"He won't say a word. It's my opinion he doesn't know much about the source of the counterfeit money, anyway. I think he was only an agent sent out to dispose of as much of it as he could. They probably have a dozen men traveling around the country passing off these bad bills. Once the money gets into circulation it's liable to pass through a dozen hands before it is discovered."
"Perhaps that man who stung the garage owner for twenty dollars had no idea the money was bad. And perhaps it's the same way with the fellow who bought the ticket at the steamboat office."
"It's queer that most of the fuss is being raised right around this city. You don't hear much about it from other places."
"It's my idea," said Frank, "that the counterfeiters have their plant right in this vicinity."
"Do you think so?"
"Just as you said—most of the counterfeit money seems to be passed in and around Bayport."
"Where do you think they could be making the stuff?"
Frank shrugged.
"You never can tell. Perhaps in some cellar of one of the downtown buildings, for all we know. Personally, I've got an idea. It may be foolish, but I've been turning it over in my head for a few days, and the more I think of it, the more reasonable it seems."
"Spring it."