“By the jumping!” ejaculated Whitie Burns, heavy with admiration. “You got a head on you, Cap!”
“It's a good thing for some of you that I have,” returned Malone complacently. “But don't stand jawing all night. Go on, now--get busy!”
There was no surprise in Jimmie Dale's face--he had chosen his position behind a pile of cases that he had been extremely careful, as a man is careful when his life hangs in the balance, to assure himself were empty. None of the four came near or touched the pile behind which he stood; but, here and there about the room, they pulled this one and that one out from various stacks. In scarcely more than a moment, the room was completely transformed. It was no longer a storeroom for surplus stock, for the storage of bulky and empty packing cases! From the cases the men had picked out, like a touch of magic, appeared a veritable printing plant, an elaborate engraver's outfit--a highly efficient foot-power press, rapidly being assembled by Whitie Burns; an electric dryer, inks, a pile of white, silk-threaded bank-note paper, a cutter, and a score of other appurtenances.
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale very gently to himself. “Yes, quite so--but the plate? Ah!” Malone was taking it out from the middle of a bundle of old newspapers, loosely tied together, that he had lifted from one of the cases.
Jimmie Dale's eyes fastened on it--and from that instant never left it. A minute passed, two, three of them--the four men were silently busy about the room--Malone was carefully cleaning the plate.
“They will raid to-night. Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in the United State secret service”--the warning in her letter was running through Jimmie Dale's mind. Kline--the real Kline--was going to raid the place to-night. When? At what time? It must be nearly eleven o'clock already, and--
It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom--a terrific crash against the bolted door--but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without, held fast, thanks to the bolt. The four men, white-faced, seemed for an instant turned to statues. Came another crash against the door--and a sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender.
“We're pinched! Beat it!” whispered Whitie Burns wildly--and dashed for the trapdoor.