“Four,” replied Shaw. “And all in perfect condition.”
“In six months,” babbled the soft man, “there will be some ‘stuff’ in circulation in Mexico that will never be detected. ‘Stuff,’” and here he laughed almost hysterically, “that’ll be better than the genuine. Joe was the workman; he knew how to go over a plate.”
“And he also knew how to wrap one so that the damp wouldn’t get a chance to work on it,” said Shaw. “Hold the lantern closer.”
Under the light the drawn man inspected the plates closely.
“Great work!” said he, at length. “Never saw better.” Then he looked at the soft man. “How long did your brother put in on them?”
“I’m not sure. A good many months, though. And it was all done in this place. Joe worked himself to death over them, he was sick when old Campe got cold feet, backed out of the job and hurried north. He must have given Joe some kind of a story to get him to hide his work in this way; he was a wise old fox, as you know. Anyway, he went back to Mexico; Joe died before he could get any kind of word to me; and there we were, up a tree.”
“Well, we are safely down again,” came the strong voice of the cripple; “but don’t let us wait here. Get the plates together, and we’ll be off.”
Shaw obeyed; carefully he placed the plates one upon another, the layers of oiled paper between. He had them all nicely adjusted when they were snatched from his hand, and a voice said quietly:
“Careful now, gentlemen. Don’t do anything hasty. There are five guns between you and what you want.”
Startled, amazed, snarling, the seven stared at Ashton-Kirk. Faintly they saw the burly form of Scanlon in the shadow, and beside him the master of Schwartzberg and the two detectives; in the polish of the black automatics which these held there was a silent menace.