back.

"I've got him, too, the skunk!"

Both of the counterfeiters leaped into the pa.s.sageway. Adam Adams came down from the shelf. But the movement was not swift enough. As he leaped towards the iron door, it was banged shut in his face. Then the combination k.n.o.b was twirled around.

"Ha! ha! That's the time we caught you like a rat in a trap!" sang out the Englishman in triumph.

"Sure it was our man?" queried his companion. "I didn't get a very good look."

"Yes, it was our man, the b.l.o.o.d.y villain!"

"He's a slick one!"

"So he is--but he'll not get away again. Go and tell the others that it is all right--that we have him," went on Matlock Styles.

"You are sure he can't get out of there?"

"Not in a hundred years! He'd have to blast his way out to do it."

"Then it's all right," returned the other man, and walked away up the flight of stone steps.

"Now, then, you have come to the end of your rope, you bloomin', b.l.o.o.d.y rascal!" cried Matlock Styles, when he was left alone in front of the vault. "You'll not get out of there until I open the door."

"Styles, supposing we talk this matter over?" suggested Adam Adams, as calmly as he could.

"Talk it over? What do you mean?"

"Let me out, and I'll explain."

"I'll not let you out."

"It won't do you any good to keep me in here."

"I know better."

"Don't think that I am alone on this case, for I am not. If you harm me, you'll take the consequences."

"Bah! You can't scare me! I'm not a baby. If you weren't alone, some of your chums would be after you long ago. You thought to run me and my gang down single-handed, and have your praises sung in every bloomin' newspaper of the country! I know your kind. But I've got you now like a rat in a trap. And you'll get out like the rat does--after he's dead."

"You won't talk then?"

"No--at least, not now. Perhaps I'll talk later. But I'll not give you your liberty," and thus speaking Matlock Styles tried the door of the vault, to make certain that it was secure, and walked away.

It must be confessed that Adam Adams felt that he was in a dangerous situation--a situation in which the majority of men would have given up utterly. He still had his lantern, and this he lit once more, and by its rays examined every foot of the vault in which he was a prisoner.

He saw little that gave him encouragement. The sides and flooring were of stone and brick, well put together and strong. The ceiling was likewise of brick, resting on arches of iron.

"Looks as If I was booked to stay here!" he muttered grimly, as he viewed the situation. "No getting out as I got out of that other hole."

He noticed that the air was not good, and this soon gave him cause for additional alarm. If he could not get any fresh air, he might smother before anybody came to release him.

Once more he went over the walls and the flooring, and even pounded on the iron door. It was all to no purpose. He was as close a prisoner as if encased in a stone tomb.

"Perhaps they will leave me here until I either smother or starve to death," he reasoned. "It would be an easy way of disposing of me. And Miss Langmore and Mr. Case would wonder how I came to disappear so mysteriously."

He set the boxes on the floor, and, standing on one of them, proceeded to examine the roofing of the vault more carefully. He found one of the iron arches a bit loose at one end, and pulled upon it with all his might.

The result was greater than he had antic.i.p.ated. The iron brace came down, and with it fell several dozens of brick, some hitting the detective on the legs and feet. He shrank back against the shelves, and so avoided getting the shower on his head. The lantern was smashed, leaving him in total darkness.

As soon as the fall was over, he pulled the boxes from beneath the bricks and piled them one on top of the other. Mounting as high as he could, he felt around, secured a hold on some bricks and stones above, and hauled himself upward.

"Now to get out somehow!" he told himself. "No more lingering in this den of criminals!"

He felt around, as he moved forward. On all sides the walls were wet and slimy. He advanced with care, resolved to avoid all pitfalls, were it possible to do so. He was in a place where the roofing was no higher than his shoulders, so he had to stoop as he progressed.

A moment later he found himself in a narrow pa.s.sageway, with rocks on one side and a heavy wooden part.i.tion on the other. Through a slit in the part.i.tion a faint light was streaming.

Adam Adams tiptoed his way to the slit and looked through. Beyond he made out the printing room of the counterfeiting plant. Only one man was present, the big-boned fellow known as Number Four. He was seated on the corner of a rude table, idly tearing some paper into strips, and evidently thinking deeply.

As the detective was about to move on, another person entered the printing room.

"Did they get him?" asked Number Four eagerly.

"Yes," was the short reply.

"Where was he?"

"You'd never guess."

"At the river?"

"No; in the vault."

"What! How did he get there?"

"n.o.body knows. He must have found the door open. But it's against the rules for anybody to leave that door unlocked."

"I know that," said Number Four, and heaved a deep sigh.

"Say, you don't like your job, do you?" went on the other counterfeiter, with a sniff.

"Would you like it?" demanded Number Four, half angrily.

"Well, not particularly."

"When I joined this gang, I did it to make money, both ways. I didn't join to kill folks."