All the while, in grim amusement over this colloquy, Gorman and Bagley continued their work of melting the silver plate and pouring it into the earth molds. The seething caldron glowed with the heat. The fire burned intensely under it, forced by the wheezy bellows. It was like a scene in the infernal regions. The melting pot was getting in its work. Floyd appeared to be making good. Seeing him tear the cloth wrapping from a magnificent piece of gold plate, superbly embossed and engraved, Nick frowned more darkly and asked: “Are you going to melt all of that gold plate, Floyd?” “You can bet I’m going to melt it.” “That’s a sacrilege.” “Call it what you like.” “Such plate could not be replaced in these days. That was the work of some of the finest goldsmiths in Europe. You can do better than melt it, Floyd,” Nick earnestly protested, anxious to save the fine old plate from destruction, if possible. “How better?” questioned Floyd curiously. “By selling it back to Waldmere,” said Nick. “He would pay thrice the intrinsic value of the metal.” “Think he would, eh?” “I am sure of it.” “That’s a good scheme, then, no doubt.” “You had better adopt it and save the plate.” “Mebbe I had, Carter, but I’ll do nothing of the kind. The risk is too great.” “Don’t let that deter you,” Nick insisted. “A man as clever as you could safely make the deal and realize what the stuff is worth. You’d get by, all right.” “I’ll get by, Carter, and you can bank on it,” Floyd asserted confidently. “But I shall stick to the safe road. I’ll put this stuff into shape that can be easily turned into cash. It will pay us handsomely enough, all right,” he added, with an exultant leer. “That’s no pipe dream,” growled Bagley, with eyes glowing. “It beats any stuff of the kind that I ever lamped. It ought to bring----” He broke off abruptly when a low, peculiar whistle fell upon his ears. Though instantly recognized, he instinctively reached for his revolver. “It’s Bannon,” snapped Floyd quickly. “Bannon or Vera.” “Sure!” put in Gorman, gazing. This was verified in a moment by the appearance of Bannon from the tunnel leading from the rag shed. He came out of the ground like an imp out of Hades, with an evil gleam in his narrow eyes, and obviously in some excitement. “Say, Floyd, I’ve been up against it,” he cried at once. “I’ve been double-crossed by a scurvy whelp, who would have thrown us all down and into the hands of the dicks.” “Whom do you mean?” Floyd demanded, staring at him. “Pilot Flynn.” “That cur!” “Gee! Wait till I get back at him,” Bannon fiercely threatened. “I’ll pepper him as full of holes as a sieve.” “What do you mean?” snapped Floyd. “Tell me.” Bannon hastened to do so, describing the subterfuge of Patsy Garvan and stating what had followed. It brought a murderous light into Floyd’s eyes, while uglier scowls settled on the sweaty faces of Gorman and Bagley.