His footsteps drew nearer the room in which the brothers were hiding. Frank sprang lightly in behind the open door, pressing himself close against the wall. Joe wedged in beside him.
Markel came into the room.
He was carrying a flashlight and its beam illuminated the corners of the musty chamber. The Hardy boys waited in suspense. Would he think of looking behind the door?
Suddenly there was a mutter of disgust from Markel and a rustle as something flitted out of a corner.
“Me‑e‑ow!”
“Only the cat!” grunted Markel.
The animal purred ingratiatingly, but Markel aimed a vicious kick at the cat. It missed its mark, however, and Markel turned and trudged out of the room.
“Find anything?” called Uncle Dock from the top of the stairs.
“It was only the cat,” answered Markel sullenly. “The brute must have been prowling around on the stairs and knocked the pail over.”
“Well, come back and get to work. I hope you’re satisfied now. I knew it must have been something like that.”
Markel gave no answer, but went back up the stairs. After a while the door of the workroom banged behind him and soon the roar and rattle of the printing press broke out anew.
Frank took a deep breath.
“That’s the closest call I ever went through,” he whispered, in relief.
“Let’s get out of here. Quick! I’d like to give that cat about a quart of cream for breakfast.”
They tiptoed quietly out of the room and made their way to the front door of the mill. It was, as Frank had predicted, bolted on the inside, but he drew the bolt and the door swung slowly open.
Frank placed his fingers on his lips as a sign for silence. To this Joe nodded understandingly.
Then from a distance came an unexpected sound—the mewing of a cat!
Both lads had to grin—indeed, it was all Joe could do to keep from laughing outright.
They slipped outside, closing the door behind them.
“Now to get back to Bayport,” whispered Frank. “We’ll have to hurry.”
They sped across the grass toward the borders of the dark wood, and not until they had reached its friendly shade did they look behind. The ghostly old mill stood by the gleaming river, dark and sinister in the clear moonlight.
“We’ll be back,” Joe said, as he glanced back at the mill.
“There is going to be a big surprise for that gang before the night is over.”
“I’ll say. Let’s get started on it.”
They ran up through the trees until they reached the deserted road, where they had left their motorcycles. Within a few minutes they were in the saddles and roaring back in the direction of Bayport.
They made the journey at full speed, but at that it was late before the gleaming lights of the city came into view. The motorcycles sped down the shore road on to the concrete boulevards, then raced through the city streets, now almost deserted save for an occasional late trolley or nighthawk taxi.
At length they drew up before the Hardy home and raced up the front walk. They found their father in the house, sitting up for them.
“What on earth kept you out so late? Your mother—” Fenton Hardy began, but Frank interrupted him.
“We’ve found the counterfeiters!”
“The what?” demanded Mr. Hardy, in astonishment.
“The counterfeiters. Get some men and we can catch the whole crowd this very minute.”
“Is this right?” asked the detective swiftly.
“We’ve found their plant. We saw them making money. We can bring you there right away. They don’t know that we saw them.”
“And they’re getting ready to leave in the morning,” put in Joe.
“Where are they?” demanded Fenton Hardy.
“In the old Turner mill on Willow River. We’ve just come from there.”
Mr. Hardy was a man who wasted little time once he had grasped the essentials of a situation. Without a word he hurried over to his study and picked up the telephone. He asked for a number and, after it was secured, he held a brief, curt conversation. Then he put down the telephone and the receiver clicked.
“We’ll have a posse out there in half an hour,” he said to his sons. “Three state troopers and two Secret Service men who have been working on this case are in town. Will that be enough?”
“There are three in the counterfeiting gang,” Frank told him.
“We’ll have enough. And now tell me how you found out about the old mill.”
Briefly, Frank and Joe told him how their suspicions had first been aroused by the mysterious activities about the mill, how they had visited the place and found that strangers were not welcome, how they had finally resolved to investigate for themselves, and how they had that night gone to the mill and seen the counterfeiting plant in actual operation.
Their story was interrupted by the arrival of an automobile which drew up in front of the Hardy home with a squeal of brakes. A man in uniform stepped out and ran up the walk.
“Here are the officers,” said Mr. Hardy. “Come along.”
They left the house and met the officer on the steps. Mr. Hardy spoke to him.
“They are at the old Turner mill on Willow River,” he said quietly. “I suppose you know how to get there.”
“Can’t say that I do,” said the officer. “Not by car.”
“Follow the shore road and then cut in on that deserted loop. It used to run right past the mill before the shore road was built.”
The trooper nodded.
“I remember now. The deserted road, eh? We’ll get there all right.”
“Better leave the car back on the road some distance and go the rest of the way on foot,” suggested Frank. “We can sneak up on ’em better that way.”
They clambered into the automobile. The other men were broad-shouldered, keen-eyed fellows with determined faces. The moonlight glinted on rifle barrels and revolvers.
Through the cool night sped the automobile, out the shore road, leaving Bayport behind, until at last the car turned off into the deserted road, rocking and bumping to and fro in the ruts.
When they reached the place
