Feeling for the latch, he discovered, with a thrill of satisfaction, that it was not fastened. He lifted it without difficulty and also absolutely without sound. Then he took a peep through the crack he had made when he pushed the door a little way open.
At first, he hesitated to open the door even wide enough to permit him to peep in. He remembered the five men he had seen in the other room on the floor above, and it would not have surprised him to find as many working down here in the cellar.
But the room was empty, although evidence that somebody was close at hand was not wanting.
It was a large apartment, that looked in a general way like a kitchen. Only, there was no kitchen range, nor pots, pans, or dishes—at least, no utensils such as are generally employed in an ordinary dwelling house in the culinary quarters.
A large pine table was the only piece of furniture. There was not even a chair to be seen.
On the table was an electric battery, an iron ladle, a few tools, and some slabs of white plaster of oblong form.
Over the table glimmered a gas jet turned too low to yield any light. The red glow that Chick had seen under the door came from a large, square stove of peculiar make, which stood out a little way from the wall opposite the door by which he had entered.
“That stove was never made for honest use,” thought Chick. “You could not even cook an egg on that thing. And I’m betting with myself that I know just what that stove is doing in this place. It’s cooking new money, or I’m a long way off in my guess.”
There were two other doors in the room. One of them, he judged, led into the house, while the other probably connected with the stone hallway ending at the outer door to the front yard.
“I hear boiling metal hissing on that stove,” he muttered. “The work is going on, all right. Why, yes! I see the crucible sunk into the stove. I knew that stove was built for only one kind of use.”