have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
He had nothing to say for himself. He only lay and scowled. I leaned on Holmes’s arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat little bundles.
“A printing press—a counterfeiter’s outfit,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir,” said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then sinking into the chair. “The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw. That’s Prescott’s machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of Prescott’s notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat it.”
Holmes laughed.
“We don’t do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on me. Five years—when I should have had a medal the size of a soup plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and if I hadn’t put him out he would have flooded London with them. I was the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And can you
