"Good idea! We'll see presently," said Pratt.
"But we're not studying antiquities," Warrender remarked. "The essential point is, what are those beggars using the place for now? What are they doing with those bales of paper? Come into the tent, and I'll show you the specimen I bagged."
Within the shelter of the tent he unfolded the sheet, and the others bent over it curiously, fingering it.
"It has a sort of parchmenty feel, and it's much too thick for cigarette paper," said Pratt. "Is there a watermark?" He held it up to the sunlight.
"Jiminy!" he exclaimed. Whipping out his pocket-book he took a pound note, and held it beside the larger sheet. "Look here! The watermark's almost, but not quite, the same. A dashed clever imitation. Here are the words, 'One pound,' crowns, diagonal hatchings--everything. The beggars are forging Bradburys."
The sinister discovery almost robbed the others of breath. There could be little room for doubt. Such paper, so marked, could be used for only one purpose. A flood of light was poured on all the mysterious events of the past week. The paper was brought from abroad, and landed as a rule on the island in preference to the coast, to avoid the risk of interference by coastguards; also, no doubt, for greater ease of transport. Rush was employed because he was a well-known figure in the neighbourhood, and could go up and down the river in his boat without awakening suspicion. He might or might not know the contents of the bales; what was clear was that the printing of the notes must be done either in the tower or in Mr. Pratt's house. The foreigners had entered his service with no other end in view than their criminal work. Gradoff, the head of the gang, had probably known in advance of Mr. Pratt's intention to travel, and had astutely seized the opportunity of carrying on his operations in this remote spot, on the premises of an eccentric gentleman who was something of a recluse, and prone to quarrel with his neighbours.
"They're clever blackguards," said Pratt. "No wonder the island is haunted! And I say, Molly Rod's peculiar actions the other day are explained. She has found out what's going on, and being a decent Englishwoman, wants to stop it, husband or no husband. You may say what you like, Jack; I'm certain it is she who makes those signals, and, of course, my poor old uncle is absolutely ignorant of everything. He'll be in a terrific bait when he knows."
"What's our next move to be?" asked Warrender. "Inform the police?"
"Certainly not that fellow who yarned about arson the other night," said Armstrong. "It's a matter for the Chief Constable."
"Or Mr. Crawshay? He's a magistrate," suggested Pratt.