The two brisk, official-looking young men who came into the office identified themselves as Mr. Brady and Mr. Brown, of the United States Treasury Department. They wasted no time in getting down to business.
"Now, Mr. Merton," said Brady, "we'd like to know how you're getting all this money."
"Well, ah—um—I saved it," he said.
"That's not what I meant," said Brady. "I'm talking about several counterfeit bills that have been traced to you. Where did you get them?"
"But they can't be counterfeit," Peter protested. "They are perfectly good bills!"
"Oh, they're good imitations, all right," Brown said. "The most amazing fakes I've ever seen. The paper is perfect, the engraving is beautiful; in fact, the only thing wrong is the serial numbers. Why, some of those numbers won't be printed on bills for twenty or thirty years yet."
"Now, Mr. Merton," said Brady, "tell us where the plates are. Who printed these amazing phonies?"
"I don't know," Peter said. "I—I—" he stammered. Frightened, he didn't know what to say. He was afraid to tell them about Rolath Guelph and the Time Transfer; they'd think he was crazy.
"It won't do you any good to lie, Mr. Merton," said Brown. "We got a search warrant this morning and went through your apartment. We found the trunk full of money in your closet. Some of the boys are going over them now, down at the Treasury Office."
Peter Merton gulped and said nothing. He couldn't; there was a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit.