“No smashing here,” said the superintendent.
“Then what does all this mean?” said Dick, directing the light of the lantern he carried across to the far end of the vault. “There’s all the tackle—rolling mill, die stamps, and the rest of it.”
“Bah! coiners melt their stuff and electro-gild it. These are right enough, and there’s a big sum of money in there. Here, to work at once; I must have that door back in its place and the front sealed up.”
His man shook his head, and while the superintendent was busy directing the workmen, the constable carefully examined the elaborate machinery, and came upon a couple of chests full of little ingots which seemed to be of the right size for rolling out and stamping into coin.
“I know!” he muttered at last.
“What do you know?” said the superintendent.
“They must be South Africa people with a gold mine of their own, and to save trouble make up their own stuff into sovereigns. Here, I want to look at those poor chaps again.”
The superintendent seemed disposed to bid him let them be, but he was beginning to feel more and more confidence in his subordinate’s brains, and together they flashed the light over the ghastly faces.
“That’s right,” said the constable. “I know ’em well. It’s the butler and footman from next door. I’ve often seen ’em.”
“Then I’ve got a theory now,” said the superintendent, clapping his subordinate on the shoulder. “You’re right, I think, about their coining their own gold, and they came back to town—you see, Dick, the people of the house were out of town.”