"Where am I?" thought our hero. "I must be down as low as the cellar."
While this thought passed through his mind, voices suddenly struck upon his ear. He had accustomed himself now to the darkness, and ascertained that there was a crevice through which he could look in the direction from which the sounds proceeded. Applying his eye, he could distinguish a small cellar apartment, in the middle of which was a printing press, and work was evidently going on. He could distinguish three persons. Two were in their shirt sleeves, bending over an engraver's bench. Beside them, and apparently superintending their work, was the old man whom Jack knew as Dr. Robinson.
He applied his ear to the crevice, and heard these words:
"This lot is rather better than the last, Jones. We can't be too careful, or the detectives will interfere with our business. Some of the last lot were rather coarse."
"I know it, sir," answered the man addressed as Jones.
"There's nothing the matter with this," said the old man. "There isn't one person in a hundred that would suspect it was not genuine."
Jack pricked up his ears.
Looking through the crevice, he ascertained that it was a bill that the old man had in his hand.
"They're counterfeiters," he said, half audibly.
Low as the tone was, it startled Dr. Robinson.