“He’s in there!” he gasped.

“In there?  Where?”

“There—­on the shelf!  Look out!”

“Ha!  So he is!” ejaculated Matlock Styles.  He, too, leaped back.  “I’ve got him, too, the skunk!”

Both of the counterfeiters leaped into the passageway.  Adam Adams came down from the shelf.  But the movement was not swift enough.  As he leaped towards the iron door, it was banged shut in his face.  Then the combination knob was twirled around.

“Ha! ha!  That’s the time we caught you like a rat in a trap!” sang out the Englishman in triumph.

“Sure it was our man?” queried his companion.  “I didn’t get a very good look.”

“Yes, it was our man, the bloody villain!”

“He’s a slick one!”

“So he is—­but he’ll not get away again.  Go and tell the others that it is all right—­that we have him,” went on Matlock Styles.

“You are sure he can’t get out of there?”

“Not in a hundred years!  He’d have to blast his way out to do it.”

“Then it’s all right,” returned the other man, and walked away up the flight of stone steps.

“Now, then, you have come to the end of your rope, you bloomin’, bloody rascal!” cried Matlock Styles, when he was left alone in front of the vault.  “You’ll not get out of there until I open the door.”

“Styles, supposing we talk this matter over?” suggested Adam Adams, as calmly as he could.

“Talk it over?  What do you mean?”

“Let me out, and I’ll explain.”

“I’ll not let you out.”

“It won’t do you any good to keep me in here.”

“I know better.”

“Don’t think that I am alone on this case, for I am not.  If you harm me, you’ll take the consequences.”

“Bah!  You can’t scare me!  I’m not a baby.  If you weren’t alone, some of your chums would be after you long ago.  You thought to run me and my gang down single-handed, and have your praises sung in every bloomin’ newspaper of the country!  I know your kind.  But I’ve got you now like a rat in a trap.  And you’ll get out like the rat does—­after he’s dead.”

“You won’t talk then?”

“No—­at least, not now.  Perhaps I’ll talk later.  But I’ll not give you your liberty,” and thus speaking Matlock Styles tried the door of the vault, to make certain that it was secure, and walked away.

It must be confessed that Adam Adams felt that he was in a dangerous situation—­a situation in which the majority of men would have given up utterly.  He still had his lantern, and this he lit once more, and by its rays examined every foot of the vault in which he was a prisoner.

He saw little that gave him encouragement.  The sides and flooring were of stone and brick, well put together and strong.  The ceiling was likewise of brick, resting on arches of iron.

“Looks as If I was booked to stay here!” he muttered grimly, as he viewed the situation.  “No getting out as I got out of that other hole.”