thod of
making money."

"Come along, then."

Owen mounted the motorcycle while Balthazar sprang to the seat and
started the runabout. They sped briskly over the roads, turning at
last into an old weed-grown wagon path fringed copse-like by the
branches of ever-hanging trees. The machine swished through the
barrier leaves and came out upon a small clearing where there stood a
gaunt house, evidently long deserted.

Balthazar drove on along the road for almost a quarter of a mile before
he stopped the machine, Owen following without question. They left the
runabout and the motorcycle and walked back to the house.

"It is an excellent location," commented Owen, as Balthazar lead the
way into a basement entrance. "Who did you say was the man in charge
of the--concern?"

"Rupert Wallace. He is a world-traveler like yourself, though no match
for you in mind, master."

Balthazar, as he spoke, was rapping lightly on a wall, which had no
sign of a door. It was pitch dark where they stood. But suddenly with
hardly a sound, two sliding doors opened to the Gypsy's signal and a
faint light from a gas jet on the wall gleamed on an inner passage.
Balthazar, closely followed by Owen, walked quickly down the secret
hall, and, without signal this time, another set of silent doors opened
upon a brightly lighted room.

A crabbed, withered woman admitted them.

The room was overheated because of the presence of a gas forge on which
a cauldron of metal was being melted. On one side there was a stamping
press, and on the other a set of molds.

Wallace noted Owen's curiosity, and stepping to the table in the middle
of the room, picked up a handful of half-dollar pieces.

"You are interested in our work--the work of supplying the poor with
sufficient funds to meet the increased cost of living," he said,
smiling. "These are some of our product. We are proud of them. The
weight is exactly that of the true fifty-cent piece. And only one man
in fifty could tell the difference in the ring of the metal."

Owen looked at the coins in sincere admiration.

"It is very remarkable," he said. "But Balthazar tells me--"

"I know. You have a little business of secrecy for myself and my
friends. You may speak here in perfect safety, Mr. Owen. Gossip is
not a fault--or a possibility--of our profession."

"I do not believe there is anything to say but what Balthazar has
already told you, except--"

Owen hesitated.

"Except w