Birch opened the door. A package was thrust in.
There, in the darkness, with Spotter looking on, the pawnbroker gave the man the packet of ten-dollar bills. In an instant, the visitor was gone. The sound of a departing automobile came from outside.
“Come on,” said Birch, picking up the package. He led Spotter through a short hall. They went down a flight of stairs into the cellar.
Birch turned on the basement light. He laid the package on the floor, and burst it open. Stacks of twenty-dollar and fifty-dollar bills came into view. Birch examined one.
“Great stuff,” he said. “Up to the usual standard. How do you want yours, Spotter? Twenties or fifties?”
“Half of each,” replied the little man.
* * *
As the pawnbroker stooped forward to count out the counterfeit cash, his shadow again performed its elongation. This time Spotter said nothing; but his face became drawn and tense. He watched Birch for a moment; then turned cautiously and looked about the cellar.
His inspection proved that they were alone. The edges of the cellar were gloomy, but no one was visible. A pile of blackness at one corner proved to be a large heap of coal — evidently left over from the winter’s supply.
Birch finished counting the money, and rose just before Spotter ended his survey of the cellar.