keenest and coolest criminals in or out of prison
walls, removed his pipe from his mouth and his heels from the edge of
the table, and drew forward in his chair to explain.

It was a curious place, that in which the speakers of the above were
seated, in the bright glare of an electric light.

It was inclosed with four solid stone walls, with not a window or
aperture through which a ray of light could be detected from outside.

Yet in one of the walls was a low, narrow door, also of stone, and so
cleverly constructed and fitted that, when swung into place in the wall,
it was comparatively beyond the detection of anybody ignorant of its
existence. This door then stood open, but the aperture through the wall
was heavily curtained.

Three of these walls formed the original foundation of an old and
extensive suburban mansion, the location, ownership and present use of
which will presently appear. The fourth wall, that with the door, was of
more recent construction, and was built squarely across the original
cellar of the house. It had been made to mask this secret subterranean
chamber in which the Kilgore gang was then gathered.

The place was commodious, and contained some noteworthy objects. In one
corner was a powerful hydraulic press. Near by was a splendid electrical
furnace, capable of generating an extraordinary degree of heat. Against
the adjoining wall were several barrels of sulphur, of which only one
was unheaded. Near by was a large box of anthracite coal, black and
glistening in the rays of the arc light.

Parallel with the opposite wall was a workbench, laden with curious
retorts, crucibles, test tubes, metal molds, and no end of tools, all of
which plainly suggested the work of one versed both in chemistry and
some mechanical art.

In the middle of the room was a square deal table, at which Kilgore was
seated, with Matt Stall and Spotty Dalton, the original three of the
Kilgore gang.

Two other persons were present, however, and they were engaged in
examining some work on the bench mentioned.

One of them was a tall, angular Frenchman, about sixty years of age,
named Jean Pylotte. He had a slender figure, somewhat bowed; but his
head was massive, in which his gleaming, gray eyes were deeply sunk,
like those of a tireless student and hard worker.

His companion at the bench just then was Sanetta Cervera, the Spanish
dancer--the murderess of Mary Barton--the vicious dare-devil who had
served Nick Car