They were in a stone-floored room. Partridge illuminated it with a hanging lamp. In one corner he raised a rough stone with his clawlike fingers. The stone was merely a flat slab. The light came down on an extension wire. Partridge held it above the hole.
“Look there, Armagnac,” he said.
The Frenchman gazed below. It was staring into a veritable shaft that ran at an angle into the ground. It had roughhewn steps that served as shelves; and on those ledges Armagnac saw bars and masses of golden metal.
ARMAGNAC arose and looked at Partridge. He saw the old man’s face beaming with miserly joy of possession. Here, he knew, was the secret storage room of the vast wealth which Lucien Partridge had gained through his illicit enterprises.
In the brief inspection permitted him, Armagnac knew that Morales had spoken the truth when he had declared there was enough for two.
The bearded Frenchman tried to suppress the elation that he felt. He endeavored to show indifference after he and Partridge had left the workhouse. The old man pointed to the door after he had locked it.
“Protected with an electric signal,” he said. “Let any one attempt to open it at night. The alarm would sound immediately. But no one will try” — the old man chuckled — “for no one can enter here, where I have my fence and my great cliff to the river.”
They reached Partridge’s laboratory. There, Armagnac expressed interest in Partridge’s experiments. They talked together until after dusk. Then Armagnac suddenly remembered that he must take the train to New York.
“I told the driver to return, unless I notified the station otherwise,” he said. “I presume that he will be here shortly. Well, Mr. Partridge, we are men well suited. I want the yellow metal that looks like gold. In return I shall add to your storage room of real gold.”
“You are leaving for France immediately?”
“As soon as possible.”
“That is wise. You may count upon me for all the synthetic gold that you require.”
Armagnac’s eyes had a far-away look. He seemed to be visualizing the vast opportunities that lay within the colonies of France. His lips curved in a foreboding smile.
Vignetti entered to state that the automobile had arrived to take the visitor to the station. Pierre Armagnac was about to leave, when Lucien Partridge restrained him.
“Wait a few moments,” insisted the old man. “You have ample time. I shall walk outside with you. But first, let me don my laboratory garb, now that Vignetti is here.”
The Corsican arrived with gloves and smock. Lucien Partridge calmly donned the garments. He accompanied Pierre Armagnac to the gate. The Frenchman was talking in a low voice, weaving vast, vague schemes of his future work.
At the gate, Lucien Partridge extended his hand. Pierre Armagnac clasped it, glove and all. He listened while the old man spoke.
“What I have revealed must not be known,” remarked Partridge, in a low tone.
“Certainly not,” responded Armagnac.
“It is a closed book—”
“Never to be reopened.”
The men parted. Armagnac looked back as he drove away in the dusk. The benign old man was standing at the gate, with Vignetti close beside him. An old fool and a dumb servant; so Armagnac considered them.
The automobile rolled on toward the station. Armagnac sat back in the cushions, thinking deeply. He noticed that his right hand was tingling slightly. He rubbed his hands together, and the sensation ceased.
Armagnac was more than pleased as he stared from the car window. He had discovered the old man’s lair. To-night, plans would be made that would mean great wealth for Pierre Armagnac and his partner, Alfredo Morales.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MEETING
IT was after nine o’clock that night when Pierre Armagnac left the Westbrook Inn for a quiet stroll. As usual, the bearded Frenchman was wary in his actions. He laughed at his own precautions, however, for he was sure that there was no one at the hotel who might be interested in his activities.
As Armagnac made his way along the road toward the cottage in the woods, he failed to notice a peculiar phenomenon — a drifting shape that kept pace close behind him.
Had Armagnac noted that fleeting form of blackness, he would probably have ignored it. For it was scarcely more than a shadowy blotch moving along the path that he was taking.
When he reached the clearing in the woods, Armagnac gave a low whistle — a signal agreed upon between himself and Morales. He advanced; opened the cottage door, and entered. There he found Morales awaiting him. The Frenchman smiled in greeting. He sat down and began his tale.
“I have learned all you wish to know,” he said. “Your surmise is correct. The gold is kept outside the house.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Morales. “The real gold?”
“The real gold. The synthetic metal is in the large building.”
“Excellent! How far is the real gold from the house?”
“One hundred yards — in a frame workhouse by the edge of the gorge.”
“Better yet! Is it guarded?”
“By an electric alarm that evidently goes to the mansion.”
“The mansion, too, is a frame structure?”
“Yes. The laboratory takes up much of the main floor. The furnaces are in the basement.”
Morales drew Armagnac to a table and produced paper and pencil. The Frenchman began to draw an outlined plan of Lucien Partridge’s domain. Armagnac’s remembrance of detail was amazing. When he had completed his sketch, the territory across the river was an open book to Alfredo Morales.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the Argentinian. “I could not have done so well had I covered the terrain by plane. That would have been a bad thing to do — and it would not have given me the details that I absolutely needed. For instance — the hiding place of the gold. I suspected that it might be outside the house.
“In the house or out, I would chance the scheme that I have in mind. But inside would not be so good as outside. Ah — you will understand, soon.”
A line of darkness crept along the floor. To-night, as on the preceding evening, it extended inward from the window. The area of darkness became motionless, escaping the attention of the plotters.
Armagnac was telling Morales his estimate of the wealth concealed in Partridge’s secret hiding place. The Frenchman was enthusiastic. Morales, now, was dreaming as he listened.
“GOLD — masses of it — shelves of it” — Armagnac was breathless — “and the old man has no need of worry. Guarded, hidden, weighing such a huge amount — how can it be spirited away?”
“Why do you think he showed it to you so readily?”
“I led up to it. He knew that I was planning to make millions of my own. He wanted to add to my confidence. He is gold-mad.
“You know, Partridge has sought to make real gold. He claims that he has succeeded, to a remarkable degree. This yellow metal is but inferior. But — according to his tale — he cannot produce the perfect metal cheaply enough to warrant its manufacture.”
“He is a dreamer,” declared Morales. “One cannot be too sure about his capabilities.”
“But he has gold,” said Armagnac. “I could see his ambition in his face. He wants to dominate the world by controlling the gold supply. A remarkable ambition, but too high. Better to seek what we have sought — a vast quantity of gold that will enable us to forget our counterfeiting.”
“It will be ours,” returned Morales, with a sallow smile. “Ours — very soon!”
Armagnac expressed doubt in his eyes. Morales smiled more broadly. Armagnac’s doubt increased. He spoke thoughtfully, with carefully chosen words.