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Page 79
IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
"If I can't get away now I am doomed!"
It was Adam Adams who uttered the words in a low but firm voice. He
sat on a small bench, in the stone chamber. His feet were bound with a
rope and his hands were chained to a ring in the wall behind him.
The counterfeiters had started to draw lots, to see who should be the
one to do the detective to death. Then had come an interruption, in
the shape of an important message, and the detective had been bundled
off by himself, while the communication was under discussion.
Adam Adams knew that his situation was a desperate one. The
counterfeiters were a gang who would stop at nothing to keep their
secrets. The only one who appeared to be at all timid was the fellow
known as Number Four. Possibly if he could get this fellow alone and
work on his feelings Number Four might aid him. But just now such a
course seemed out of the question.
The detective listened attentively, but only a faint murmur of voices
reached his ears. The counterfeiters were having an animated
discussion over something, but they were on their guard so that not
even their prisoner might hear.
"Wonder why they are so careful?" mused the detective grimly. "If they
are going to take my life I don't see what difference it will make
whether I know their secrets or not."
Adam Adams was not the man to give in easily. Upon every case where
his services were called for, he usually "kept at it" until every
possibility was exhausted. He did not give in now, yet it must be
confessed, being but human, his heart was somewhat heavy.
"I'll have to take chances," he told himself. "Anything is better than
to let them kill me in cold blood."
He waited for a few minutes, to find out if anybody was coming to watch
him. One of the counterfeiters came in, looked him over in silence,
and then passed out again, this time closing the door more tightly than
before.
As soon as the fellow had departed, Adam Adams commenced to work on his
bonds. He had studied all sorts of handcuffs, and knew well how to
manage his hands and wrists when being fastened. He had not been able
to get the better of the fellow at the cottage, but now it was
different, and, with a twist of his wrists, he withdrew first one hand
and then the other.
With his hands free, it was an easy matter to untie his feet. This
done, he arose and tiptoed his way to the door. He opened the barrier
with caution, and peered out.
The sight that met his gaze was not a reassuring one. The
counterfeiters sat on all sides of the room, and each had a pistol
where it could be gotten at with ease.
"It's got to be done!" Matlock Styles was saying. "It should have been
done long ago."
"All right, I'll do it," grumbled another member of the band. "But
I'll be running a big risk."
"Not half the bloomin' risk I've been running," grumbled the Englishman.
"What about the word from Buffalo?" asked another.
"We'll settle that to-night--after we have settled about our prisoner."
"I've got to get back to New York."
"How soon?"
"Just as soon as possible."
"Do you want to take the letter along?"
"Yes; I gave my word I'd bring the letter."
"All right, then; we'll have to write the letter, and each man sign
it," said Matlock Styles. "But, I must say, I don't like this way of
doing things."
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