There could be no mistaking what all this was—the contents of the three stolen cases—the valuable Waldmere plate.
In a temporary brick structure in the middle of the earth floor a coal fire was fiercely burning, forced by a bellows thrust through the low brickwork.
Above it, suspended from an iron frame, hung a heavy caldron, with a long ladle in it—and a quantity of silverware that was being rapidly melted.
In the earth floor near one of the walls were numerous rectangular holes, molds for receiving the melted metal, and from some of which the silver ingots already had been pulled with an iron hook, to make room for more of the costly fluid.
The room was almost as hot as an oven, and perspiration stood in great drops on the faces of the three men then at work there—Floyd, Bagley, and Gorman.
Nick Carter had been sternly watching them for some time. He had found that he had solved more than the mystery of the stolen Waldmere plate.
He had known for weeks of numerous plate robberies from the dwellings of wealthy suburban residents, till it had become a question in the minds of the police as to who were committing the crimes and how so much plate was disposed of successfully.
It no longer was a question in Nick Carter’s mind. He knew, now, that he was in the secret quarters of the gang, and where Floyd had been and how employed since the looting of the Imperial Loan Company.
“Go up, Gorman, and open that trapdoor,” Floyd suddenly commanded, wiping his dripping face and glancing up at the ceiling. “Then some of this infernal heat will go into the loft.”
“So ’twill,” nodded Gorman, red and glowing. “We’ve forgotten that.”