CHAPTER XV
EDGED TOOLS
THE moonlight penetrated but feebly through the one small opening which did duty for a window of the lean-to, and its interior was a mass of shadows. Suddenly that point of light was obliterated as a dark cloth was pulled across the opening. There was a prolonged wait before the same fingers switched on an electric lamp supplied with current from a powerful dry battery, but the light was so arranged that it fell directly upon a table on which stood a photographer’s outfit. A man, his face in shadow from a huge green eye-shade which he wore low on his brow, removed his hand from the electric switch. Taking up a piece of bond paper he felt its texture, and holding it up to the light he examined with minute attention the red and blue silk fiber running through the paper.
Laying down the paper he took out his wallet and drew out some money, and holding the spurious bill and the genuine bank note against the light he compared them closely, then a smile of triumph crossed his tightly compressed lips. It was next to impossible to distinguish between the two notes. Greatly elated, he straightened his weary back and looked about his workshop.
The cabin, for such it was, though to the casual observer it looked like only a lean-to of logs against the hillside, had but the one room which was fairly large, but owing to the numerous benches and tables and other articles it appeared smaller than it really was. At one side stood a printing-press, a metal rolling-machine, planchette cutting-machine, pump, two oil stoves, a plating outfit, and a double Turner torch, while a series of shelves held paints, oils, acids, brushes, and chemicals. Dumped in one corner were a lathe, a melting-pot, brazier, crucible and ladles, and on a nearby bench were scales, copper and zinc plates, dies, and molds.
The counterfeiter replaced the genuine money in his wallet and returned the latter to his pocket, then he moved over to a small safe and placed a handful of spurious bank notes inside it. He stood for a moment staring at the closed door of the safe, but he was in too excited a frame of mind to remain long idle, and walking over to a small cabinet he pulled out first one drawer and then another, arranging engraver’s tools and other delicate instruments with deft fingers. After that task was completed he turned his attention to the stone chimney and fireplace at the back of the cabin and banked the smoldering embers with ashes. Finally convinced that there was no danger of fire he drew out from the background large screens and arranged them in front of the homogeneous contents of the room. The screens were cleverly painted to resemble the bare walls of a log cabin, and once in position they caused the optical illusion, should any passer-by look through the window, of a deserted and empty cabin.
The counterfeiter, first concealing his green eye-shade behind one of the screens, switched off the electric light, and moving over to the window drew back the black cloth and concealed its presence by tucking it in a crevice in the log wall. A second later he was outside the cabin, and the faint click of the spring lock as he closed the door assured him that the latch had caught. He was inspecting the lock which chemicals had made old and dilapidated in appearance when a shadow obscured the moonlight shining on the door. The counterfeiter’s hand closed over the butt of a revolver inside his overcoat pocket, but before he caught sight of the newcomer a subdued but familiar voice reassured him, and his chilled blood coursed through his veins.
“I’se late, but I’se hyar, sah.”
“So I see, Cato, but come out of the moonlight.” And he pulled the old servant into the shelter of the woods. “What news?”
“Ain’t none,” tersely; the climb up the hillside had been both steep and hard, and the old negro was short of breath. The stillness remained unbroken for several minutes except for the hoot of a screech owl, at which the negro jumped nervously, then seeing that his companion had started down the hillside he made what speed he could after him. They were skirting the hedge which marked the southern boundary of Thornedale when a hand was laid on Cato’s shoulder.
“Go home, Cato,” directed the counterfeiter. “Don’t wait for me tonight, I’ll be along presently.”