THE SETTER OF TRAPS
The unlocked door squeaked shrilly on its hinges as it swung in before the heave of Carmena's shoulder. Elsie peeped fearfully back past Lennon. Carmena pushed on into the secret room.
Lennon had expected to see some kind of treasure chamber. He stared blankly at the big object in the centre of the room—a complex object that somehow reminded him of his laboratory experiments in college. A step nearer, with his own and Carmena's candles upraised, gave him a clear view of the bulging copper boiler, the tubes and worm and fermenting vats. The air of the room was pervaded with a sour smell.
At his exclamation Carmena gave him a sombre glance.
"You see now?"
"A still," he said. "This tizwin you've been talking about—it's moonshine whiskey. Your father——"
"No—Slade!" broke in the girl with passionate emphasis. "He brought the thing into the Hole and forced Dad to run it. He's the one to blame—not Dad. He bootlegs it to the Indians."
"Indians? That's a Federal penitentiary offense!"
"What could we do? If he's convicted, he'll swear that Dad is just as guilty. You see why I couldn't go for the sheriff?"
"Yes," said Lennon; but he looked at Elsie.