LITMIR.BIZ

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only to touch this other switch, and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival the famous writing on Belshazzar's wall—only it would be a voice from the wall instead of writing."

      "They seem to be waiting for someone," said Vincenzo. "I heard somebody say: 'He will be here in a few minutes. Now get out.'"

      The babel of voices seemed to calm down as men withdrew from the room. Only one or two were left.

      "One of them says the child is all right. She has been left in the back yard," translated Luigi.

      "What yard? Did he say?" asked Kennedy.

      "No, they just speak of it as the 'yard.'"

      "Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call up headquarters. Ask them if the automobile is ready, with the men in it."

      I rang up, and after a moment the police central answered that everything was right.

      "Then tell central to hold the line clear—we mustn't lose a moment. Jameson, you stay in the booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention, for they have men watching the street very carefully. What is it, Luigi?"

      "Gennaro is coming. I just heard one of them say, 'Here he comes.'"

      Even from the booth I could hear the dictagraph repeating the conversation in the dingy little back room of Albano's, down the street.

      "He's ordering a bottle of red wine," murmured Luigi, dancing up and down with excitement.

      Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window, and I believe that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone which I was holding, for the police operator called me down for asking so many times if all was ready.

      "There it is—the signal," cried Craig. "'A fine opera is "I Pagliacci."' Now listen for the answer."

      A moment elapsed, then, "Not without Gennaro," came a gruff voice in Italian from the dictagraph.

      A silence ensued. It was tense.

      "Wait, wait," said a voice which I recognized instantly as Gennaro's. "I cannot read this. What is this, 23½ Prince Street?"

      "No, 33½. She has been left in the back yard."

      "Jameson," called Craig, "tell them to drive straight to 33½, Prince Street. They will find the girl in the back yard—quick, before the Black-Handers have a chance to go back on their word."

      I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. "They're off," came back the answer, and I hung up the receiver.

      "What was that?" Craig was asking of Luigi. "I didn't catch it. What did they say?"

      "That other voice said to Gennaro, 'Sit down while I count this.'"

      "Sh! he's talking again."

      "If it is a penny less than ten thousand or I find a mark on the bills I'll call to Enrico, and your daughter will be spirited away again," translated Luigi.

      "Now, Gennaro is talking," said Craig. "Good—he is gaining time. He is a trump. I can distinguish that all right. He's asking the gruff-voiced fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he will. Good. They must be at Prince Street now—we'll give them a few minutes more, not too much, for word will be back to Albano's like wildfire, and they will get Gennaro after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What was that, Luigi? The money is all right, he says? Now, Vincenzo, out with the lights!"

      A door banged open across the street, and four huge dark figures darted out in the direction of Albano's.

      With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted: "Gennaro, this is Kennedy! To the street! Polizia! Polizia!"

      A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently from the bar, shouted, "Out with the lights, out with the lights!"

      Bang! went a pistol, and another.

      The dictagraph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as a cigar-box.

      "What's the matter?" I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me.

      "They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed. Come on, Jameson; Vincenzo, stay back if you don't want to appear in this."

      A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go. It was the faithful Luigi.

      In front of Albano's an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd we caught a glimpse of Gennaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his shoulder, struggling with a policeman while Luigi vainly was trying to interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was urging the first officer on. "That's the man," he was crying. "That's the kidnapper. I caught him."

      In a moment Kennedy was behind him. "Paoli, you lie. You are the kidnapper. Seize him—he has the money on him. That other is Gennaro himself."

      The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli. The others were beating at the door, which was being frantically barricaded inside.

      Just then a taxicab came swinging up the street. Three men jumped out and added their strength to those who were battering down Albano's barricade.

      Gennaro, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. Over his shoulder I could see a tangled mass of dark brown curls, and a childish voice lisped: "Why didn't you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I waited in the yard you would come for me. But if I cried he said he would shoot me. And I waited, and waited—"

      "There, there, 'Lina, papa's going to take you straight home to mother."

      A crash followed as the door yielded, and the famous Paoli gang was in the hands of the law.

      Missing: Page Thirteen

       (Anna Katherine Green)

       Table of Content

       I

       II

       III

       IV

       V

       VI

       VII

      I

       Table of Contents

      "One more! just one more well-paying affair, and I promise to stop; really and truly to stop."

      "But, Puss, why one more? You have earned the amount you set for yourself,—or very nearly,—and though my help is not great, in three months I can add enough—"

      "No, you cannot, Arthur. You are doing well; I appreciate it; in fact, I am just delighted to have you work for me in the way you do, but you cannot, in your position, make enough in three months, or in six, to meet the situation as I see it. Enough does not satisfy me. The measure must be full, heaped up, and running over. Possible failure following promise must be provided for. Never must I feel myself called upon to do this kind of thing again. Besides, I have never got over the Zabriskie tragedy. It haunts me continually. Something new may help to put it out of my head. I feel

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