it even before he caught sight of the oddly prepared shade of ink and the figures and letters so freshly impressed on the sheets themselves.
In that humble little cellar-room was being created the currency of an impending Republic. From eight photo-engraved plates, in one block, the man at the press was busily printing forty-peso "shin-plasters." And those forty-peso notes, Kestner suddenly remembered, were an integral part of the cause to which he himself had so recently sworn allegiance.
He was reminded of the imminence of this cause by the sudden thump of a closed door, the sound of steps, and then the murmur of hurried voices from the room to the front. The Secret Agent crept back to the transverse partition that shut off his narrow cell and pressed an ear flat against the pine boards. In that position he was able to make out the clear-cut tones of the man who had first spoken to him in the shooting-gallery above.
"But I've got business of my own to wind up here," he was complaining. "I've got to gather up another couple o' dozen men. Then I've got to get sixty cases o' wind-mill equipment aboard, and a lighter loaded with those phony gasoline engines o' mine."
"But I tell you, Burke, I've got to get away from here!"
At the first sound of that voice, so guardedly lowered in tone, Kestner knew it was Lambert speaking.
"And I've got to get away from here too." It was Burke's voice speaking this time. "And I've got a few palms to grease before I can get clearance."
"But when we made our deal you agreed to get me
