“Yes,” replied Crull.
“And yours, Vernon?”
“Yes.”
“Three to one,” said Isaac Coffran, calmly. “No need to wait for Jerry.”
The old man went to the corner of the cavern, and turned on another light. It revealed a black contrivance which Harry had not noticed against the gloomy wall.
It appeared to be a huge metal box that stood upright. Vernon helped the old man as they tipped the object on its side. The top was open.
Crull and Windsor lifted Harry and carried him to the casket. They pushed him, feet foremost, into the interior.
The box was lifted upright by the four men. Harry was trapped in a narrow space, his head protruding.
“Take the wheel, Birdie,” ordered Isaac Coffran.
Crull went to the back of the casket. There was a small wheel there arranged like a steering wheel — on a vertical plane. The man turned it slightly.
Harry felt the back wall of the casket press against him. Short spikes emerged, and were forced against his back.
“All set,” said Birdie Crull.
“No need to wait for Jerry,” observed Isaac Coffran. “He will arrive before we are finished.”
Despite his predicament, Harry could not help wondering who Jerry might be. He felt positive that they must be referring to the dark-faced man who had captured him several nights before.
Harry felt indifferent to Jerry’s arrival. His former captor had not treated him with much consideration.
Isaac Coffran was speaking. The words seemed to come from a distance. Harry’s mind seemed strangely bewildered, in the midst of this terrifying situation.
“Will you talk?” demanded the old man.
“No!” exclaimed Harry.
“You will suffer.”
“All right,” replied Harry, firmly.
He was resolved that he would not betray The Shadow. The least that he could do to make amends for his mistakes.
Harry realized that he was hopelessly trapped; that he should have warned The Shadow before he had spoken to Blair Windsor. But all that was past.
Life was hazardous for those who worked with The Shadow. One duty was to face death when it came, no matter how terrible its form might be.
“Take it slowly, Birdie,” said the old man. “We have plenty of time. Give him plenty of opportunity to talk.”
The spikes pressed against Harry’s back. They were not extremely sharp. It was the crushing power of the back wall that Harry feared most.
He was pressed closely now. His breath came in short gasps.
“Stop,” commanded Isaac Coffran.
“Now is your chance to talk,” he said to Harry. “Will you talk?”
“No.”
“Resume,” said Isaac Coffran, addressing Birdie Crull.
CHAPTER XXX
THE FIFTH MAN
Time seemed endless to Harry Vincent as the torture continued. Birdie Crull was working slowly. The pressure seemed to increase by infinitesimal degrees. But now it had reached a point where it would soon be unbearable.
Isaac Coffran held up a halting hand.
“No more pressure, Birdie,” he said. “Turn the knob at the center. That will advance the spikes alone.”
Sharp pains gripped Harry’s back. He gasped with anguish.
“Hold it,” ordered the old man. “Will you speak now?”
Harry was desperate. This prolonged agony would become insufferable. No hope lay ahead, yet his one desire was to postpone the coming torture. He nodded his head.
“All right,” said Isaac Coffran. “Who sent you here?”
“I came — of my own — accord,” gasped Harry.
The old man gazed at him sharply.
“I know who sent you” — his voice hissed through tightly closed teeth. “You came from The Shadow!”
If Isaac Coffran had sought to make Harry betray the fact which he suspected, his efforts were without avail. For no change came over the young man’s face.
“You know who The Shadow is, don’t you?” questioned the inquisitor.
Harry shook his head to indicate his ignorance. Old Isaac Coffran laughed harshly.
“Go ahead, Birdie,” he said.
Harry turned his head. His eyes were toward the gloomy passage that came from the farmhouse. He was the only one looking in that direction.
He gasped in sudden hope as a man emerged from the tunnel, and came into the light. Then he groaned.
The newcomer was the short, dark man with the black mustache who had captured him some nights before. This must be the fellow they called “Jerry.”
The stocky man moved quietly as he approached the group. When he had nearly reached them, he stopped short. Isaac Coffran heard him then, and turned.
The man was standing with his hands behind his back. He brought them to view with remarkable quickness, and threw two automatics toward the four men who were torturing Harry Vincent.
“Hands up!”
The businesslike command of the stranger had its effect. The four surprised men raised their arms above their heads, without an instant’s hesitation.
The dark-visaged man handled the revolvers carelessly. Disdain was on his face, as he walked toward the casket.
He seemed to learn everything at a glance. His eyes were quick; his hands were restless. Even though he failed to cover all of the men, not one dared to move.
The stranger motioned toward the casket with one of his automatics.
“Turn that wheel back!” he said to Birdie Crull. “Use one hand to do it. Act quick.”
Crull obeyed the order. Harry Vincent breathed deeply with real gratitude as the pressure was relieved. The mysterious arrival glanced at him.
“So you aren’t with the gang!” he exclaimed softly. “No wonder I couldn’t make you talk. I thought you must have tipped them off, after I couldn’t locate you anywhere.”
He deliberately turned his back on the four men who stood with upraised hands, and nonchalantly walked across the cavern.
Isaac Coffran began to move slightly; at that instant the stranger turned suddenly, and covered the old man with an automatic.
“One move out of any of you,” he said, “and I shoot. This is my last warning. Remember it.”
He looked at the printing press out of the corner of his eye. He kicked over a box, and printed bank notes fell from it.
As he moved about the room, he discovered plates that lay in a smaller box. He finally glanced at the table, and laughed as he saw tools there.
“The whole works,” he said. “You make the engravings, you do the printing, and you unload.”
He looked at the men who stood before him.
“You’re the engraver, eh?” he said to Vernon.
The man did not reply.
“Blair Windsor,” said the dark-faced man, “I’ve seen you before. You’re in the racket, too. I didn’t suspect that. You’re the blind. You make the place look respectable.”
He studied Isaac Coffran and Birdie Crull.
“You’re the bird behind it,” he said to the old man, “and this other fellow is your strong-arm man. A nice bunch.
“Been making counterfeit money, and unloading it, for a long time, haven’t you? Well since you’re in the business, you’ll know my name when you hear it. I’m Vic Marquette, of the secret service.”
An audible gasp came from Vernon’s lips. The old engraver knew that name and dreaded it. Vic Marquette heard the gasp.
“You were in the jug once,” said the Federal agent. “I’ll have you placed before I’m through. Making an easy living here, eh?
“Well, I’ve caught the four of you, and I’m going to tell you the lowdown before I march you out of here” — the secret-service man was handling his automatics as though his fingers itched to press the triggers.
“The other government men thought the phony bills were being made in New York,” he said. “But I knew different. I traced a few of them up to Springfield; then I found some in Brookdale. Not many, I admit; but two or three were enough to show me that you fellows were operating strong in this vicinity.