“It seems to me that you are done now,” said Cuthbert angrily.  He was not very pleased at the use Jennings had made of him.

“By no means.  Maraquito will take refuge in a place I know of.  She does not fancy I am aware of its existence.  But I am on my way there now.  You can come also if you like.”

“No,” said Mallow decisively, “so far as I am concerned, I have no further interest in these matters.  I told you so the other day.”

“Don’t you wish to know who killed Miss Loach?”

Mallow hesitated, and wondered how much the detective knew.  “Have you any clue to the assassin?” he asked.

Jennings shrugged his shoulders.  “I can’t say that.  But I suspect the coiners have something to do with the matter.”

“The coiners?”

“Ah!  I know you have not learned much about them.  I have no time now to talk, but you will see everything in the papers shortly.  I can tell you, Mallow, there’s going to be a row.”

Mallow, like all young Englishmen, was fond of fighting, and his blood was at once afire to join in, but, on second thoughts, he resolved to stick to his original determination and stay away.  It would be better, he thought, to let Jennings carry out his plans unhampered.  In order, therefore, to preserve Basil’s secret, Mallow nodded to the detective and went home.  That night he spent wondering what had become of Maraquito.

Meantime, Jennings, with a dozen men, was on his way to Rexton.  It was now after eleven, and the clock struck the half hour as they landed at Rexton Station.  The police force of the suburb had been notified of the raid about to be made, and Inspector Twining was on the spot.  He guided the party through the side path which terminated near Rose Cottage.  The night was dark and rainy, but there were occasional gleams of moonlight.  There was no light in the windows of Rose Cottage, and everything appeared to be quiet.  Behind loomed the ruins of the unfinished house beneath which was the coining factory.

On the way to the spot Jennings conversed with Twining in low tones and detailed his experience with Maraquito.

“I am quite sure that she has gone to the factory,” he said; “she does not think that I know about it.  I fancy she will tell her pals that the game is up and the lot will light out for America.”

“They may have gone by this time,” suggested the inspector.

“I don’t think so.  Maraquito must have just arrived, if indeed she has come here.  Besides, she will never guess that I know how to get into the place, or indeed think that I know of its existence.”

“How did you guess?”

“Guess is a good word.  I just did guess, Twining.  From various facts which there is no time to tell you, I became convinced that there was a factory in existence.  Also I fancied that the death of that old lady was connected with the preservation of the secret.  But I only got at the hard facts the other day, when a girl called Grant—­”