"Are you badly—hit, old man?" he gasped.

"I'm—done for!" said the Chief, weakly. "And the dagos did it."

From an open window above them a woman began to scream loudly:

"Murder! Murder!"

The cry was taken up in other quarters and went echoing down the street.

Doors were flung wide, gates slammed, men came hurrying through the wet night, hurling startled questions at one another, but the powder smoke which hung sluggishly in the dark night air was sufficient answer. It floated in thin blue layers beneath the electric lights, gradually fading and melting as the life ebbed from the mangled body of Dan Donnelly.

It was nearing dawn when Norvin Blake emerged from the hospital whither Donnelly had been taken. The air was dead and heavy, a dripping winding-sheet of fog wrapped the city in its folds; no sound broke the silence of the hour. He was sadly shaken, for he had watched a brave soul pass out of the light, and in his ears the words of his friend were ringing:

"Don't let them get away with this, Norvin. You're the only man I trust."



XIII

THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS



At the Central Station Norvin found a great confusion. City officials and newspaper men were coming and going, telephones were ringing, patrolmen and detectives, summoned from their beds, were reporting and receiving orders; yet all this bustling activity affected him with a kind of angry impatience. It seemed, somehow, perfunctory and inadequate; in the intensity of his feeling he doubted that any one else realized, as he did, the full significance of what had occurred.

As quickly as possible he made his way to O'Neil, the Assistant Superintendent of Police, who was deep in consultation with Mayor Wright. For a moment he stood listening to their talk, and then, at the first pause, interposed without ceremony:

"Tell me—what is being done?"

O'Neil, who had not seemed to note his approach, answered without a hint of surprise at the interruption:

"We are dragging the city."

"Of course. Have you arrested Larubio, the cobbler?"

"No!" Both men turned to Blake now with concentrated attention.

"Then don't lose a moment's time. Arrest all his friends and associates. Look for a man in a rubber coat. I saw him fire. There's a boy, too," he added, after a moment's pause, "about fourteen years old. He was hiding at the corner. I think he must have been their picket; at any rate, he knows something."

The Assistant Superintendent noted these directions, and listened impassively while Norvin poured forth his story of the murder. Before it was fairly concluded he was summoned elsewhere, and, turning away abruptly, he left the room, like a man who knows he must think of but one thing at a time. The young man, wiping his face with uncertain hand, turned to the Mayor.

"Dan was the second friend I've seen murdered by these devils," he said. "I'd like to do something."

"We'll need your help, if it was really the dagoes."

"What? There's no doubt on that score. Donnelly was warned."

"Well, we ought to have them under arrest in short order."

"And then what? They've probably arranged their alibis long ago. The fellows who did the shooting are not the only ones, either. We must get the leaders."

"Exactly. O'Neil understands."

"But he'll fail, as Donnelly failed."

"What would you have us do?"

Blake spoke excitedly, his emotions finding a vent.

"Do? I'd rouse the people. Awaken the city. Create an uprising of the law-abiding. Strip the courts of their red tape and administer justice with a rope. Hang the guilty ones at once, before delay robs their execution of its effect and before there is time to breed doubts and distrust in the minds of the people."

"You mean, in plain words—lynch them?"

"Well, what of that? It's the only—"

"But, my dear young man, the law—"

"Oh, I know what you're going to say, well enough, yet there are times when mob law is justified. If these men are not destroyed quickly they will live to laugh at our laws and our scheme of justice. We must strike terror into the heart of every foreign-born criminal; we must clean the city with fire, unless we wish to see our institutions become a mockery and our community overridden by a band of cutthroats. The killing of Dan Donnelly is more than a mere murder; it is an attack on our civilization."

"You are carried away by your personal feelings."

"I think not. If this thing runs through the regular channels, what will happen? You know how hard it is to convict those people. We must fight fire with fire."

"Personally, I agree with a good deal you say; officially, of course. I can't go so far. You say you want to help. Will you assume a large responsibility? Will you take the lead in a popular movement to help the enforcement of the law—organize a committee?"

"If you think I'm the right man?"

"Good! Understand"—the Mayor spoke now with determined earnestness— "we must have no lynchings; but I believe the police will need help in the search, and I think you are the man to stir up the public conscience and secure that aid. If you can help in apprehending the criminals we shall see that the courts do their part. I can trust you in so delicate a matter where I couldn't trust—some others."

O'Neil appeared at that moment with two strange objects in his hands.

"See what we've just found on the Basin Street banquette."

He displayed a pair of sawed-off shotguns the stocks of which were hinged in such a manner that the weapons could be doubled into a length of perhaps eighteen inches and thus be concealed upon the person. Blake examined them with mingled feelings. Having seen the body of the Chief ripped and torn in twenty places by buckshot, slugs, and scraps of iron, he had tried to imagine what sort of firearms had been used. Now he knew, and he began to wonder whether death would come to him in the same ugly form.

"Have you sent for Larubio?" he asked.

"The men are just leaving."

"I'll go with them."

O'Neil intercepted the officers at the door, and a moment later Norvin was hurrying with them toward Girod Street. Mechanically his mind began to review the events leading up to the murder, dwelling on each detail with painful and fruitless persistence. He repictured the scene that his eye had so swiftly and so carelessly recorded; he saw again the dark shed, the dumb group of figures idling beneath it, the open door and the flood of yellow light behind. But when he strove to recall a single face or form, or even the precise number of persons, he was at a loss. Nothing stood out distinctly but the bearded face of Larubio, the silhouette of a man in a gleaming rubber coat, and, a moment later, a slim stripling boy crouched in the shadows near the corner.

As the party turned into Girod Street he saw by the first streaks of dawn that the curious had already begun to assemble. A dozen or more men were morbidly examining the scene, re-enacting the assassination and tracing the course of bullets by the holes in wall and fence—no difficult matter, since the ground where Donnelly had given battle had been swept by a fusillade.

Larubio's shop was dark.

The officers tried the door quietly, then at a signal from Norvin they rushed it. The next instant the three men found themselves in an evil-smelling room furnished with a bench, some broken chairs, a litter of tools and shoes and leather findings. It was untenanted, but, seeing another door ahead of him, Blake stumbled toward it over the debris. Like the outer door, it was barred, but yielded to his shoulder.

It was well that the policemen were close upon his heels, for they found him locked in desperate conflict with a huge, half-naked Sicilian, who fought with the silent wickedness of a wolf at bay.

The chamber was squalid and odorous; a tumbled couch, from which the occupant had leaped, showed that he had been calmly sleeping upon the scene of his crime. Through the dim-lit filth of the place the cobbler whirled them, struggling like a man insane. A table fell with a crash of dishes, a stove was wrecked, a chair smashed, then he was pinned writhing to the bed from which he had just arisen.

"Close the front door—quick!" Norvin panted. "Keep out the crowd!"

One of the policemen dashed to the front of the hovel barely in time to bar the way.

Larubio, as he crouched there in the half-light, manacled but defiant, made a striking figure. He was a patriarchal man. His hairy, naked chest rose and fell as he fought for his breath, a thick beard grew high upon his cheeks, lending dignity to his fierce aquiline features, a tangled mass of iron-gray hair hung low above his eyes. He looked more like an Arab sheik than a beggarly Sicilian shoemaker.

"Why are you here?" he questioned, in a deep voice.

Blake answered him in his own language:

"You killed the Chief of Police."

"No. I had no part—"

"Don't lie!"

"As God is my judge, I am innocent. I heard the shooting; I looked out into the night and saw men running about. I was frightened, so I went to bed. That is all."

Norvin undertook to stare him down.

"You will hang for this, Larubio," he said.

The fierce gray eyes met his unflinchingly.

"You had a hand in the killing, for I saw you. But you acted against your will. Am I right?"

Still the patriarch flung back his glance defiantly.

"You were ordered to kill and you dared not disobey. Where is Belisario Cardi?"

The old man started. Into his eyes for the briefest instant there leaped a look of terror, then it was gone.

"I do not know what you are talking about," he answered.

"Come! The man with the rubber coat has confessed."

Larubio's gaze roved uncertainly about the squalid quarters; but he shook his head, mumbling:

"God will protect the innocent. I know nothing, your Excellency."

They dragged him, still protesting, from his den as dogs drag an animal from its burrow. But Norvin had learned something. That momentary wavering glance, that flitting light of doubt and fear, had told him that to the cobbler the name of Cardi meant something real and terrible.

Back at headquarters O'Neil had further information for him.

"We've got Larubio's brother-in-law, Caspardo Cressi. It was his son, no doubt, whom you saw waiting at the corner."

"Have you found the boy?"

"No, he's gone."

"Then make haste before they have time to spirit him away. These men won't talk, but we might squeeze something out of the boy. He's the weakest link in the chain, so you must find him."

The morning papers were on the street when Norvin went home. New Orleans had awakened to the outrage against her good name. Men were grouped upon corners, women were gossiping from house to house, the air was surcharged with a great excitement. It was as if a public enemy had been discovered at the gates, as if an alien foe had struck while the city slept. That unformed foreign prejudice which had been slowly growing had crystallized in a single night.

To Norvin the popular clamor, which rose high during the next few days, had a sickening familiarity. At the time of Martel Savigno's murder he had looked upon justice as a thing inevitable, he had felt that the public wrath, once aroused, was an irresistible force; yet he had seen how ineffectually such a force could spend itself. And the New Orleans police seemed likely to accomplish little more than the Italian soldiers. Although more than a hundred arrests were made, it was doubtful if, with the exception of Larubio and Cressi, any of the real culprits had been caught. He turned the matter over in his mind incessantly, consulted with O'Neil as to ways and means, conferred with the Mayor, sounded his friends. Then one morning he awoke to find himself at the head of a Committee of Justice, composed of fifty leading business men of the city, armed with powers somewhat vaguely defined, but in reality extremely wide. He set himself diligently to his task.

There followed through the newspapers an appeal to the Italian population for assistance, and offers of tremendous rewards. This resulted in a flood of letters, some signed, but mostly anonymous, a multitude of shadowy clues, of wild accusations. But no sooner was a promising trail uncovered than the witness disappeared or became inspired with a terror which sealed his lips. It began to appear that there was really no evidence to be had beyond what Norvin's eyes had photographed. And this, he knew, was not enough to convict even Larubio and his brother-in-law.

While thus baffled and groping for the faintest clue, he received a letter which brought him at least a ray of sunshine. He had opened perhaps half of his morning's mail one day when he came upon a truly remarkable missive. It was headed with an amateurish drawing or a skull; at the bottom of the sheet was a dagger, and over all, in bright red, was the life-size imprint of a small, plump hand.

In round, school-girl characters he read as follows:

"Beware! You are a traitor and a deserter, therefore you are doomed. Escape is impossible unless you heed this warning. Meet me at the old house on St. Charles Street, and bring your ransom. "THE AVENGER."

At the lower left-hand corner, in microscopic characters, was written:

"I love chocolate nougat best."

Norvin laughed as he re-read this sanguinary epistle, for he had to admit that it had given him a slight start. Being a man of action, he walked to the telephone and called a number which had long since become familiar.

"Is this the Creole Candy Kitchen? Send ten pounds of your best chocolate nougat to Miss Myra Nell Warren at once. This is Blake speaking. Wait! I have enough on my conscience without adding another sin. Perhaps you'd better make it five pounds now and five pounds a week hereafter. Put it in your fanciest basket, with lots of blue ribbon, and label it 'Ransom!'"

Next he called the girl himself, and after an interminable wait heard a breathless voice say:

"Hello, Norvin! I've been out in the kitchen making cake, so I couldn't get away. It's in the oven now, cooking like mad."

"I've just received a threatening letter," he told her.

"Who in the world could have sent it?"

"Evidently some blackmailing wretch. It demands a ransom."

"Heavens! You won't be cowardly enough to yield?"

"Certainly. I daren't refuse."

He heard her laughing softly. "Why don't you tell the police?"

"Indeed! There's an army of men besieging the place now."

"Then you must expect to catch the writer?"

"I've been trying to for a long time."

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about," she said, innocently.

"Could I have sent the ransom to the wrong address?"

He pretended to be seized with doubt, whereupon Myra Nell exclaimed, quickly:

"Oh, not necessarily." Then, after a pause, "Norvin, how does a person get red ink off of her hands?"

"Use a cotton broker. Let him hold it this evening."

"I'd love to, but Bernie wouldn't allow it. It was his ink, you know, and I spilled it all over his desk. Norvin—is it really nougat?"

"It is, the most unhealthy, the most indigestible—"

"You duck! You may hold my gory hand for—Wait!" Blake heard a faint shriek. "Don't ring off. Something terrible—" Then the wire was dead.

"Hello! Hello!" he called. "What's wrong, Myra Nell?" He rattled the receiver violently, and getting no response, applied to Central. After some moments he heard her explaining in a relieved tone:

"Oh, such a fright as I had."

"What was it? For Heaven's—"

"The cake!"

"You frightened me. I thought—"

"It's four stories high and pasted together with caramel."

"You should never leave a 'phone in that way without—"

"Bernie detests caramel; but I'm expecting a 'certain party' to call on me to-night. Norvin, do you think red ink would hurt a cake?"

"Myra Nell," he said, severely, "didn't you wash your hands before mixing that dough?"

"Of course."

"I have my doubts. Will you really be at liberty this evening?"

"That depends entirely upon you. If I am, I shall exact another ransom—flowers, perhaps."

"I'll send them anyhow, Marechal Neils."

"Oh, you are a—Wait!"

For a second time Miss Warren broke off; but now Norvin heard her cry out gladly to some one. He held the receiver patiently until his arm cramped, then rang up again.

"Oh, I forgot all about you, Norvin dear," she chattered. "Vittoria has just come, so I can't talk to you any more. Won't you run out and meet her? I know she's just dying to—She says she isn't, either! Oh, fiddlesticks! You're not so busy as all that. Very well, we'll probably eat the cake ourselves. Good-by!"

"Good-by, Avenger," he laughed.

As he turned away smiling he found Bernie Dreux comfortably ensconced in an office chair and regarding him benignly.

"Hello, Bernie! I didn't hear you come in."

"Wasn't that Myra Nell talking?" inquired the little man.

"Yes."

"You called her 'Avenger.' What has she been up to now?"

Blake handed him the red-hand letter. To his surprise Bernie burst out angrily:

"How dare she?"

"What?"

"It's most unladylike—begging a gentleman for gifts. I'll see that she apologizes."

"If you do I'll punch your head. She couldn't do anything unladylike if she tried."

"I don't approve—"

"Nonsense!"

"I'll see that she gets her chocolates."

"Oh, I've sent 'em—a deadly consignment—enough to destroy both of you. And I've left a standing order for five pounds a week."

"But that letter—it's blackmail." Bernie groaned. "She holds me up in the same way whenever she feels like it. She's getting suspicious of me lately, and I daren't tell her I'm a detective. The other day she set Remus, our gardener, on my trail, and he shadowed me all over the town. Felicite thinks there's something wrong, too, and she's taken to following me. Between her and Remus I haven't a moment's privacy."

"It's tough for a detective to be dogged by his gardener and his sweetheart," Norvin sympathized. He began to run through his mail, while his visitor talked on in his amusing, irrelevant fashion.

"I'm rather offended that I wasn't named on that Committee of Fifty," Bernie confessed, after a time. "You know how the Chief relied on me?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I'm full of Italian mysteries now. What I haven't discovered by my own investigations, Vittoria Fabrizi has told me. For instance, I know what became of the boy Gino Cressi."

"You do?" Blake looked up curiously from a letter he had been eagerly perusing.

"He's in Mobile."

"Are you sure?"

"Certainly."

"I think you're wrong."

"Why am I wrong?"

"Read this. My mail is full of anonymous communications." He passed over the letter in his hand, and Mr. Dreux read as follows:

NORVIN BLAKE,

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA.

The Cressi boy is hidden at 93 1/2 St. Phillip Street. Go personally and in secret, for there are spies among the police.

ONE WHO KNOWS.

"Good Lord! Do you believe it?"

"I shall know in an hour." In reality Norvin had no doubt that his informant told the truth. On the contrary, he found that he had been waiting subconsciously for a hint from this mysterious but reliable source, and now that it had come he felt confident and elated. "A leak in the department would explain the maddening series of checkmates up to date." After a moment's hesitation he continued: "If Gino Cressi proves to be the boy I saw that night, we will put the rope around his father's and his uncle's necks, for he is little more than a child, and they evidently knew he would confess if accused; otherwise they wouldn't have been so careful to hide him." He rose and, eying Dreux intently, inquired, "Will you go along and help me take him?"

Bernie fell into a sudden panic of excitement. His face paled, he blinked with incredible rapidity, his lips twitched, and he clasped his thin, bloodless hands nervously.

"Why—are you—really—going—and alone?"

Norvin nodded. "If they have spies among our own men the least indiscretion may give the alarm. Besides, there is no time to lose; it would be madness to go there after dark. Will you come?"

"You—b-b-bet," Mr. Dreux stuttered. After a painful effort to control himself he inquired, with rolling eyes, "S-say, Norvin, will there be any fighting—any d-d-danger?"

Blake's own imagination had already presented that aspect of the matter all too vividly.

"Yes, there may be danger," he confessed. "We may have to take the boy by force." His nerves began to dance and quiver, as always before every new adventure.

"Perhaps, after all, you'd better not go. I—understand how you feel."

The little man burst out in a forceful expletive.

"Pudding! I want to fight. D-don't you see?"

"No. I don't."

"I've never been in a row. I've never done anything brave or desperate, like—like you. I'm aching for trouble. I go looking for it every night."

"Really!" Blake looked his incredulity.

"Sure thing! Last night I insulted a perfectly nice gentleman just to provoke a quarrel. I'd never seen him before, and ordinarily I hesitate to accost strangers; but I felt as if I'd have hysterics if I couldn't lick somebody; so I walked up to this person and told him his necktie was in rotten taste."

"What did he say?"

"He offered to go home and change it. I was so chagrined that I— cursed him fearfully."

"Bernie!"

Dreux nodded with an expression of the keenest satisfaction. "I could have cried. I called him a worm, a bug, a boll-weevil; but he said he had a family and didn't intend to be shot up by some well-dressed desperado."

"I suppose it's the blood of your ancestors."

"I suppose it is. Now let's go get this dago boy. I'm loaded for grizzlies, and if the Mafia cuts in I'll croak somebody." He drew a huge rusty military revolver from somewhere inside his clothes and flourished it so recklessly that his companion recoiled.

Together the two set out for St. Phillip Street. Blake, whose reputation for bravery had become proverbial, went reluctantly, preyed upon by misgivings; Dreux, the decadent, overbred dandy, went gladly, as if thirsting for the fray.



XIV

THE NET TIGHTENS



Number 93 1/2 St. Phillip Street proved to be a hovel, in the front portion of which an old woman sold charcoal and kindling. Leaving Bernie on guard, Blake penetrated swiftly to the rooms behind, paying no heed to the crone's protestations. In one corner a slender, dark-eyed boy was cowering, whom he recognized at once as the lad he had seen on the night of Donnelly's death.

"You are Gino Cressi," he said, quietly.

The boy shook his head.

"Oh, yes, you are, and you must come with me, Gino."

The little fellow recoiled. "You have come to kill me," he quavered.

"No, no, my little man. Why should I wish to do that?"

"I am a Sicilian; you hate me."

"That is not true. We hate only bad Sicilians, and you are a good boy."

"I did not kill the Chief."

"True. You did not even know that those other men intended to kill him. You were merely told to wait at the corner until you saw him come home. Am I right?"

"I do not know anything about the Chief," Gino mumbled.

But it was plain that some of his fear was vanishing under this unexpected kindness. Blake had a voice which won dumb animals, and a smile which made friends of children. At last the young Sicilian came forward and put his hand into the stranger's.

"They told me to hide or the Americans would kill me. Madonna mia! I am no Mafioso! I—I wish to see my father."

"I will take you to him now."

"You will not harm me?"

"No. You are perfectly safe."

But the boy still hung back, stammering:

"I—am afraid, Si'or. After all, you see, I know nothing. Perhaps I had better wait here."

"But you will come, to please me, will you not? Then when you find that the policemen will not hurt you, you will tell us all about it, eh, carino?"

He led his shrinking captive out through the front of the house, whence the crone had fled to spread the alarm, and lifted him into the waiting cab. But Bernie Dreux was loath to acknowledge such a tame conclusion to an adventure upon which he had built high hopes.

"L-let's stick round," he shivered. "It's just getting g-g-good."

"Come on, you idiot." Blake fairly dragged him in and commanded the driver to whip up. "That old woman will rouse the neighborhood, and we'll have a mob heaving bricks at us in another minute."

"That'll be fine!" Dreux declared, his pride revolting at what he considered a cowardly retreat. He had come along in the hope of doing deeds that would add luster to his name, and he did not intend to be disappointed. It required a vigorous muscular effort to keep him from clambering out of the carriage.

"I don't understand you at all," said Norvin, with one hand firmly gripping his coat collar, "but I understand the value of discretion at this moment, and I don't intend to take any chances on losing our little friend Gino before he has turned State's evidence."

Dreux sank back, gloomily enough, continuing for the rest of the journey to declaim against the fate that had condemned him to a life of insipid peace; but it was not until they had turned out of the narrow streets of the foreign quarter into the wide, clean stretch of Canal Street that Blake felt secure.

Little Gino Cressi was badly frightened. His wan, pinched face was ashen and he shivered wretchedly. Yet he strove to play the man, and his pitiful attempt at self-control roused something tender and protective in his captor. Laying a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, Blake said, gently:

"Coraggio! No harm shall befall you."

"I—do not wish to die, Excellency."

"You will not die. Speak the truth, figlio mio, and the police will be very kind to you. I promise."

"I know nothing," quavered the child. "My father is a good man. They told me the Chief was dead, but I did not kill him. I only hid."

"Who told you the Chief was dead?"

"I—do not remember."

"Who told you to hide?"

"I do not remember, Si'or." Gino's eyes were like those of a hunted deer, and he trembled as if dreadfully cold.

It was a wretched, stricken child whom Blake led into O'Neil's office, and for a long time young Cressi's lips were glued; but eventually he yielded to the kind-faced men who were so patient with him and his lies, and told them all he knew.

On the following morning the papers announced three new arrests in the Donnelly case, resulting from a confession by Gino Cressi. On the afternoon of the same day the friendly and influential Caesar Maruffi called upon Blake with a protest.

"Signore, my friend," he began, "you and your Committee are doing a great injustice to the Italians of this city."

"How so?"

"Already everybody hates us. We cannot walk upon your streets without insult. Men curse us, children spit at us. We are not Jews; we are Italians. There are bad people among my countrymen, of course, but, Signore, look upon me. Do you think such men as I—"

"Oh, you stand for all that is best in your community. Mr. Maruffi. I only wish you'd help us clean house."

The Sicilian shrugged. "Help? How can I help?"

"Tell what you know of the Mafia so that we can destroy it. At every turn we are thwarted by the secrecy of your people."

"They know what is good for them. As for me, my flesh will not turn the point of a knife, Signore. Life is an enjoyable affair, and if I die I can never marry. What would you have me tell?"

"The name of the Capo-Mafia, for instance."

"You think there is a Capo-Mafia?"

"I know it. What's more, I know who he is."

"Belisario Cardi? Bah! Few people believe there is such a man."

"You and I believe it."

"Perhaps. But what if I could lay hands upon him? Think you that I, or any Sicilian, would dare? All the police of this city could never take Belisario Cardi. It is to make laugh! Our friend Donnelly was unwise, he was too zealous. Now—he is but a memory. He took a life, his life was taken in return. This affair will mean more deaths. Leave things as they are, my friend, before you too are mourned."

Norvin eyed his caller curiously.

"That sounds almost as much like a threat as a warning."

"God forbid! I simply state the truth for your own good and for the good of all of us. Wherever Sicilians are found there your laws will be ignored. For my own part, naturally, I do not approve—I am an American now—but the truth is what I tell you."

"In other words, you think we ought to leave your countrymen alone?"

"Ah, I do not go so far. The laws should be enforced, that is certain. But in trying to do what is impossible you stir up race hatred and make it hard for us reputable Sicilians, who would help you so far as lies in our power. You cannot stamp out the Mafia in a day, in a week; it is Sicilian character. Already you have done enough to vindicate the law. If you go on in a mad attempt to catch this Cardi—whose existence, even, is doubtful—the consequences may be in every way bad."

"We have five of the murderers now, and we'll have the other man soon— the fellow with the rubber coat. The grand jury will indict them. But we won't stop there. We're on a trail that leads higher up, to the man, or men, who directed Larubio and the others to do their work."

Maruffi shook his head mournfully. "And the Cressi boy—it was you who found him?"

"It was."

"How did you do it?"

Norvin laughed. "If you'd only enlist in the cause I'd tell you all my secrets gladly."

"Eh! Then he was betrayed!"

For the life of him Norvin could not tell whether the man was pleased or chagrined at his secrecy, but something told him that the Sicilian was feeling him out for a purpose. He smiled without answering.

"Betrayed!" said Maruffi. "Ah, well, I should not like to be in the shoes of the betrayer." He seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. "Believe me, I would help you if I could, but I know nothing, and besides it is dangerous. I am a good citizen, but I am not a detective. You American-born," he smiled, "assume that all we Sicilians are deep in the secrets of the Mafia. So the people in the street insult us, and you in authority think that if we would only tell—bah! Tell what? We know no more than you, and it is less safe for us to aid." He rose and extended his hand. "Of course, if I learn anything I will inform you; but there are times when it is best to let sleeping dogs lie."

Norvin closed the door behind him with a feeling of relief, for he was puzzled as to the object of this visit and wanted time to think it out undisturbed. The upshot of his reflection was that Donnelly had been right and that Caesar was indeed the author of the warning letters. As to his want of knowledge, the Sicilian protested rather like a man who plays a part openly. On the other hand, his fears for his own safety seemed genuine enough. What more natural, then, than that he should "wish to test Donnelly's successor with the utmost care before proceeding with his disclosures?" Blake was glad that he had been secretive, for if Maruffi were the unknown friend he would find such caution reassuring.

As if to confirm this view of the case, there came, a day or two later, another communication, stating that the assassin who was still at large (he, in fact, who had worn the rubber coat) was a laborer in the parish of St. John the Baptist, named Frank Normando. The letter went on to say that in escaping from the scene of the crime the man had fallen on the slippery pavement, and the traces of his injury might still be found upon his body.

Norvin lost no time in consulting O'Neil.

"Jove! You're the best detective we have," said the Acting Chief, admiringly. "I'd do well to turn this affair over to you entirely."

"Have you learned anything more from your prisoners?"

"Nothing. They refuse to talk. We're giving them the third degree; but it's no use. There was another murder on St. Phillip Street last night. The old woman who guarded the Cressi boy was found dead."

"Then they think she betrayed the lad?" Norvin recalled Maruffi's hint that it would go hard with the traitor.

"Yes; we might have expected it. How many men will you need to take this Normando?"

"I? You—think I'd better do the trick?" Blake had not intended to take any active part in the capture. He was already known as the head of the movement to avenge Donnelly; he had apprehended Larubio and the Cressi boy with his own hand. Inner voices warned him wildly to run no further risks.

"I thought you'd prefer to lead the raid," O'Neil said.

"So I would. Give me two or three men and we'll bring in Normando, dead or alive."

Six hours later the last of Donnelly's actual assassins was in the parish prison and the police were in possession of evidence showing his movements from early morning on the day of the murder up to the hour of the crime. His identification was even more complete than that of his accomplices, and the public press thanked Norvin Blake in the name of the city for his efficient service.

The anonymous letters continued to come to him regularly, and each one contained some important clue, which, followed up, invariably led to evidence of value. Slowly, surely, out of nothing as it were, the chain was forged. Now came the names of persons who had seen or had talked with some of the accused upon the fatal day, now a hint which turned light upon some dark spot in their records. Again the letters aided in the discovery of important witnesses, who, under pressure, confessed to facts which they had feared to make public—until at last the history of the six assassins lay exposed like an open sheet before the prosecuting attorney.

The certainty and directness with which the "One Who Knows" worked was a matter of ever-increasing amazement to Blake. He himself was little more than an instrument in these unseen hands. Who or what could the writer be? By what means could he remain in such intimate touch with the workings of the Mafia, and what reason impelled him to betray its members? Hour after hour the young man speculated, racking his head until it ached. He considered every possibility, he began to look with curiosity at every face. At length he came to feel an even greater interest in the identity of this hidden friend than in the result of the struggle itself. But investigations—no matter how cautious— invariably resulted in a prompt and imperative warning to desist upon pain of ruining everything.

Gradually in his mind the conviction assumed certainty that the omniscient informer could be none other than Caesar Maruffi. He frequented the Red Wing Club as Donnelly had done, and the more he saw of the fellow the more firm became his belief. He had recognized at their first meeting that Caesar was unusual—there was something unfathomable about him—but precisely what this peculiarity was he could never quite determine.

As for Maruffi, he met Norvin's advances half-way; but although he was apparently more than once upon the verge of some disclosure, the terror of the brotherhood seemed always to intervene. Feeling that he could not openly voice his suspicions until the other was ready to show his hand, Blake kept a close mouth, and thus the two played at cross-purposes. Maruffi—if he were indeed the author of those letters—had not shrunk from betraying the unthinking instruments of the Mafia. Would he ever bring himself to implicate the man, or men, higher up? Blake doubted it. A certain instinctive distrust of the Sicilian was beginning to master him when a letter came which put a wholly different face upon the matter.

"The men who really killed Chief Donnelly," it read, "are Salvatore di Marco, Frank Garcia, Giordano Bolla, and Lorenzo Cardoni." Blake gasped; these were men of standing and repute in the foreign community. "Larubio and his companions were but parts of the machine; these are the hands which set them in motion. These four men dined together on the evening of October 15th, at Fabacher's, then attended a theater where they made themselves conspicuous. From there they proceeded to the lower section of the city and were purposely arrested for disturbing the peace about the time of Donnelly's murder, in order to establish incontestable alibis. Nevertheless, it was they who laid the trap, and they are equally guilty with the wretches who obeyed their orders. It was they who paid over the blood money, and with their arrest you will have all the accessories to the crime, save one. Of him I can tell you nothing. I fear I can never find him, for he walks in shadow and no man dares identify him."

The importance of this information was tremendous, for arrests up to date had been made only among the lower element. An accusation against Di Marco, Garcia, Bolla, and Cardoni would set the city ablaze. O'Neil was aghast at the charge. The Mayor was incredulous, the Committee of Fifty showed signs of hesitation. But Blake, staking his reputation on the genuineness of the letter, and urging the reliability of the writer as shown on each occasion in the past, won his point, and the arrests were made.

The Italian press raised a frightful clamor, the prisoners themselves were righteously indignant, and Norvin found that he had begun to lose that confidence which the public had been so quick to place in him. Nevertheless, he pursued his work systematically, and soon the mysterious agent proceeded to weave a new web around the four suspected men, while he looked on fascinated, doing as he was bid, keeping his own counsel as he had been advised, and turning over the results of his inquiries to the police as they were completed.

Then came what he had long been dreading—a warning like those which had foreshadowed Donnelly's death—and he began to spend sleepless nights. His daylight hours were passed in a strained expectancy; he fought constantly to hold his fears in check; he began sitting with his face to doors; he turned wide corners and avoided side streets. He became furtive and watchful; his eyes were forever flitting here and there; he chose the outer edges of the sidewalks, and he went nowhere after nightfall unattended. The time was past when he could doubt the constancy of his purpose; but he did fear a nervous breakdown, and even shuddered at the thought of possible insanity. Being in fact as sane a man as ever lived, his irrational nerves alarmed him all the more. He could not conceive that an event was immediately before him which, without making his position safer, would rouse him from all thought of self.

Our lives are swayed by trifles; a feather's weight may alter the course of our destinies. A man's daily existence is made up of an infinite series of choices, every one of which is of the utmost importance, did he but know it. We follow paths of a million forkings, none of which converge. A momentary whim, a passing fancy, a broken promise, turns our feet into trails that wind into realms undreamed of.

It so happened that Myra Nell Warren yielded to an utterly reasonless impulse to go calling at the utterly absurd hour of 10 A.M. Miss Warren followed no set rules in her conduct, her mind reacted according to no given formula, and, therefore, when it suddenly occurred to her to visit a little old creole lady in the French quarter, she went without thoughtful consideration or delay.

Madame la Branche was a distant cousin on Bernie's side—so distant, in fact, that no one except herself had ever troubled to trace the precise relationship; but she employed a cook whose skill was celebrated. Now Myra Nell's appetite was a most ungovernable affair, and when she realized that her complete happiness depended upon a certain bouillabaisse, in the preparation of which Madame la Branche's Julia had become famous, she whisked her hair into a knot, jammed her best and largest hat over its unruly confusion, and went bouncing away in the direction of Esplanade Street.

It was in the early afternoon that Norvin Blake received a note from a coal-black urchin, who, after many attempts, had finally succeeded in penetrating to his inner office.

Recognizing the writing, Norvin tore open the envelope eagerly, ready to be entertained by some fresh example of the girl's infinite variety. He read with startled eyes:

"I send this by a trusted messenger, hoping that it will reach you in time. I am a prisoner. I am in danger. I fear my beauty is destroyed. If you love me, come. "Your wretched

"MYRA NELL."

The address was that of a house on Esplanade Street.

"How did you get this?" he demanded, harshly, of the pickaninny.

"A lady drap it from a window."

"Where? Where was she?"

"In a gre't big house on Esplanade Street. She seemed mighty put out about something. Then a man run me away with a club."

A moment later Blake was on the street and had hailed a carriage. The driver, reading urgency in the set face of his fare, whipped the horses into a gallop and the vehicle tore across town, leaping and rocking violently. The thought that Myra Nell was in danger filled Blake with a physical sickness. Her beauty gone! Could it be that the Mafia had taken this means of attacking him, knowing of his affection for the girl? Of a sudden she became very dear, and he was smothered with fury that any one should cause her suffering.

His heart was pounding madly as the carriage slowed into Esplanade Street, threatening to upset, and he saw ahead of him the house he sought. With a sharp twinge of apprehension he sighted another man approaching the place at a run, and leaping from his conveyance, he raced on with frantic speed.



XV

THE END OF THE QUEST



Evidently the alarm had spread, for there were others ahead of Blake. Several men were grouped beneath an open window. They were strangely excited; some were panting as if from violent exertion; a young French Creole, Lecompte Rilleau, was sprawled at full length upon the grassy banquette, either badly injured or entirely out of breath. He raised a listless hand to the newcomer, as if waving him to the attack. Norvin recognized them all as admirers of Myra Nell—cotton brokers, merchants, a bank cashier—a great relief surged over him.

"Thank God! You're here—in time," he gasped. "What's happened to— her?"

Raymond Cline started to speak, but just then Blake heard the girl herself calling to him, and saw her leaning from a window, her piquant beauty framed with blushing roses which hung about the sill.

"Myra Nell! You're safe!" he cried, shakingly. "What have they done to you?"

She smiled piteously and shook her dark head.

"You were good to come. I am a prisoner."

"A prisoner!" Norvin stared at the young men about him. "Come on," he said, "let's get her out!"

But Murray Logan quieted him. "It's no use, old man."

"What d'you mean?"

"You can't go in."

"Can't—go—in?" As Blake stared uncomprehendingly at the speaker he heard rapid footsteps approaching and saw Achille Marigny coming on the wings of the wind. It was he who appeared in the distance as Norvin rounded the corner, and it was plain now that he was well-nigh spent.

Rilleau reared himself on one elbow and cried with difficulty:

"Welcome, Achille."

"Take it easy, Marigny," called Cline; "we've saved her."

Some one laughed, and the suspicion that he had been hoaxed swept over Blake.

"What's the joke?" he demanded. "I was frightened to death."

"The house is quarantined."

"I never dreamed you'd all come," Miss Warren was saying, sweetly. "It was very gallant, and I shall never forget it— never."

"She says her—beauty is—gone," wildly panted Marigny, who had run himself blind and as yet could hear nothing but the drumming in his ears.

"Judge for yourself." Cline steadied him against the low iron fence and pointed to the girl's bewitching face embowered in the leafy window above.

From where he lay flat on his back, idly flapping his hands, Rilleau complained: "I have a weak heart. Will somebody get me a drink?"

"It was splendid of you," Myra Nell called down to the group. "I love you for it. Please get me out, right away."

Norvin now perceived a burly individual seated upon the steps of the La Branche mansion. He approached with a view to parleying, but the man forestalled him" saying warningly:

"You can't go in. They've got smallpox in there."

"Smallpox!"

"Go away from that door!" screamed Myra Nell; but the fellow merely scowled.

"I hate to offend the lady," he explained to Norvin, in a hoarse whisper; "but I can't let her out."

Miss Warren repeated in a fury:

"Go away, I tell you. These are friends of mine. If you were a gentleman you'd know you're not wanted. Norvin, make him skedaddle."

Blake shook his head. "You've scared us all blue. If you're quarantined I don't see what we can do."

"The idea! You can at least come in."

"If you go in, you can't come out," belligerently declared the watchman. "Them's orders."

"Oh-h! You monster!" cried his prisoner.

"She says herself she's got it," the man explained.

"I never did!" Myra Nell wrung her hands. "Will you stand there and let me perish? Do you refuse to save me?"

"Where is Madame la Branche?" Norvin asked.

"Asleep. And Cousin Montegut is playing solitaire in the library."

"Then who has the smallpox?"

"The cook! They took her screaming to the pest-house an hour after I came. I shall be the next victim; I feel it. We're shut up here for a week, maybe longer. Think of that! There's nothing to do, nobody to talk to, nothing to look at. We need another hand for whist. I—I supposed somebody would volunteer."

"I'd love to," Rilleau called, faintly, from the curb, "but I wouldn't survive a week. My heart is beating its last, and besides—I don't play whist."

Mr. Cline called the attention of his companions to two figures which had appeared in the distance, and began to chant:

"The animals came in two by two, The elephant and the kangaroo,"

"Gentlemen, here come the porpoise and the antelope. We are now complete."

The new arrivals proved to be Bernie Dreux and August Kulm, the latter a fat Teutonic merchant whose place of business was down near the river. Mr. Kulm had evidently run all the way, for he was laboring heavily and his gait had long since slackened into a stumbling trot. His eyes were rolling wildly; his fresh young cheeks were purple and sheathed in perspiration.

Miss Warren exclaimed, crossly:

"Oh, dear! I didn't send for Bernie. I'll bet he's furious."

And so it proved. When her half-brother's horrified alarm had been dispelled by the noisy group of rescuers it was replaced by the blackest indignation. He thanked them stiffly and undertook to apologize for his sister, in the midst of which Rilleau, who had now managed to regain his feet, suggested the formation of "The Myra Nell Contagion Club."

"Its object shall be the alleviation of our lady's distress, and its membership shall be limited to her rejected suitors," he declared. "We'll take turns amusing her. I'll appoint myself chairman of the entertainment committee and one of us will always be on guard. We'll sing, we'll dance, we'll cavort beneath the window, and help to while the dreary hours away."

His suggestion was noisily accepted, then after an exchange of views Murray Logan confessed that he had bolted a directors' meeting, and that ruin stared him in the face unless he returned immediately. Achille Marigny, it appeared, had unceremoniously fled from the trial of an important lawsuit, and Raymond Cline was needed at the bank. Foote, Delavan, and the others admitted that they, too, must leave Miss Warren to her fate, at least until after 'Change had closed. And so, having put themselves at her service with extravagant protestations of loyalty, promising candy, books, flowers, a choir to sing beneath her window, they finally trooped off, half carrying the rotund Mr. Kulm, who had sprinted himself into a jelly-like state of collapse.

Rilleau alone maintained his readiness to brave the perils of smallpox, leprosy, or plague at Miss Warren's side, until Bernie informed him that the very idea was shocking, whereupon he dragged himself away with the accusation that all his heart trouble lay at her door.

"Oh, you spoiled it all!" Myra Nell told her brother, indignantly. "You might at least have let him come in. Cousin Althea would have chaperoned us."

"The idea! Why did you do such an atrocious thing?"

"Where you frightened, Norvin?" The girl beamed hopefully down upon him.

"Horribly. I'm not over it yet. I'm half inclined to act on Lecompte's suggestion and break in."

She clapped her hands gleefully, whereupon the watchman arose, saying:

"No you don't!"

"I wouldn't allow such a thing," said Bernie, firmly. "It would mean a scandal."

"I—I can't stay here alone, for a whole week. I'll die."

"Then I'll join you myself," her brother offered.

Myra Nell looked alarmed. "Oh, not you! I want some one to nurse me when I fall ill."

"What makes you think you'll catch it? Were you exposed?"

"Exposed! Heavens! I can feel the disease coming on this very minute. The place is full of germs; I can spear 'em with a hat-pin." She shuddered and managed to counterfeit a tear.

"I've an idea," said Norvin. "I'll get that trained nurse who saved you when you fell off the horse."

"Vittoria? She might do. But, Norvin, the horse threw me." She warned him with a grimace which Bernie did not see. "He's a frightful beast."

"I can't afford a trained nurse," Dreux objected, "and you don't need one, anyhow."

"All right for you, Bernie; if you don't care any more for my life than that, I'll sicken and die. When a girl's relatives turn against her it's time she was out of the way."

"Oh, all right," said her brother, angrily. "It's ruinous, but I suppose you must have it your way."

Myra Nell shook her head gloomily. "No—not if you are going to feel like that. Of course, if she were here she could cut off my hair when I take to my bed; she could bathe my face with lime-water when my beauty goes; she could listen to my ravings and understand, for she is a—woman. But no, I'm not worth it. Perhaps I can get along all right, and, anyhow, I'll have to teach school or—or be a nun if I'm all pock-marks."

"Good Lord!" Bernie wiped his brow with a trembling hand. "D'you think that'll happen, Norvin?"

"It's bound to," the girl predicted, indifferently. "But what's the odds?" Suddenly a new thought dilated her eyes with real horror. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! I just happened to remember. I'm to be Queen of the Carnival! Now, I'll be scarred and hideous, even if I happen to recover; but I won't recover. You shall have my royal robe, Bunny. Keep it always. And Norvin shall have my hair."

"Here! I—don't want your hair," Blake asserted, nervously. "I mean not without—"

"It is all I have to give."

"You may not catch the smallpox, after all."

"We'll—have Miss Fabrizi b-by all means," Bernie chattered.

"You stay here and talk to her while I go," Norvin suggested, quickly. "And, Myra Nell, I'll fetch you a lot of chocolates. I'll fetch you anything, if you'll only cheer up."

"Remember, It's against my wishes," the girl said. "But she's not at the hospital now; she's living in the Italian quarter." She gave him the street, and number, and he made off in all haste.

On his way he had time to think more collectedly of the girl he had just left. Her prank had shocked him into a keen realization of his feeling for her, and he began to understand the large part she played in his life. Many things inclined him to believe that her regard for him was really deeper than her careless levity indicated, and it seemed now that they had been destined for each other.

It was dusk when he reached his destination. A nondescript Italian girl ushered him up a dark stairway and into an old-fashioned drawing-room with high ceiling, and long windows which opened out upon a rusty overhanging iron balcony. The room ran through to a court in the rear, after the style of so many of these foreign-built houses. It had once been the home of luxury and elegance, but had long since fallen into a state of shabby decay. He was still lost in thoughts of the important step which he contemplated when he heard the rustle of a woman's garment behind him and rose as a tall figure entered the room.

"Miss Fabrizi?" he inquired. "I came to find you—"

He paused, for the girl had given a smothered cry. The light was poor and the shadows played tricks with his eyes. He stepped forward, peering strangely at her, then halted.

"Margherita!" he whispered; then in a shaking voice, "My God!"

"Yes," she said, quietly, "it is I."

He touched her gently, staring as if bereft of his senses. He felt himself swept by a tremendous excitement. It struck him dumb; it shook him; it set the room to whirling dizzily. The place was no longer ill-lit and shabby, but illumined as if by a burst of light. And through his mad panic of confusion he saw her standing there, calm, tawny, self-possessed.

"Caro Norvin! You have found me, indeed," he heard her say. "I wondered when the day would come."

"You—you!" he choked. His arms were hungry for her, his heart was melting with the wildest ecstasy that had ever possessed it. She was clad as he often remembered her, in a dress which partook of her favorite and inseparable color, her hair shone with that unforgettable luster; her face was the face he had dreamed of, and there was no shock of readjustment in his recognition of her. Rather, her real presence made the cherished mental image seem poor and weak.

"I came to see Miss Fabrizi. Why are you here?" He glanced at the door as if expecting an interruption.

"I am she."

"Contessa!"

"Hush!" She laid her fingers upon his lips. "I am no longer the Contessa Margherita. I am Vittoria Fabrizi."

"Then—you have been here—in New Orleans for a long time?"

"More than a year."

"Impossible! I—You—It's inconceivable! Why have we never met?"

"I have seen you many times."

"And you didn't speak? Why, oh, why, Margherita?"

"My friend, if you care for me, for my safety and my peace of mind, you must not use that name. Collect yourself. We will have explanations. But first, remember, I am Vittoria Fabrizi, the nurse, a poor girl."

"I shall remember. I don't understand; but I shall be careful. I don't know what it all means, why you—didn't let me know." In spite of his effort at self-control he fell again into a delicious bewilderment. His spirits leaped, he felt unaccountably young and exhilarated; he laughed senselessly and yet with a deep throbbing undernote of delight. "What are names and reasons, anyhow? What are worries and hopes and despairs? I've found you. You live; you are safe; you are young. I feared you were old and changed—it has seemed so long and— and my search dragged so. But I never ceased thinking and caring—I never ceased hoping—"

She laid a gentle hand upon his arm. "Come, come! You are upset. It will all seem natural enough when you know the story."

"Tell me everything, all at once. I can't wait." He led her to a low French lit de repos near by, and seated himself beside her. Her nearness thrilled him with the old intoxication, and he hardly heeded what he was saying. "Tell me how you came to be Vittoria Fabrizi instead of Margherita Ginini; how you came to be here; how you knew of my presence and yet—Oh, tell me everything, for I'm smothering. I'm incoherent. I—I—"

"First, won't you explain how you happened to come looking for me?"

He gathered his wits to tell her briefly of Myra Nell, feeling a renewed sense of strangeness in the fact that these two knew each other. She made as if to rise.

"Please!" he cried; "this is more important than Miss Warren's predicament. She's really delighted with her adventure, you know."

"True, she is in no danger. There is so much to tell! That which has taken four years to live cannot be told in five minutes. I—I'm afraid I am sorry you came."

"Don't destroy my one great moment of gladness."

"Remember I am Vittoria Fabrizi—"

"I know of no other name."

"Lucrezia is here, also, and she, too, is another. You have never seen her. You understand?"

He nodded. "And her name?"

"Oliveta! We are cousins."

"I respect your reasons for these changes. Tell me only what you wish."

"Oh, I have nothing to conceal," she said, relieved at his growing calmness. "They are old family names which I chose when I gave up my former life. You wonder why? It is part of the story. When Martel died the Contessa Margherita died also. She could not remain at Terranova where everything spoke of him. She was young; she began a long quest. As you know, it was fruitless, and when in time her ideas changed she was born to a new life."

"You have—abandoned the search?"

"Long ago. You told me truly that hatred and revenge destroy the soul. I was young and I could not understand; but now I know that only good can survive—good thoughts, good actions, good lives."

"And is the Donna Teresa here?"

Vittoria shook her head. "She has gone—back, perhaps, to her land of sunshine, her flowers, and her birds and her dream-filled mountain valleys. It was two years ago that we lost her. She could not survive the change. I have—many regrets when I think of her."

"You know, of course, that I returned to Sicily, and that I followed you?"

"Yes. And when I learned of it I knew there was but one thing to do."

"I was unwise—disloyal there at Terranova." She met his eyes frankly, but made no sign. "Is that why you avoided me?"

"Ah, let us not speak of that old time. When one severs all connections with the past and begins a new existence, one should not look back. But I have not lost interest in you, my friend, I have learned much from Myra Nell; seeing her was like seeing you, for she hardly speaks of any one else. Many times we nearly met—only a moment separated us—you came as I went, or I came in time barely to miss you. You walked one street as I walked another; we were in the same crowds, our elbows touched, our paths crossed, but we never chanced to meet until this hour. Now I am almost sorry—"

"But why—if you have forgiven me; how could you be so indifferent? You must have known how I longed for you."

Her look checked him on the brink of a passionate avowal.

"Does my profession tell you nothing?" she asked.

"You are a—nurse. What has that to do with it?"

"Do you know that I have been with the Sisters of Mercy? I—I am one of them."

"Impossible!"

"In spirit at least. I shall be one in reality, as soon as I am better fitted."

"A nun!" He stared at her dumbly, and his face paled.

"I have given all I possess to the Order excepting only what I have settled upon Oliveta. This is her house, I am her guest, her pensioner. I am ready to take the last step—to devote my life to mercy. Now you begin to understand my reason for waiting and watching you in silence. You see it is very true that Margherita Ginini no longer exists. I have not only changed my name, I am a different woman. I am sorry," she said, doing her best to comfort him—"yes, and it is hard for me, too. That is why I would have avoided this meeting."

"If you contemplate this—step," he inquired, dully, "why have you left the hospital?"

"I am not ready to take Orders. I have much to—overcome. Now I must prepare Oliveta to meet you, for she has not changed as I have, and there might be consequences."

"What consequences?"

"We wish to forget the past," she said, non-committally. When she returned from her errand she saw him outlined blackly against one of the long windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his head low as if in meditation. He seemed unable to throw off this spell of silence as they drove to the La Branche home, but listened contentedly to her voice, so like the low, soft music of a cello.

After he left her it was long before he tried to reduce his thoughts to order. He preferred to dwell indefinitely upon the amazing fact that he at last had found her, that he had actually seen and touched her. Finally, when he brought himself to face the truth in its entirety, he knew that he was deeply disappointed, and he felt that he ought to be hopeless. Yet hope was strong in him. It blazed through his very veins, he felt it thrill him magically.

When he fell asleep that night it was with a smile upon his lips, for hope had crystallized into a baseless but none the less assured belief that he would find a way to win her.



XVI

QUARANTINE



Blake arose like a boy on Christmas morning. He thrilled to an extravagant gladness. At breakfast the truth came to him—he was young! For the first time he realized that he had let himself grow up and lose his illusions; that he had become cynical, tired, prosaic, while all the time the flame of youth was merely smouldering. Old he was, but only as a stripling soldier is aged by battle; as for the real, rare joys of living and loving, he had never felt them. Myra Nell had appealed to his affection like a dear and clever child, and helped to keep some warmth in his heart. But this was magic. The sun had never been so bright, the air so sweet to his nostrils, the strength so vigorous in his limbs.

He had become so accustomed to the mysterious letters by this time that he had grown to look for them as a matter of course, and he was not disturbed when, on arriving at his office, he found one in his mail. Heretofore the writer had been positive in his statements, but now came the first hint of uncertainty.

"I cannot find Belisario Cardi," he wrote. "His hand is over all, and yet he is more intangible than mist. I am hedged about with difficulties and dangers which multiply as the days pass. I can do no more, hence the task devolves upon you. Be careful, for he is more desperate than ever. It is your life or his.

"ONE WHO KNOWS."

It was as daunting a message as he could have received—the withdrawal of assistance, the authoritative confirmation of his fears—yet Blake's spirit rose to meet the exigency with a new courage. It occurred to him that if Maruffi, or whoever the author was, had exhausted his usefulness, perhaps Vittoria could help. She had spent much time in her search for this very Cardi, and might have learned something of value concerning him. Oliveta, too, could be of assistance. He felt sure that the knowledge of his own peril would be enough to enlist their aid, and he gladly seized upon the thought that a common interest would draw him closer to the woman he loved.

He arrived at the La Branche house early that afternoon, and found young Rilleau sitting on a box beneath Myra Nell's window, with the girl herself embowered as before in a frame of roses.

"Any symptoms yet?" Norvin inquired, agreeably.

"Thousands! I'm slowly dying."

Lecompte nodded dolefully. "Look at her color."

"No doubt it's the glow from those red roses that I see in her cheeks."

"It's fever," Miss Warren exclaimed, indignantly. She took a hand-glass from her lap and regarded her vivid young features. "Smallpox attacks people differently. With me the first sign is fever." She had parted her abundant hair and swept it back from her brow in an attempt to make herself look ill, but with the sole effect of enhancing her appearance of abounding health. Madame la Branche's best black shawl was drawn about her plump and dimpled shoulders. Assuming a hollow tone, she inquired: "Do you see any other change in me?"

"Yes. And I rather like that way of doing your hair."

"Vittoria says I look like a picture of Sister Dolorosa, or something."

"Is Miss Fabrizi in?"

"In? How could she be out? Isn't she a dear, Norvin? I knew you'd meet some day."

"Does she play whist?"

"Of course not, silly. She's—nearly a nun. But we sat up in bed all night talking. Oh, it's a comfort to have some one with you at the last, some one in whom you can confide. I can't bear to—to soar aloft with so much on my conscience. I've confessed everything."

"What's to prevent her from catching the disease and soaring away with you?"

"She's a nurse. They're just like doctors, you know, they never catch anything. Is that hideous watchman still at his post?"

"Yes. Fast asleep, with his mouth open."

"I hope a fly crawls in," said the girl, vindictively; then, in an eager whisper: "Couldn't you manage to get past him? We'd have a lovely time here for a week."

Rilleau raised his voice in jealous protest.

"And leave me sitting on my throne? Never! I'm giving this box-party for you, Myra Nell."

"Oh, you could come, too."

"I respect the law," Norvin told her; but Lecompte continued to complain.

"I don't see what you're doing here at this time of day, anyhow, Blake, Have you no business responsibilities?"

"I'm a member of the Contagion Club; I've a right to be here."

"We were discussing rice, old shoes, and orange blossoms when you interrupted," the languid Mr. Rilleau continued. "Frankly, speaking as a friend, I don't see anything in your conversation so far to interest a sick lady. Why don't you talk to the yellow-haired nurse?"

"I intend to."

"Vittoria is back in the kitchen preparing my diet," said Myra Nell. "She's making fudge, I believe. I—I seem to crave sweet things. Maybe it's another symptom."

"It must be," Blake acknowledged. "I'll ask her what she thinks of it." With a glance at the slumbering guard he vaulted the low fence and made his way around to the rear of the house.

He heard Vittoria singing as he came into the flower-garden, a low-pitched Sicilian love-song. He called to her, and she came to a window, smiling down at him, spotless and fresh in her stiff uniform.

"Do you know that you're trespassing and may get into trouble?" she queried.

"The watchman is asleep, and I had to speak to you."

"No wonder he sleeps. Myra Nell holds the poor fellow responsible for all her troubles, and those young men have nearly driven him insane."

"Is there any danger of smallpox, really?"

"Not the slightest. This quarantine is merely a matter of form. But that child—" She broke into a frank, sweet laugh. "She pretends to be horribly frightened. All the time she is acting—the little fraud!"

Norvin flushed a bit under her gaze.

"I had no chance to talk to you last night."

"And you will have no chance now." Vittoria tipped her chin the slightest bit.

"I must see you, alone."

"Impossible!"

"To-night. You can slip away on some pretext or other. It is really important."

She regarded him questioningly. "If that is true I will try, but—I cannot meet you at Oliveta's house. Besides, you must not go into that quarter alone at night."

"What do you mean?" he inquired, wondering how she could know of his danger.

"Because—no American is safe there now. Perhaps I can meet you on the street yonder."

"I'll be waiting."

"It may be late, unless I tell Myra Nell."

"Heaven above! She'd insist on coming, too, just because it's forbidden."

"Very well. Now go before you are discovered."

During the afternoon his excitement increased deliciously, and that evening he found himself pacing the shaded street near the La Branche home, with the eager restlessness of a lover.

It was indeed late when Vittoria finally appeared.

"Myra Nell is such a chatterbox," she explained, "that I couldn't get her to bed. Have you waited long?"

"I dare say. I'm not sure."

"This is very exciting, is it not?" She glanced over her shoulder up the ill-lighted street. Rows of shade trees cast long inky blots between the corner illuminations; the houses on either side sat well back in their yards, increasing the sense of isolation. "It is quite a new experience for me."

"For me, too."

"I hope we're not seen. Signore Norvin Blake and a trained nurse! Oh, the comment!"

"There's a bench near by where we can sit. Passers-by will take us for servants."

"You are the butler, I am the maid," she laughed.

"I am glad you can laugh," he told her. "You were very sad, there at Terranova."

"I've learned the value of a smile. Life is full of gladness if we can only bring ourselves to see it. Now tell me the meaning of this. I knew it must be important or I would not have come." Back of the bench upon which she had seated herself a jessamine vine depended, filling the air with perfume; the night was warm and still and languorous; through the gloom she regarded him with curiosity.

"I hate to begin," he said. "I dread to speak of unpleasant things—to you. I wish we might just sit here and talk of whatever we pleased."

"We cannot sit here long on any account. But let me guess. It is your work against—those men."

"Exactly. You know the history of our struggle with the Mafia?"

"Everything."

"I am leading a hard fight, and I think you can help me."

"Why do you think so?" she asked, in a low voice. "I have given up my part. I have no desire for revenge."

"Nor have I. I do not wish to harm any man; but I became involved in this through a desire to see justice done, and I have reached a point where I cannot stop or go back. It started with the arrest of Gian Narcone. You know how Donnelly was killed. They took his life for Narcone's, and he, too, was my—dear friend."

"All this is familiar to me," she said, in a strained tone.

"I will tell you something that no one knows but myself, I have a friend among the Mafiosi, and it is he, not I, who has brought the murderers of Mr. Donnelly to an accounting."

"You know him?"

"Yes. At least I think I do."

"His—name?" She was staring at him oddly.

"I feel bound not to reveal it even to you. He has told me many things, among them that Belisario Cardi is alive, is here, and that it is he who worked all this evil."

"What has all this to do with me?" she inquired. "Have I not told you that I gave my search into other hands?"

"It was Cardi who killed—one whom we both loved, one for whose life I would have given my own; it was Cardi who destroyed my next-best friend, a simple soul who lived for nothing but his duty. Now he has threatened my life also—does that count for nothing with you?"

She leaned forward, searching his face earnestly. "You are a brave man. You should go away where he cannot harm you."

"I would like very much to," he confessed, "but I am too great a coward to run away."

"And why do you tell me this?"

"I need your help. My mysterious friend can do no more; he has said so. I'm not equal to it alone."

"Oh," she cried, as if yielding to a feeling long suppressed, "I did so want to be rid of it all, and now you are in danger—the greatest danger. Won't you give it up?"

He shook his head, puzzled at her vehemence. "I don't wish to drag you into it against your will, but Oliveta lives there among her countrypeople. She must know many things which I, as an outsider, could never learn. I—need help."

There was a long silence before the girl said:

"Yes, I will help, for I am still the same woman you knew in Sicily. I am still full of hatred. I would give my life to convict Martel's assassins; but I am fighting myself. That is why I have gone to live with Oliveta until I have conquered and am ready to become a Sister."

"Please don't say that."

"Oliveta, you know, is alone," she went on, with forced composure, "and so I watch over her. She is to be married soon, and when she is safe, then I think I can return to the Sisters and live as I long to. It will be a good match, much better than I ever hoped for, and she loves, which is even more blessed to contemplate." Vittoria laid her hands impulsively upon his arm. "Meanwhile I cannot refuse such aid as I can give you, for you have already suffered too much through me. You have suffered, have you not?"

"It has turned my hair gray," he laughed, trying not to show the depth of his feeling. "But now that I know you are safe and well and happy, nothing seems to matter. Does Myra Nell know who you are?"

"No one knows save you and Oliveta. If that child even dreamed—" She lifted her slender hands in an eloquent gesture. "My secret would be known in an hour. Now I must go, for even housemaids must observe the proprieties."

"It's late. I think I had better see you safely home."

"I dare say our watchman has found himself a comfortable bed—"

"The slumbers of night-watchmen are notoriously deep."

"And Papa La Branche has finished his solitaire. There is no danger."

No one was in sight as they stole in through the driveway to the servants' door. She gave him her hand, and he pressed it closely, whispering:

"When shall I see you again?"

"After the quarantine. I can do nothing until then."

"You will go back to Oliveta's house?"

"Yes, but you must never come there, even in daylight." She thought for a moment while he still retained her hand. "I will instruct you later—" She broke off suddenly, and at the same instant Blake heard a stir in the darkness behind him.

Vittoria drew him quickly into the black shadows of the rear porch, where they stood close together, afraid to move until the man had passed. The kitchen gallery was shielded by a latticework covered with vines, and Blake felt reasonably safe within its shelter. He was beginning to breathe easier when a voice barely an arm's-length away inquired, gruffly:

"Who's there?"

He would have given something handsome to be out of this foolish predicament, which he knew must be very trying to his companion. But the fates were against him. To his horror, the man struck a match and mounting the steps to the porch flashed it directly into his face.

"Good evening," said Blake, with rather a weak attempt at assurance.

"What are you doing here?" the guard demanded. "Don't you know that this house is quarantined?"

"I do. Kindly lower your voice; there are people asleep."

The fellow's eyes took in the girl in her stiffly starched uniform before the match burned out and darkness engulfed them once more.

"I'm not a burglar."

"Humph! I don't know whether you are or not."

"I assure you," urged Vittoria.

"Strike another match and I'll prove to you that I'm not dangerous." When the light flared up once more Norvin selected a card from his case and handed it to the watchman. "I am Norvin Blake, president of the Cotton Exchange."

But this information failed of the desired effect.

"Oh, I know you, but this ain't exactly the right time to be calling on a lady."

Vittoria felt her companion's muscles stiffen.

"I will explain my presence later," he said, stiffly; then, turning to Vittoria, "I am sorry I disturbed this estimable man. Good night."

"Just a minute," the watchman broke in. "You needn't say good night."

"What do you mean?"

"This house is quarantined for smallpox."

"Well?"

"Nobody can come or go without the doctor's permission."

"I understand that."

"Now that you're here, I reckon you'll stay."

Miss Fabrizi uttered a smothered exclamation.

"You're crazy!" said Blake, angrily.

"Yes? Well, that's my instructions."

"I haven't been inside."

"That don't make any difference; the lady has."

"It's absurd. You can't force—"

"'Sh-h!" breathed Vittoria.

Some one had entered the kitchen at their back. A light flashed through the window, the door opened, and Mr. La Branche, clad in a rusty satin dressing-gown and carpet slippers, stood revealed, a lamp in his hand.

"I thought I heard voices," he said. "What is the trouble?"

"There's no trouble at all, sir," Blake protested, then found himself absurdly embarrassed.

Vittoria and the guard both began to speak at once, and at length she broke into laughter, saying:

"Poor Mr. Blake, I fear he has been exposed to contagion. It was necessary for him to talk with me on a matter of importance, and now this man tells him he cannot leave."

But from Papa La Branche's expression it was evident that he saw nothing humorous in the situation.

"To talk with you! At this hour!"

"I'm working for the Board of Health, and those are my orders," declared outraged authority.

"It was imperative that I see Miss Fabrizi; the blame for this complication is entirely mine," Norvin assured the old creole.

The representative of the Board of Health inquired, loudly: "Didn't the doctors tell you that nobody could come or go, Mr. La Branche?"

"They did."

"But, my dear man, this is no ordinary case. Now that I have explained, I shall go, first apologizing to Mr. La Branche for disturbing him."

"No, you won't"

The master of the house stepped aside, holding his light on high.

"Miss Fabrizi is my guest," he said, quietly, "so no explanations are necessary. This man is but doing his duty, and, therefore, Mr. Blake, I fear I shall have to offer you the poor hospitality of my roof until the law permits you to leave."

"Impossible, sir! I—"

"I regret that we have never met before; but you are welcome, and I shall do my best to make you comfortable." He waved his hand commandingly toward the open door.

"Thank you, but I can't accept, really."

"I fear that you have no choice."

"But the idea is ridiculous, preposterous! I'm a busy man; I can't shut myself up this way for a week or more. Besides, I couldn't allow myself to be forced upon strangers in this manner."

"If you are a good citizen, you will respect the law," said La Branche, coldly.

"Bother the law! I have obligations! Why—the very idea is absurd! I'll see the health officers and explain at once—"

The old gentleman, however, still waited, while the watchman took his place at the top of the steps as if determined to do his duty, come, what might.

Norvin found Vittoria's eyes upon him, and saw that beneath her self-possession she was intensely embarrassed. Evidently there was nothing to do now but accept the situation and put an end to the painful scene at any sacrifice. Once inside, he could perhaps set himself right; but for the present no explanations were possible. He might have braved the Board of Health, but he could not run away from Papa La Branche's accusing eye. Bowing gravely, he said:

"You are quite right, sir, and I thank you for your hospitality. If you will lead the way, I will follow"

The two culprits entered the big, empty kitchen, then followed the rotund little figure which waddled ahead of them into the front part of the house.



XVII

AN OBLIGATION IS MET



Montegut La Branche paused in the front hall at the foot of the stairs.

"It is late" he said; "no doubt Mademoiselle wishes to retire."

"I would like to offer a word of explanation," Norvin ventured, but Vittoria interposed, quietly:

"Mr. La Branche is right—explanations are unnecessary." Bowing graciously to them both, she mounted the stairs into the gloom above, followed by the old Creole's polite voice:

"A pleasant sleep, Mademoiselle, and happy dreams." Leading the way into the library, he placed the lamp upon a table, then, turning to his unbidden guest, inquired, coldly, "Well?"

His black eyes were flashing underneath his gray brows, and he presented a fierce aspect despite his gown, which resembled a Mother Hubbard, and his slippers, which flapped as he walked.

"I must apologize for my intrusion," said Norvin. "I wish you to understand how it came about."

"In view of your attentions to my wife's cousin, it was unfortunate that you should have selected this time, this place, for your—er— adventure."

"Exactly! I'm wondering how to spare Miss Warren any annoyance."

"I fear that will be impossible. She must know the truth."

"She must not know; she must not guess."

"M'sieu!" exclaimed the old man. "My wife and I can take no part in your intrigues. Myra Nell is too well bred to show resentment at your conduct, no matter what may be her feelings."

Norvin flushed with exasperation, then suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Surely he could trust this chivalrous old soul with a part of the truth. Once his scruples were satisfied, the man's very sense of honor would prevent him from even thinking of what did not concern him.

"I think you will understand better," he said, "when you have heard me through. I can't tell you everything, for I am not at liberty to do so. But you know, perhaps, that I am connected with the Committee of Justice."

"I do."

"You don't know the full extent of the task with which I am charged, however."

"Perhaps not."

"Its gravity may be understood when you know that I have been marked for the same fate as Chief Donnelly."

The old man started.

"My labors have taken me into many quarters. I seek information through many channels. It was upon this business, in a way, that I came to see Miss Fabrizi."

"I do not follow you."

"She is a Sicilian. She knows much which would be of value to the Committee and to me. It was necessary for me to see her alone and secretly. If the truth were known it would mean her—life, perhaps."

The Creole's bearing altered instantly.

"Say no more. I believe you to be a man of honor, and I apologize for my suspicions."

"May I trust you to respect this confidence?"

"It is sealed."

"But this doesn't entirely relieve the situation. I can't explain to Madame La Branche or to Miss Myra Nell even as much as I've explained to you."

"Some day will you relieve me from my promise of secrecy?" queried the old man, with an eager, bird-like glance from Ms bright eyes.

"Assuredly. As soon as we have won our fight against the Mafia."

"Then I will lie for you, and confess later. I have never lied to my wife, M'sieu—except upon rare occasions," Mr. La Branche chuckled merrily. "And even then only about trifles. So, the result? Absolute trust; supreme confidence on her part. A happy state for man and wife, is it not? Ha! I am a very good liar, an adept, as you shall see, for I am not calloused by practice and therefore liable to forgetfulness. With me a lie is always fresh in my mind; it is a matter of absorbing interest, hence I do not forget myself. Heaven knows the excitement of nursing an innocent deceit and of seeing it grow and flower under my care will be most welcome, for the monotony of this abominable confinement—But I must inquire, do you play piquet?"

"I am rather good at it," Norvin confessed, whereat Papa La Branche seemed about to embrace him.

"You are sent from heaven!" he declared. "You deliver me from darkness. Thirty-seven games of Napoleon to-day! Think of it! I was dealing the thirty-eighth when you came. But piquet! Ah, that is a game, even though my angel wife abominates it. We have still five days of this hideous imprisonment, so let us agree to an hour before lunch, an hour before dinner, then—um-,—perhaps two hours in the evening at a few cents a game, eh? You agree, my friend?" The little man peered up timidly. "Perhaps—but no, I dare say you are sleepy, and it is late."

"I should enjoy a game or two right now," Norvin falsified. "But first, don't you think we'd better rehearse our explanation of my presence?"

"A good idea. You came to see me upon business. I telephoned, and you came like a good friend, then—let me see, I was so overjoyed to see a new face that I rushed forth to greet you, and behold! that scorpion, that loathsome reptile outside pronounced you infected. He forced you to enter, even against my protestations. It was all my fault. I am desolated with regrets. Eh? How is that? You see nature designed me for a rogue."

"Excellent! But what is our important business?"

"True. Since I retired from active affairs I have no business. That is awkward, is it not? May I ask in what line you are engaged?"

"I am a cotton factor."

"Then I shall open an account with you. I shall give you money to invest. Come, there need be no deceit about that; I shall write you a check at once."

"That's hardly necessary, so long as we understand each other."

But Mr. La Branche insisted, saying:

"One lie is all that I dare undertake. I have told two at the same time, but invariably they clashed and disaster resulted. There! I trust you to make use of the money as you think best. But enough! What do women know of business? It is a mysterious word to them. Now— piquet!" He dragged Norvin to a seat at a table, then trotted away in search of cards, his slippers clap-clapping at every step as if in gleeful applause. "Shall we cut for deal, M'sieu? Ah!" He sighed gratefully as he won, and began to shuffle. "With four hours of piquet every day, and a lie upon my conscience, I feel that I shall be happy in spite of this execrable smallpox."

Myra Nell's emotions may be imagined when, on the following morning, she learned who had broken through the cordon while she slept.

"Lordy! Lordy!" she exclaimed, with round eyes. "He said he'd do it; but I didn't think he really would."

She had flounced into Vittoria's room to gossip while she combed her hair.

"Mr. La Branche says it's all his fault, and he's terribly grieved," Miss Fabrizi told her. "Now, now! Your eyes are fairly popping out."

"Wouldn't your eyes pop out if the handsomest, the richest, the bravest man in New Orleans deliberately took his life in his hands to see you and be near you?"

"But he says it was important business which brought him." Vittoria smiled guiltily.

"Tell that to your granny! You don't know men as I do. Have you really seen him? I'm not dreaming?"

"I have seen him, with these very eyes, and if you were not such a lazy little pig you'd have seen him, too. Shall you take your breakfast in your room, as usual?" Vittoria's eyes twinkled.

"Don't tease me!" Miss Warren exclaimed, with a furious blush. "I—I love to tease other people, but I can't stand it myself. Breakfast in my room, indeed! But of course I shall treat him with freezing politeness."

"Why should you pretend to be offended?"

"Don't you understand? This is bound to cause gossip. Why, the idea of Norvin Blake, the handsomest, the richest—"

"Yes, yes."

"The idea of his getting himself quarantined in the same house with me, and our being here together for days—maybe for months! Why, it will create the loveliest scandal. I'll never dare hold up my head again in public, never. You see how it must make me feel. I'm compromised." Myra Nell undertook to show horror in her features, but burst into a gale of laughter.

"Do you care for him very much?"

"I'm crazy about him! Why, dearie, after this—we're—we're almost married! Now watch me show him how deeply I'm offended."

But when she appeared in the dining-room, late as usual, her frigidity was not especially marked. On the contrary, her face rippled into one smile after another, and seizing Blake by both hands, she danced around him, singing:

"You did it! You did it! You did it! Hurrah for a jolly life in the pest-house!"

Madame La Branche was inclined to be shocked at this behavior, but inasmuch as Papa Montegut was beaming angelically upon the two young people, she allowed herself to be mollified.

"I couldn't believe Vittoria," Myra Nell told Norvin. "Don't you know the danger you run?"

Mr. La Branche exclaimed: "I am desolated at the consequences of my selfishness! I did not sleep a wink. I can never atone."

"Quite right," his wife agreed." You must have been mad, Montegut. It was criminal of you to rush forth and embrace him in that manner."

"But, delight of my soul, the news he bore! The joy of seeing him! It unmanned me." The Creole waved his hands wildly, as if at a loss for words.

"Oh, you fibber! Norvin told me he'd never met you," said Myra Nell.

"Eh! Impossible! We are associates in business; business of a most important—But what does that term signify to you, my precious ladybird? Nothing! Enough, then, to say that he saved me from disaster. Naturally I was overjoyed and forgot myself."

His wife inquired, timidly, "Have your affairs gone disastrously?"

"Worse than that! Ruin stared us in the face until he came. Our deliverer!"

Blake flushed at this fulsome extravagance, particularly as he saw Myra Nell making faces at him.

"Fortunately everything is arranged now," he assured his hostess. But this did not satisfy Miss Warren, who, with apparent innocence, questioned the two men until Papa La Branche began to bog and flounder in his explanations. Fortunately for the men, she was diverted for the moment by discovering that the table was set for only four.

"Oh, we need another place," she exclaimed, "for Vittoria!"

The old lady said, quietly: "No, dear. While we were alone it was permissible, but it is better now in this way."

Myra Nell's ready acquiescence was a shock to Norvin, arguing, as it did, that these people regarded the Countess Margherita as an employee. Could it be that they were so utterly blind?

He was allowed little time for such thoughts, however, since Myra Nell set herself to the agreeable task of unmasking her lover and confounding Montegut La Branche. But Cousin Althea was not of a suspicious nature, and continued to beam upon her husband, albeit a trifle vaguely. Then when breakfast was out of the way the girl added to Norvin's embarrassment by flirting with him so outrageously that he was glad to flee to Papa Montegut's piquet game.

At the first opportunity he said to Vittoria: "I feel dreadfully about this. Why, they seem to think you're a—a—servant! It's unbearable!"

"That is part of my work; I am accustomed to it." She smiled.

"Then you have changed. But if they knew the truth, how differently they'd act!"

"They must never suspect; more depends upon it than you know."

"I feel horribly guilty, all the same."

"It can make no difference what they think of me. I'm afraid, however, that you have—made it—difficult for Myra Nell."

"So it appears. I didn't think of her when I entered this delightful prison."

"You had no choice."

"It wasn't altogether that. I wanted to be near you, Vittoria."

Her glance was level and cool, her voice steady. "It was chivalrous to try to spare me the necessity of explaining. The situation was trying; but we were both to blame, and now we must make the best of it. Myra Nell's misunderstanding is complete, and she will be unhappy unless you devote yourself to her."

"I simply can't. I think I'll keep to myself as much as possible."

"You don't know that girl," Vittoria said. "You think she is frivolous and inconsequent, that she has the brightness of a sunbeam and no more substance; but you are mistaken. She is good and true and steadfast underneath, and she can feel deeply."

Blake found that it was impossible to isolate himself. Mr. La Branche clung to him like a drowning man; his business affairs called him repeatedly to the telephone; Myra Nell appropriated him with all the calm assurance of a queen, and Madame La Branche insisted upon seeing personally to his every want. The only person of whom he saw little was Vittoria Fabrizi.

His disappearance, of course, required much explaining and long conversations with his office, with his associates, and with police headquarters, where his plight was regarded as a great joke. This was all very well; but there were other and unforeseen consequences.

Bernie Dreux heard of the affair with blank amazement, which turned into something resembling rage. His duty, however, was plain. He packed a valise and set out for the quarantined house like a man marching to his execution; for he had a deathly horror of disease, and smallpox was beyond compare the most loathsome.

But the Health Department had given strict orders, and he was turned away; nay, he was rudely repulsed. Crushed, humiliated, he retired to his club, and there it was that Rilleau found him, steeped in melancholy and a very insidious brand of Kentucky Bourbon.

When Lecompte accused Blake of breaking the rules of the game, the little bachelor rose resolutely to his sister's defense.

"Norvin's got a perfect right to protect her," he lied, "and I honor him for it."

"You mean he's engaged to her?" Rilleau inquired, blankly.

Bernie nodded.

"Well, so am I, so are Delevan and Mangny, and the others."

"Not this way." Mr. Dreux's alcoholic flush deepened. "He thought she was in danger, so he flew to her side. Mighty unselfish to sacrifice his business and brave the disease. He did it with my consent, y'understand? When he asked me, I said, 'Norvin, my boy, she needs you.' So he went. Unselfish is no word for it; he's a man of honor, a hero."

Mr. Rilleau's gloom thickened, and he, too, ordered the famous Bourbon. He sighed.

"I'd have done the same thing; I offered to, and I'm no hero. I suppose that ends us. It's a great disappointment, though. I hoped— during Carnival week that she'd—Well, I wanted her for my real queen."

Bernie undertook to clap the speaker on the shoulder and admonish him to buck up; but his eye was wavering and his aim so uncertain that he knocked off Mr. Rilleau's hat. With due apologies he ran on:

"She couldn't have been queen at all, only for him. He made it possible."

"I had as much to say about it as he did."

Bernie whispered: "He lent me the money, y'understand? It was all right, under the circumstances, everything being settled but the date, y'understand?"

Rilleau rose at last, saying: "You're all to be congratulated. He is the best fellow in New Orleans, and there's only one man I'd rather see your sister marry than him; that's me. Now I'm going to select a present before the rush commences. What would you think of an onyx clock with gold cupids straddling around over it?"

"Fine! I'm sorry, old man—I like you, y'understand?" Bernie upset his chair in rising to embrace his friend, then catching sight of August Kulm, who entered at the moment, he made his way to him and repeated his explanations.

Mr. Kulm was silent, attentive, despairing, and spoke vaguely of suicide, whereupon Dreux set himself to the task of drowning this Teutonic instinct in the flowing bowl.

"I don't know what has happened to the boys," Myra Nell complained to Norvin, on the second day after his arrival. "Lecompte was going to read me the Rubaiyat, and Raymond Cline promised me a bunch of orchids; but nobody has shown up."

"It's jealousy," he said, lightly.

"I suppose so. Of course it was nice of you to compromise me this way— it's delicious, in fact—but I didn't think it would scare off the others."

"You think I have compromised you?"

"You know you have, terribly. I'm engaged to all of them— everybody, in fact, except you—"

"But they know my presence here is unintentional."

"Oh! Is it, really?" She laughed.

"Don't you believe it is?"

"Goodness! Don't spoil all my pleasure. If ever I saw two cringing, self-conscious criminals, it's you and Papa Montegut. Men are so deceitful. Heigh-ho! I thought this was going to be splendid, but you play cards all day with Mr. La Branche while I die of loneliness."

"What would you like me to do?" he faltered.

"I don't know. It's very dull. Couldn't you sally forth and drag in Lecompte or Murray or Raymond?" She looked up with eyes beaming. "Bernie was furious, wasn't he?"

Mr. La Branche came trotting in with the evening newspaper in his hand. "It's in the paper," he chuckled. "Those reporters get everything."

"What's in the paper?" Myra Nell snatched the sheet from his hand and read eagerly as he went trotting out again with his slippers applauding every step. "Oh, Lordy!"

Blake read over her shoulder, and his face flushed.

"Norvin, we're really, truly engaged, now. See!" After a pause, "And you've never even asked me."

There was only one thing to say.

"Myra Nell," he began, "I want you—Will you—"

"Oh, you goose, you're not taking a cold shower!"

"Will you do me the honor to be my wife?"

She burst into delightful laughter. "So you actually have the courage to propose? Shall I take time to think it over, or shall I answer now?"

"Now, by all means."

"Very well, of course I—won't."

"Why not?" he exclaimed, with a start.

"The idea! You don't mean it!"

"I do."

"Why, Norvin, you're old enough to be my father."

"Oh, no, I'm not."

"Do you think I could marry a man with gray hair?"

"It all gets gray after a while."

"No. I'll be engaged to you, but I'll never marry any one, never. That would spoil all the fun. This very thing shows how stupid it must be; the mere rumor has scared the others away,"

"You're a Mormon."

"I'm not. I'll tell you what I'll do; if I ever marry any one, I'll marry you."

"That's altogether too indefinite."

"I don't see it. Meanwhile we're engaged, aren't we?"

"If that's the case—" He reached uncertainly for her hand, and pressed it. "I—I'm very happy!"

She waited an instant, watching him shyly, then said: "Now I must show this to Vittoria. But—please don't look so frightened."

The next instant she was gone. When Miss Fabrizi entered her room, a half-hour later, it was to find her with her eyes red from weeping.

As for Norvin, he had risen to the occasion as best he could. He loved Myra Nell sincerely, tenderly, in a big-brotherly way; he would have gone to any lengths to serve her, yet he could not feel toward her as he felt toward Vittoria Fabrizi. He nerved himself to stand by his word, even though it meant the greatest sacrifice. But the thought agonized him.

Nor was he made more easy as time went on, for Mr. and Mrs. La Branche took it for granted that he was their cousin's affianced lover; and while the girl herself now bewildered him with her shy, inviting coquetry, or again berated him for placing her in an unwelcome position, he could never determine how much she really cared.

When the quarantine was finally lifted he walked out with feelings akin to those of a prisoner who has been reprieved.



XVIII

BELISARIO CARDI



After his enforced idleness Blake was keen to resume his task, yet there was little for him to do save study the one big problem which lay at the root of the whole matter.

The evidence against the prisoners was in good shape; they were indicted, and the trial date would soon be set. They had hired competent lawyers and were preparing for a desperate fight. Where the necessary money came from nobody seemed to know, although it was generally felt that a powerful influence was at work to free them. The district attorney expressed the strongest hopes of obtaining convictions; but there came disturbing rumors of alibis for the accused, of manufactured evidence, and of overwhelming surprises to be sprung at the last moment. Detectives were shadowed by other detectives, lawyers were spied upon, their plans leaked out; witnesses for the State disappeared. Opposing the authorities was a master hand, at once so cunning and so bold as to threaten a miscarriage of justice.

This could be none other then Belisario Cardi, yet he seemed no nearer discovery than ever. Norvin had no idea how to proceed. He could only wait for some word from his new ally, Vittoria Fabrizi. It might be that she would find a clue, and he feared to complicate matters by any premature or ill-judged action. Meanwhile, he encountered the results of Bernie Dreux's garrulity. He found himself generally regarded as Myra Nell's accepted suitor, and, of course, could make no denial. But when he telephoned to the girl herself and asked when he might call he was surprised to hear her say:

"You can't call at all Why, you've ruined all my enjoyment as it is! There hasn't been a man in this whole neighborhood since I came home. Even the policeman takes the other side of the street."