"Bring him in," he said to the detective who held Pinto. "What room is this?"
"My dining-room," said Pinto faintly.
Stafford entered the room, turning on the light as he did so.
"Hullo, Pinto," he said.
Pinto could only look.
The table was littered with copper-plates and ink rollers. There was a thick pad of counterfeit money on one corner of the table, held down by a paper weight; little bottles of acids were scattered about, and near the table was a small lever press, so small that a man might carry it in a corner of his handbag.
"I think I have got you, Pinto," said Stafford King, and Pinto Silva nodded before he fell limply into the arms of his captor.
* * * * *
Maisie White had gone to bed early and the bell rang three times before she awoke. She slipped into a dressing-gown, and, going to the window, leaned out. She looked down upon the upturned face of a girl and in spite of the distance and the darkness of the night, recognised her. The man who stood in the background, however, she could not for the moment place. Nevertheless, she did not hesitate to go downstairs.
"Is that Miss White?" asked the girl.