and whether some of them could not be transferred to my own pocket.
"That young man, Ronald Snell, who came here with me. He is the son of the man who died in Paris. He—well," and she lowered her voice, "the fact is, he knows too much."
"And it would be to your advantage if"
"Yes, if—if something happened," she whispered quickly.
"Ah, I see," I exclaimed, fully realizing her meaning. "But what does he know?"
"Everything. His father—whose real name was Heinrich Otto, but who sometimes took the name of Snell—foolishly let him into the secret of the business transacted here—a paying business, doctor," she laughed.
"What was that?"
"The printing of these," and she touched the little handbag containing the bank-notes.
"Then Otto was a forger?" I exclaimed in surprise, suddenly recollecting the pieces of discarded machinery in the attics.
"Otto was a German doctor, who was also an expert engraver. He prepared the notes, while I travelled across the Continent and changed them. A year ago, however, the
