Peter and Michael were both inspecting the press. Margaret sat down on one of the high stools, and listened to their highly technical comments. Mr. Fripp stood beside her, and seemed to take as little interest in the press as she did. "Wonderful how they can make it out, ain't it, miss?" he said affably.
She agreed. "Is it all printed by that big machine in the middle?" she inquired.
Michael heard her. "No, this is where they roll it off. Come and look."
She went up to him, and he showed her an engraved plate. "See? That's the plate. The paper goes between those rollers and when the current's turned on, that plate slides backwards and forwards, while the rollers press the paper on to it, and shoot it out this end, roughly speaking."
"I see. It's like looking-glass writing, isn't it? What are the other machines?"
"One of them cuts the paper. This one. I don't understand all of them."
"Neat little affair," Peter said. "I suppose this is the engraver's corner. Wonder who does it?"
"Unless I'm much mistaken, Duval was the engraver," Michael answered. He looked round the room. "Only the one door. Better test the walls, though. Where you find one moving stone-block you're likely to find another."
Peter looked up quickly. "Oh, so it was you, then?"
"Yes. Sorry if I gave you all a scare. It wasn't me you saw in the cellars, though. That was Fripp. He was trying to find a way into this place from there."