"All the more reason why I should come."

"I won't have you hanging around until I get my Carnival dresses fitted. Oh, Norvin, you ought to see them. There's one-white brocaded peau de soie, all frills and rosebuds; the bodice is trimmed with pearl passementerie, and it's a dear." After a moment's hesitation she added: "Norvin dear, what does it cost to rent the front page of a newspaper?"

"I don't know. I don't think it can be done."

"I wondered if you couldn't do it and—deny our engagement."

"Do you want to break it?" He could hardly keep the eagerness out of his voice.

"Oh, no! But I'd like to deny it until after the Carnival. Now don't be offended. I'll never get my dances filled if I'm as good as married to you. Imagine a queen with an empty programme. I just love you to pieces, of course, but I can't allow our engagement to interfere with the success of the Carnival, can I?"

"Don't you know this is a thing we can't joke about?"

"Of course I do. It has taught me a good lesson."

"What?"

"I'll never be engaged to another man."

"Well! I should hope not. Do you intend to marry me, Myra Nell?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I will, then again I'm afraid nobody'd ever come to see me if I did. I'll get old, like you."

"I'm not old."

"We'd both have gray hair and—I can't talk any more. Here comes Bernie with an armful of dresses and a mouthful of pins. If he coughs I'll be all alone in the world. No, you can't see me for a week. I don't even want to hear from you except—"

"What?"

"Well, the strain of dress-fitting is tremendous. I'm nearly always hungry—ravenous for nourishment."

"You mean you're out of candy, I suppose?"

"Practically. There's hardly a whole piece left. They've all been nibbled."

Blake did not know whether to feel amused or ashamed. He was relieved at the girl's apparent carelessness, yet this half-serious engagement had put Myra Nell in a new light. He could not think of their relations as really unchanged, and this was inevitable since his sentiment for her was genuine. The grotesqueness of the affair—even Myra Nell's own attitude toward it—seemed a violation of something sacred.

But nothing could subdue the joy he felt in his growing intimacy with Vittoria, whom he managed to see frequently, although she never permitted him to come to Oliveta's house. Little by little her reserve melted, and more and more she seemed to forget her intention of devoting herself to a religious life, while fears for her friend's safety appealed to the deep mother instinct which had remained latent in her.

She was unable, however, even with Oliveta's assistance, to put any information in his way, and Blake could think of no better plan than to try once more to sound Caesar Maruffi. If Caesar had really written the letters, it would be strange if he could not be induced to go farther, despite his obvious fear of Cardi. It was unbelievable that a man who knew so much about the Mafia was really in ignorance of its leader's identity, and Blake was convinced that if he acted diplomatically and seized the right occasion he could bring the fellow to unbosom himself.

Discarding all thought of his own safety, he went often to the Red Wing Club. But he found Caesar wary, and he dared not be too abrupt. Time and again he was upon the verge of speaking out, but something invariably prevented, some inner voice warned him that the man's mood was unpropitious, that his extravagant caution was not yet satisfied. He allowed the Sicilian to feel him out to his heart's content, and, at last, seeing that he made no real progress, he set out one evening resolved to risk all in an effort to reach some definite understanding.

He was delayed in reaching the foreign quarter, and the dinner-hour was nearly over when he arrived at the cafe. Maruffi was there, as usual, but he had finished his meal and was playing cards with some of his countrymen, swarthy, eager-faced, voluble fellows whose chatter filled the place. They greeted Norvin politely as he seated himself near by, then went on with their amusement as he ordered and ate his dinner. He was near enough to hear their talk, and to catch an occasional glimpse of the game, so that he was not long in finding that they played for considerable stakes. They were as earnest as school-boys, and he watched their ever-changing expressions with interest, particularly when he discovered that Maruffi was in hard luck. The big Sicilian sat bulked up in a corner, black, silent, and sinister, his scowling brows bespeaking his rage. Occasionally he growled a curse, then sent the waiter scurrying with an order. Other Italians were drawn to the scene and crowded about the players.

When Norvin had finished his meal he sat back to smoke and idly sip his claret, thinking he would wait until the game broke up, so that he might get Caesar to himself and perhaps put the issue to the test. He began to study the fellow's face, thinking what force, what passion lay in it, puzzling his brain for some means of enlisting that energy upon his side. But as fortune continued to run against Maruffi, he began to fear that the time was not favorable.

What a picture those laughing, hawk-like men formed, surrounding the black, resentful merchant! Martel Savigno could have drawn a group like that, he mused, for he had a rare appreciation of his own people, no matter what might be said of his talent. He had done some very creditable Sicilian sketches; in fact, Norvin had one framed in his room. What a pity the Count had been stricken in the first years of his promise! What a ruthless hand it was that had destroyed him! What a giant mind it was which had kept all Sicily in terror and scaled its lips!

In that very group yonder there probably was more than one who knew the evil genius in person, and yet they were held in a thralldom of fear which no offer of riches could break. What manner of man was this Cardi? What hellish methods did he follow to wield such despotism? Those card-players were impudent, unscrupulous blades, as ready to gamble with death as with their jingling coins, and yet they dared not lift a hand against him.

Blake saw that the game had reached a point of unusual intensity; the players were deeply engrossed; the spectators had fallen silent, with bright eyes fixed upon the mounting stakes. When the tension broke Norvin saw that Caesar had lost again, and smiled at the excited conversation which ensued. There was a babble of laughter, of curses, of expostulation, shafts of badinage flew at the Sicilian merchant. In the midst of it he raised a huge, hairy fist and brought it down, smiting the table until the coins, the cards, and the glasses leaped. His face was distorted; his voice was thick with passion.



"Silenzio!" he growled, with such imperative fury that the others fell silent; then hoarsely: "I play my own game, and I lose. That is all! You are like old wives with your advice. It is my accursed luck, which will some day bring me to the gallows. Now deal!"

That same nausea which invariably seized Norvin Blake in moments of extreme excitement swept over him now. His whole body went cold, the knot of figures faded from his vision, he heard the noisy voices as if from a great distance. A giant hand had reached forth and gripped him, halting his breath and his heart-beats. The room swam dizzily, in a haze.

He found, an instant later, that he had risen and was gripping the table in front of him as if for support. He had upset his goblet of wine, and a wide red stain was spreading over the white cloth. To him it was the blood of Martel Savigno. He stared down at it dazedly, his eyes glazed with horror and surprise.

As the crimson splotch widened his heart took up its halting labors, then began to race, faster and faster, until he felt himself smothering; his frame was swept with tremors. Then the raucous voices grew louder and louder, mounting into a roar, as if he were coming out from a swoon, and all the time that red blotch grew until he could see no other color; it blurred the room and the quarreling gamblers; it steeped the very air. He was still deathly sick, as only those men are whose blood sours, whose bones and muscles disintegrate at the touch of fear.

He did not remember leaving the place, but found the cool night air fanning fresh upon his face as he lurched blindly down the dark street, within his eyes the picture of a scowling, black-browed visage; in his ears that hoarse, unforgettable command, "Silenzio!"

A single word, burdened with rage and venom, had carried him back over the years to a certain moment and a certain spot on a Sicilian mountain-side. The peculiar arrogance, the harsh vibrations of that voice permitted no mistake. He saw again a ghost-gray road walled in with fearful shadows, and at his feet two silent, twisted bodies dimly outlined against the dust. A match flared and Ricardo Ferara grinned up into the night beneath his grizzled mustache, Narcone, the butcher, his hands still wet, was whining for the blood of the American. He heard Martel Savigno call, heard the young Count's voice rise and break in a shriek, heard a thunder of hoofs retreating into the blackness. Sicilian men were peering into his face, talking excitedly; through their chatter came that same voice, imperative, furious, filled with rage, and it cried:

"Silenzio!"

There was no mistaking it. The veil was ripped at last.

Blake recalled the dim outlines of that burly, bull-necked figure as it had leaped into brief silhouette against the glare of the blazing match, that night so long ago, and then he cried out aloud in the empty street as he realized how complete was the identification. He remembered Donnelly's vague prediction five minutes before he was stricken:

"If what I suspect is true, it will cause a sensation,"

A sensation indeed! The surprise, the realization of consequences, was too overpowering to permit coherent thought. This Maruffi, or Cardi, or whoever he might prove to be, was tremendous. No wonder he had been hard to uncover. No wonder his power was absolute. He had the genius of a great general, a great politician, and a great criminal, all in one, and he was as pitiless as a panther, more deadly than a moccasin. What influence had perverted such intellect into a weapon of iniquity? What evil of the blood, what lesion of the brain, had distorted his instincts so monstrously?

Caesar Maruffi, rich, respected, honored! It was unbelievable.

Blake halted after a time and took note of the surroundings into which his feet had led him. He was deep in the foreign quarter, and found, with a start, that he had been heading for Vittoria Fabrizi's dwelling as if guided by some extraneous power. By a strong exercise of will he calmed himself. What he needed above all things was counsel, some one with whom he could share this amazing discovery. Perhaps his presence here was a sign; at any rate, he decided to follow his first impulse, so hastened onward.

Inside the house his brain cleared in a measure, as he waited; but his agitation must have left plain traces, for no sooner had Vittoria appeared than she exclaimed:

"My friend! Something has happened."

He rose and met her half-way. "Yes. Something tremendous, something terrible."

"It was unwise of you to come here—you may be followed. Tell me quickly what has made you so indiscreet?"

"I have found Belisario Cardi."

She paled; her eyes flamed.

"Yes—it's incredible." His voice shook. "I know the man well, that's the marvel of it. I've trusted him; I've rubbed shoulders with him; I went to him to-night to enlist his aid." He paused, realizing for the first time that the mystery of those letters was now deeper than ever. If Maruffi had not written them, who then? "He's the best and richest Italian in the city. God! The thing is appalling."

"He must go to justice," said Vittoria, quietly. "His name?"

"Caesar Maruffi!"

The girl's eager look faded into one of blank dismay.

"No!" she said, strangely. "No!"

"Do you know him?"

In a daze she nodded; then cast a hurried, frightened look over her shoulder.

"Madonna mia! Caesar Maruffi!" Disbelief and horror leaped into her eyes. "You are mad! Not Caesar. I do not believe it."

"Caesar, Caesar." he cried." Why do you call him that? Why do you doubt? What is he to you?"

She drew away with a look that brought him to his senses.

"There is no mistake," he mumbled." He is Cardi. I know it. I—"

"Wait, wait; don't tell me." She went groping uncertainly to the door. "Don't tell me yet."

A moment later he heard her call:

"Oliveta! Come quickly, sorella mia. A friend. Quickly!"

Oliveta—recognizably the same girl that he had known in Sicily— entered with her black brows lifted in anxious inquiry, her dark eyes wide with apprehension.

"Some evil has befallen; tell me!" she said, wasting no time in greeting.

"No. Nothing evil," Blake assured her.

"Our friend has made a terrible discovery," said Vittoria, in a faint voice. "I cannot believe—I—want you to hear, carina." She motioned to Norvin.

"I have been seeking our enemy, Belisario Cardi, and—I have found him."

Oliveta cried out in fierce triumph: "God be praised! He lives; that is enough. I feared he had cheated us."

"Listen!" exclaimed Vittoria, in such a tone that the peasant girl started. "You don't understand."

"I understand nothing except that he lives. His blood shall wash our blood. That is what we swore, and I have never forgotten, even though you have. He shall go to meet his dead, and his soul shall be accursed." She spoke with the same hysterical ferocity as when she had cursed her father's murderer in the castello of Terranova.

"He calls himself Caesar Maruffi," Blake told her.

There was a pause, then she said, simply: "That is a lie."

"No, no! I saw him that night. I saw him again to-night."

"It cannot be."

"That is what I have said," concurred Vittoria, with strange eagerness. "No, no—it would be too dreadful."

Mystified and offended, Blake defended his statement forcibly. "Believe it or not, as you please, it is true. That night in Sicily he came among the brigands who held me prisoner. They were talking excitedly. He cried, 'Silenzio!' in a voice I can never forget. To-night he was gambling, and he lost heavily. He was furious; his friends began to chatter, and he cried that word again! I would know it a thousand years hence. I saw it all in a flash. I saw other things I had failed to grasp—his size, his appearance. I tell you he is Belisario Cardi."

"God help me!" whispered the daughter of Ferara, crossing herself with uncertain hand. She was staring affrightedly at Vittoria. "God help me!" She kept repeating the words and gesture.

Blake turned inquiringly to the other woman and read the truth in her eyes.

"Good Lord!" he cried. "He is her—"

She nodded. "They were to be married."

Oliveta began speaking slowly to her foster sister. "Yes, it is indeed true. I have suspected something, but I dared not tell you all—the things he said—all that I half learned and would not ask about. I was afraid to know. I closed my eyes and my ears. Body of Christ! And all the time my father's blood was on his hands!"

Vittoria appealed helplessly to Blake. "You see how it is. What is to be done?"

But his attention was all centered upon Oliveta, whose face was changing curiously.

"His blood!" she exclaimed. "I have loved that infamous man. His hands—" She let her gaze fall to her own, as if they too might be stained from contact.

"Does Maruffi know who you really are?" he asked.

Vittoria answered; "No. She would have told him soon; we were waiting until we had run down those men. You see, it was largely through her that I worked. Those things which I could not discover she learned from—him. It was she who secured the names of Di Marco and Garcia and the others."

Sudden enlightenment brought a cry from him.

"You! Then you wrote those letters! You are the 'One Who Knows'?"

Vittoria nodded; but her eyes were fixed upon the girl.

Oliveta was whispering through white lips: "It is the will of God! He has been delivered into my hands."

"I am beginning to—"

"Wait!" Vittoria did not withdraw her anxious gaze. After an instant she inquired, gently, "Oliveta, what shall we do?"

"There is but one thing to do."

"You mean—"

"I have been sent by God to betray him." Her face became convulsed, her voice harsh. "I curse him, living and dead, in the name of my father, in the name of Martel Savigno, who died by his hand. May he pray unheard, may he burn in agony for a thousand thousand years. Take him to the hangman, Signore. He shall die with my curse in his ears."

"I can't bring him to justice," Blake confessed. "I know him to be the assassin, but my mere word isn't enough to convict him. I have no way of connecting him with the murder of Chief Donnelly, and that is what he must answer for."

Oliveta's lips writhed into a tortured smile. "Never fear, I shall place the loop about his neck where my arms have lain. He has told me little, for I feared to listen. But wait! Give me time."

Vittoria cried in a shocked voice: "Child! Not—that,"

"It was from him I learned of Gian Narcone and his other friends; now I shall learn from his own mouth the whole truth. He shall weave the rope for his own destruction. Oh, he is like water in my hands, and I shall lie in his arms—"

"Lucrezia! You can't touch him—knowing—"

"I will have the truth, if I give myself to him in payment, if I am damned for eternity. God has chosen me!"

She broke down into frightful sobs. With sisterly affection the other woman put her arms about her and tried to soothe her. At length she led her away, but for a long time Norvin could hear sounds of the peasant girl's grief. When Vittoria reappeared her face was still pale and troubled.

"I can do nothing with her. She seems to think we are all divine instruments."

"Poor girl! She is in a frightful position. I'm too amazed to talk sensibly. But surely she won't persist."

"You do not know her; she is like iron. Even I have no power over her now, and I—fear for the result. She is Sicilian to the core, she will sacrifice her body, her soul, for vengeance, and that—man is a fiend."

"It's better to know the truth now than later."

"Yes, the web of chance has entangled our enemies and delivered them bound into our hands. We cannot question the wisdom of that power which wove the net. Oliveta is perhaps a stronger instrument than I; she will never rest until her father is avenged."

"The strangest part is that you are the 'One Who Knows,' You told me you had given up the quest."

"And so I had. I was weary of it. My life was bleak and empty. I could not return to Sicily, because of the memories it held. We came South in answer to the call of our blood, and I took up a work of love instead of hate, while Oliveta found a new interest in this man, who was wonderful and strong and fierce in his devotion to her. I attained to that peace for which I had prayed. Then, when I was nearly ready for my vows, my foster sister learned of Gian Narcone and came to me. We talked long together, and I finally yielded to her demands—she is a contadina, she never forgets—and I wrote that first letter to Mr. Donnelly. I feared you might see and recognize my handwriting, so I bought one of those new machines and learned to use it. What followed you know. When we discovered that the Mafia had vowed to take Chief Donnelly's life in payment for Narcone's, we were forced to go on or have innocent blood upon our hands.

"The Chief was killed in spite of our warnings, and then you appeared as the head of his avengers—you—my truest friend, the brother of Martel. I knew that the Mafia would have your life unless you crushed it, and in a sense I was responsible for your danger. It seemed my duty to help break up this accursed brotherhood, much as I wished that the work might fall to other hands. Oliveta was eager for the struggle, and while she fought for her vengeance, I—I fought to save you."

"You did this for me!" he cried, falteringly.

"Yes. My position at the hospital, my occupation made it easy for me to learn many things. It was I who discovered the men who actually killed Chief Donnelly; for Normando, after his injury, was brought there and I attended him. I learned of his accomplices, where the boy, Gino Cressi, was concealed, and other things. Lucrezia was a spy here among her countrypeople, and Caesar was forever dropping bits of information, though we never dreamed who he was."

She went to the long French window, and, shading her eyes with her hands, peered down into the dark street.

"Then you have—thought of me," he urged. "You thought of me even before we were drawn together by this net of chance?"

"You have seldom been out of my thoughts," she told him, quietly." You were my only friend, and I live a lonely life." Turning with a wistful smile, she asked: "And have you now and then remembered that Sicilian girl you knew so long ago?"

His voice was unruly; it broke as he replied: "Your face is always before me, Contessa. I grew very tired of waiting, but I always felt that I would find you."

She gave him her two hands. "The thought of your affection and loyalty has meant much to me; and it will always mean much. When I have entered upon my new life and know that you are happy in yours—"

"But I never shall be happy," he broke out, hoarsely.

She stopped him with a grave look.

"Please! You must go now. I will show you a way. So long as Cardi is at liberty you must not return; the risks are too great for all of us. As Oliveta learns the truth I shall advise you. Poor girl, she needs me tonight. Come!"

She led him through the house, down a stairway into the courtyard, and directed him into a narrow passageway which led out to the street behind. "Even this is not safe, for they may be waiting." She laid her hand upon his arm and said, earnestly, "You will be careful?"

"I will."

He fought down the wild impulse to take her in his arms. As he skulked through the gloom, searching the darkest shadows like a criminal, his fear was gone, and in his heart was something singing joyously.



XIX

FELICITE



"You're just the man I'm looking for," Bernie Dreux told Norvin, whom he chanced to meet on the following morning. "I've made a discovery."

"Indeed! What is it?"

"Hist! The walls have ears." Bernie cast a glance over his shoulder at the busy, sunlit street and the hurrying crowds. "Come!" With a melodramatic air he led Blake into a coffee-house near by. "You can't guess it!" he exclaimed, when they were seated.

"And what's more, I won't try. You're getting too mysterious, Bernie."

"I've found him."

"Whom?"

"The bell-cow; the boss dago; the chief head-hunter; Belisario Cardi!"

Blake started and the smile died from his lips. Dreux ran on with some heat:

"Oh, don't look so skeptical. Any man with intelligence and courage can become as good a detective as I am. I've found your Capo-Mafia, that's all."

"Who is he?"

"You won't believe me; but he's well thought of. You know him; O'Neil knows him. He's generally trusted."

Norvin began to suspect that by some freak of fortune his little friend had indeed stumbled upon the truth. Dreux was leaning back in his chair and beaming triumphantly.

"Come, come! What's his name?"

"Joe Poggi."

"Poggi? He's the owner of that fruit-stand you've been watching."

"Exactly! Chief Donnelly suspected him."

"Nonsense!" Norvin's face was twitching once more. "Poggi is on the force; he's a detective, like you."

"Come off!" Bernie was shocked and incredulous.

"Have you shadowed him for months without learning that he's an officer?"

"I—I—He's the fellow, just the same."

"Oh, Bernie, you'd better stick to the antique business."

Mr. Dreux flushed angrily. "If he isn't one of the gang," he cried, "what was he doing with Salvatore di Marco and Frank Garcia the night after Donnelly's murder? What's he doing now with Caesar Maruffi if he isn't after him for money?"

Blake's amusement suddenly gave place to eagerness.

"Maruffi!" he exclaimed. "What's this?"

"Joe Poggi is blackmailing Caesar Maruffi out of the money to defend his friends. He was at di Marco's house an hour before Salvatore's arrest. I saw him with Garcia and Bolla and Cardoni more than once."

"Why didn't you tell this to O'Neil?"

"I tried to, but he wouldn't listen. When I said I was a detective he laughed in my face, and we had a scene. He told me I couldn't find a ham at a Hebrew picnic. Since then I've been working alone. Poggi has been lying low lately, but—" Bernie hesitated, and a slight flush stole into his cheeks. "I've become acquainted with his wife—we're good friends."

"And what have you learned from her?"

"Nothing directly; but I think she's acting as her husband's agent, collecting blackmail to hire lawyers for the defense. Poor Caesar! he's rich, and Poggi is bleeding him. Since Joe is on the police force he knows every thing that goes on. No wonder you can't break up the Mafia!"

"By Jove!" said Norvin. "I was warned of a leak in the department. But it couldn't be Poggi!"

He began to question Bernie with a peremptoriness and rapidity that made the little man blink. Mingled with much that was grotesque and irrelevant, he drew out a fairly credible story of nocturnal meetings between the Italian detective and Caesar Maruffi, which, taken in connection with what he already knew, was most disturbing.

"How did you come to meet Mrs. Poggi?" he inquired, at last.

The question brought that same flush to Mr. Dreux's cheeks.

"She found I was following her one day," he explained, "so I told her I was smitten by her beauty. I got away with it, too. Rather clever, for an amateur, eh?"

"Is she good-looking?"

Bernie nodded. "She's an outrageous flirt, though, and—oh, what a temper!" He shuddered nervously. "Why, she'd stick a knife into me or bite my ears off if she suspected. She's insanely jealous."

"It's not a nice position for you."

"No. But I've something far worse than her on my hands—Felicite. She's more to be feared than the Mafia."

"Surely Miss Delord isn't dangerous."

"Isn't she?" mocked the bachelor. "You ought to see—" He started, his eyes fixed themselves upon the entrance to the cafe with a look of horror, he paled and cast a hurried glance around as if in search of a means of escape. "Here she is now!"

Norvin turned to behold Miss Delord approaching them like an arrow. She was a tiny creature, but it was plain that she was out in all her fighting strength. Her pretty face was dark with passion, her eyes were flashing, and they pierced her lover with a terrible glance as she paused before him, crying furiously:

"Well? Where is she?"

"Felicite," stammered Dreux, "d-don't cause a scene."

Miss Delord stamped a ridiculously small foot and cried again, oblivious of all save her black jealousy:

"Where is she, I say? Eh? You fear to answer. You shield her, perhaps." A plump brown hand darted forth and seized Bernie by the ear, giving it a tweak like the bite of a parrot.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, loudly. "Felicite, you'll ruin us!"

A waiter began to laugh in smothered tones.

"Tell me," stormed the diminutive fury. "It is time we had a settlement, she and I. I will lead you to her by those ass's ears of yours and let her hear the truth from your own mouth."

"Miss Delord, you do Bernie an injustice," Norvin said, placatingly.

She turned swiftly. "Injustice? Bah! He is a flirt, a loathsome trifler. What could be more abominable?"

"Felicite! D-don't make a scene," groaned the unhappy Dreux, nursing his ear and staring about the cafe with frightened, appealing eyes.

"Bernie was just—"

"You defend him, eh?" stormed the creole girl. "You are his friend. Beware, M'sieu, that I do not pull your ears also. I came here to unmask him."

"Please sit down. You're attracting attention."

"Attention! Yes! But this is nothing to what will follow. I shall make known his depravity to the whole city, for he has sweethearts like that King Solomon of old. It is his beauty, M'sieu! Listen! He loves a married woman! Imagine it!"

"Felicite! For Heaven's sake—"

"A dago woman by the name of Piggy. But wait, I shall make her squeal. Piggy! A suitable name, indeed! He follows her about; he meets her secretly; he adores her, the scoundrel! Is it not disgusting? But I am no fool. I, too, have watched; I have followed them both, and I shall scratch her black face until it bleeds, then I shall tell her husband the whole truth."

Miss Delord paused, out of breath for the moment, while Bernie pawed at her in a futile manner. Beads of perspiration were gathering upon his brow and he seemed upon the verge of swooning. As if from habit, however, he reached forth a trembling hand and deftly replaced a loose hairpin, then tucked in a stray lock which Felicite's vehemence had disarranged.

"Y-your hat's on one side, my dear," he told her.

She tossed her head and drew away, saying, "Your touch contaminates me—monster!"

Blake drew out a chair for her; his eyes were twinkling as he said, "Won't you allow him to explain?"

"There is nothing to explain, since I know everything. See! His tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. He quails! He cannot even lie! But wait until I have told the Piggy's husband—that big, black ruffian— then perhaps he will find his voice. Ah, if I had found that woman here there would have been a scene, I promise you."

"Help me—out," gasped Mr. Dreux, and Norvin came willingly to his friend's rescue.

"Bernie loves no one but you," he said.

"So? I glory in the fact that I loathe him."

"Please sit down."

"No!" Miss Delord plumped herself down upon the edge of the proffered seat, her toes bardy touching the floor.

"I'm—working Mrs. Poggi," Bernie explained. "I'm a—detective."

"What new falsehood is this?"

"No falsehood at all," Norvin told her. "He is a detective—a very fine one, too—and he has been working on the Mafia case for a long time. It has been part of his work to follow the Poggis. Please don't allow your jealousy to ruin everything."

"I am not jealous. I merely will not let him love another, that is all—But what is this you say?" Her velvet eyes had lost a little of their hardness; they were as round as buttons and fixed inquiringly upon the speaker.

"You must believe me," he said, impressively, "though I can't tell you more. Even of this you mustn't breathe a word to any one. Mr. Dreux has had to permit this misunderstanding, much against his will, because of the secrecy imposed upon him."

With wonderful quickness the anger died out of Felicite's face, to be replaced by a look of sweetness.

"A detective!" she cried, turning to Bernie. "You work for the public good, at the risk of your life? And that dago woman is one of the Mafia? What a noble work! You forgive me?"

Instantly Mr. Dreux's embarrassment left him and he assumed a chilling haughtiness.

"Forgive you? After such a scene? My dear girl, that's asking a good deal."

Felicite's lips trembled, her eyes, as they turned to Norvin, held such an appeal that he hastened to reassure her.

"Of course he forgives you. He's delighted that you care enough to be jealous."

Bernie grinned, whereupon his peppery sweetheart exploded angrily:

"You delight in my unhappiness, villain! You enjoy my sufferings! Very well! You have flirted; I shall flirt You drive me to distraction; I shall behave accordingly. That Antoine Giroux worships me and would buy a ring for me to-morrow if I would consent."

"I'll murder him!" exclaimed Dreux, with more savagery than his friend believed was in him.

"Now, don't start all over again," Blake cautioned them. "You are mad about each other—"

"Nothing of the sort," declared Felicite.

"At least Bernie worships you."

The girl fell silent and beamed openly upon her lover.

"Why don't you two end this sort of misunderstanding and—marry?"

Miss Delord paled at this bold question. Dreux gasped and flushed dully, but seemed to find no words.

"That is impossible," he said, finally.

"It's nothing of the sort," urged Blake. "You think you're happy this way, but you're not and never will be. You're letting the best years of your lives escape. Why care what people say if you're happy with each other and unhappy when apart?"

To his surprise, the girl turned upon him fiercely. "Do not torture Bernie so," she cried. "There are reasons why he cannot marry. I love him, he adores me; that is enough." Two tears gathered and stole down her smooth cheeks. "You are cruel to hurt him so, M'sieu."

"Bernie, you're a coward!" Blake said, with some degree of feeling, but the girl flew once more to her lover's defense.

"Coward, indeed! His bravery is unbelievable. Does he not risk his life for this miserable Committee of yours? He has the courage of a thousand lions."

"I admire your loyalty—and of course it's really not my affair, although—Why don't you go out to the park where the birds are singing, and talk it all over? Those birds are always glad to welcome lovers. Meanwhile I'll look into the Poggi matter."

Bernie was glad enough to end the scene, and he arose with alacrity; but his face was very red and he avoided the eye of his friend. As for Miss Delord, now that her doubts were quelled, she was as sparkling and as cheerful as an April morning.

If Bernie Dreux supposed that his troubles for the day had ended with that stormy scene in the cafe, he was greatly mistaken. He had promised Felicite that he would fly to her with the coming of dusk, and that neither the claims of duty nor of family should keep him from her side. But that evening Myra Nell seized upon him as he was cautiously tiptoeing past her door on his way out. The tone of her greeting gave him an unpleasant start.

"I want to talk with you, young man," she said.

Now nobody, save Myra Nell, ever assumed the poetic license of calling Bernie "young man," and even she did so only upon momentous occasions. A quick glance at her face confirmed his premonition of an uncomfortable half-hour.

"I haven't a cent, really," he said, desperately.

"This isn't about money." She was very grave. "It is something far more serious."

"Then what can it be?" he inquired, in a tone of mild surprise.

But she deigned no explanation until she had led him into the library, waved him imperiously to a seat upon the hair-cloth sofa, and composed herself on a chair facing him. Reflecting that he was already late for his appointment, he wriggled uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Well?" she said, after a pause. Something in her bearing caused his spirits to continue their downward course. Her brow was furrowed with a somber portent.

"Yes'm," he said, nervously, quite like a small schoolboy whose eyes are fixed upon the sunshine outside.

"I've heard the truth."

"Yes'm," he repeated, vaguely.

"Needless to say I'm crushed,"

Bernie slowly whitened as the meaning of his sister's words sank in. He seemed to melt, to settle together, and his eyes filled with a strange, hunted expression.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, thickly.

"You know, very well."

"Do I?"

She nodded her head.

"This is the first disgrace which has ever fallen upon us, and I'm heartbroken."

"I don't understand," he protested, in a voice so faint she could scarcely hear him. But his pallor increased; he sat upon the edge of the couch, clutching it nervously as if it had begun to move under him. He really felt dizzy. Myra Nell had a bottle of smelling-salts in her room, and he thought of asking her to fetch it.

"Even yet I can't believe it of you," she continued. "The idea that you, my protector, the one man upon whom I've always looked with reverence and respect; you, my sole remaining relative.... The idea that you should be entangled in a miserable intrigue.... Why, it's appalling!" Her lips quivered, tears welled into her eyes, seeing which the little man felt himself strangling.

"Don't!" he cried, miserably. "I didn't think you'd ever find it out." "I seem to be the only one who doesn't know all about it." Myra Nell shuddered.

"I simply couldn't help it," he told her. "I'm human and I've been in love for years."

"But think what people are saying."

He passed a shaking hand over his forehead, which had grown damp. "One never realizes the outcome of these things until too late. I hoped you'd never discover it. I've done everything I could to conceal it."

"That's the terrible part—your double life. Don't you know it's wrong, wicked, vile? I can't really believe it of you. Why, you're my own brother! The honor of our name rests upon you. The—the idea that you should fall a victim to the wiles of a low, vulgar—"

Bernie stiffened his back and his colorless eyes flashed.

"Myra Nell, she's nothing like that!" he declared. "You don't know her."

"Perhaps. But didn't you think of me?" He nodded his head. "Didn't you realize it meant my social ruin?" Again he nodded, his mind in a whirl of doubts and fears and furious regrets. "Nobody'll care to marry me now. What do you think Lecompte will say?"

"What the devil has Lecompte to do with it? You're engaged to Norvin Blake."

"Oh, yes, among the others."

Bernie was too miserable to voice the indignation which such flippancy evoked in him. He merely said:

"Norvin isn't like the others. It's different with him; he compromised you,"

"Yes. It was rather nice of him, but do you think he'll care to continue our engagement after this?"

"Oh, he's known about Felicite for a long time. Most of the fellows know. That's what makes it so hard."

This intelligence entirely robbed Myra Nell of words; she stared at her half-brother as if trying to realize that the man who had made this shocking admission was he.

"Do you mean to tell me that your friends have known of this disgrace?" she asked at length.

Bernie nodded. "Of course it seems terrible to you, Myra Nell, for you're innocent and unworldly, and I'm rather a dissipated old chap. But I'm awfully lonely. The men of my own age are successful and busy and they've all left me behind; the young ones don't find me interesting. You see, I don't know anything, I can't do anything, I'm a failure. Nobody cares anything about me, except you and Felicite I found a haven in her society; her faith in me is splendid. To her I'm all that's heroic and fine and manly, so when I'm with her I begin to feel that I'm really all she believes, all that I hoped to be once upon a time. She shares my dreams and I allow myself to believe in her beliefs."

"And yet you must realize that your conduct is shocking?"

"I suppose I do."

"You must know that you're an utterly immoral person?" He nodded. "You're my protector, Bernie; you're all I have. I'm a poor motherless girl and I lean upon you. But you must appreciate now that you're quite unfit to act as my guardian."

The little man wailed his miserable assent. His half-sister's reproachful eyes distracted him; the mention of her defenseless position before the world touched his sorest feeling. It was almost more than he could stand, He was upon the verge of hysterical breakdown, when her manner suddenly changed.

Her eyes brightened, and, rising swiftly, she flung herself down beside him upon the sofa, where he still sat clutching it as if it were a bucking horse. Then, curling one foot under her, she bent toward him, all eagerness, all impulsiveness. With breathless intensity she inquired:

"Tell me, Bunnie, is she pretty?"

"Very pretty, indeed," he said, lamely.

"What's she like? Quick! Tell me all about her. This is the wickedest thing I ever heard of and I'm perfectly delighted."

It was Bernie's turn to look shocked. He arose indignantly. "Myra Nell! You paralyze me. Have you no moral—"

"Rats!" interrupted Miss Warren, inelegantly. "I've let you preach to me in the past, but never again. We've the same blood in us, Bunnie. If I were a man I dare say I'd do the most terrible things—although I've never dreamed of anything so fiercely awful as this."

"I should hope not," he gasped.

"So come now, tell me everything. Does she pet you and call you funny names and ruffle your hair the way I do?"

Bernie assumed an attitude of military erectness. "It's bad enough for me to be a reprobate in secret," he said, stiffly, "but I sha'n't allow my own flesh and blood to share my shame and gloat over it."

The girl's essential innocence, her child-like capacity for seeing only the romance of a situation in which he himself recognized real dishonor, made him feel ashamed, yet he was grateful that she took the matter, after all, so lightly. His respite, however, was of short duration. Failing to draw him out on the subject which held her interest for the moment, Myra Nell followed the beckoning of a new thought. Fixing her eyes meditatively upon him, she said, with mellow satisfaction:

"It seems we're both being gossiped about, dear."

"You? What have you been doing?" he demanded, in despair.

"Oh, I really haven't done anything, but it's nearly as bad. There's a report that Norvin Blake is paying all my Carnival bills, and naturally it has occasioned talk. Of course I denied it; the idea is too preposterous."

Bernie, who had in a measure recovered his composure, felt himself paling once more.

"Amy Cline told me she'd heard that he actually bought my dresses, but Amy is a catty creature. She's mad over Lecompte, you know; that's why I encourage him; and she wanted to be Queen, too, but la, la, she's so skinny! Well, I was furious, naturally—" Miss Warren paused, quick to note the telltale signs in her brother's face. "Bernie!" she said. "Look me in the eye!" Then—"It is true!"

Her own eyes were round and horrified, her rosy cheeks lost something of their healthy glow; for once in her capricious life she was not acting.

"I never dreamed you'd learn about it," her brother protested. "When Norvin asked me if you'd like to be Queen I forbade him to mention it to you, for I couldn't afford the expense. But he told you in spite of me, and when I saw your heart was set on it—I—I just couldn't refuse. I allowed him to loan me the money."

"Bernie! Bernie!" Myra Nell rose and, turning her back upon him, stared out of the window into the dusk of the evening. At length she said, with a strange catch in her voice, "You're an anxious comfort, Bernie, for an orphan girl." Another moment passed in silence before he ventured:

"You see, I knew he'd marry you sooner or later, so it wasn't really a loan." He saw the color flood her neck and cheek at his words, but he was unprepared for her reply.

"I'll never marry him now; I'll never speak to him again."

"Why not?"

"Can't you understand? Do you think I'm entirely lacking in pride? What kind of man can he be to tell of his loan, to make it public that the very dresses which cover me were bought with his money?" She turned upon her half-brother with clenched hands and eyes which were gleaming through tears of indignation. "I could kill him for that."

"He didn't tell," Bernie blurted out.

"He must have. Nobody knew it except you—" Her eyes widened; she hesitated. "You?" she gasped.

It was indeed, the hour of Bernie's discomfiture. Myra Nell was his divinity, and to confess his personal offense against her, to destroy her faith in him, was the hardest thing he had ever done. But he was gentleman enough not to spare himself. At the cost of an effort which left him colorless he told her the truth.

"I'd been drinking, that day of the quarantine. I thought I'd fix it so he couldn't back out."

Myra Nell's lips were white as she said, slowly, measuring him meanwhile with a curious glance:

"Well, I reckon you fixed it right enough; I reckon you fixed it so that neither of us can back out." She turned and went slowly up-stairs, past the badly done portraits of her people which stared down at her in all their ancient pride. She carried her head high before them, but, once in her room, she flung herself upon her bed and wept as if her heart were breaking.

Fortunately for Norvin Blake's peace of mind, he had no inkling of Bernie's indiscretion nor of any change in Myra Nell. His work now occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. While anxiously waiting for some word from Oliveta he took up, with O'Neil, the investigation of Joe Poggi, the Italian detective. Before definite results had been obtained he was delighted to receive a visit from Vittoria Fabrizi, who explained that she had risked coming to see him because she dared not trust the mails and feared to bring him into the foreign quarter.

"Then Oliveta has made some progress?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes."

"Good! Poor girl, it must be terribly hard for her to play such a part."

"No one knows how hard it has been. You would not recognize her, she has changed so. Her love, for which we were so deeply thankful, has turned into bitter hate. It was a long time before she dared trust herself with Maruffi, for always she saw the blood of her father upon his hands. But she is Sicilian, she turned to stone and finally welcomed his caresses. Ah! that man will suffer for what he has made her endure."

Blake inquired, curiously, "Does he really love her?"

"Yes. That is the strangest part of the whole affair. It is the one good thing in his character, the bit of gold in that queer alloy which goes to make him up. Perhaps if he had met her when he was younger, love would have made him a different man. In her hands he is like wax; he is simple, childlike; he fawns upon her, he would shower her with gifts and attentions; yet underneath there is that streak of devilish cunning."

"What has he told, so far?"

"Much that is significant, little that is definite. We have pieced his words together, bit by bit, and uncovered his life an inch at a time. It was he who paid the blood money to di Marco and Bolla—thousand dollars."

"A thousand dollars for the life of Dan Donnelly!"

The Countess lowered her yellow head. "They in turn hired Larubio, Normando, and the rest. The chain is complete."

"Then all that remains is to prove it, link by link, before arresting him."

"Is not Oliveta's word sufficient proof?"

"No." Blake paced his office silently, followed by the anxious gaze of his caller. At length he asked, "Will she take the stand at the trial?"

"Heaven forbid! Nothing could induce her to do so. That is no part of her scheme of vengeance, you understand? Being Sicilian, she will work only in her own way. Besides—that would mean the disclosure of her identity and mine."

"I feared as much. In that case every point which Maruffi confesses to her must be verified by other means. That will not be easy, but I dare say it can be done."

"The law is such a stupid thing!" exclaimed Vittoria. "It has no eyes, it will not reason, it cannot multiply nor add; it must be led by the hand like a blind old man and be told that two and two make four. However, I have a plan."

"I confess that I see no way. What do you advise?"

"These accused men are in the Parish prison, yes? Very well. Imprison spies with them who will gain their confidence. In that way we can verify Maruffi's words."

"That's not so easily done. There is no certainty that they would make damaging admissions."

"Men who dwell constantly with thoughts of their guilt feel the need of talking. The mind is incapable of continued silence; it must communicate the things that weigh it down. Let the imprisoned Mafiosi mingle with one another freely whenever ears are open near by, and you will surely get results." Seeing him frown in thought, she continued, after a moment, "You told me of a great detective agency—one which sent that man Corte here to betray Narcone."

"Yes, the Pinkertons. I was thinking of them. I believe it can be done. At any rate, leave it to me to try, and if I succeed no one shall know about it, not even our own police. When our spies enter the prison, if they do, it will be in a way to inspire confidence among the Mafiosi. Meanwhile, do you think you are entirely safe in that foreign quarter?"

"Quite safe, although the situation is trying. I have felt the strain almost as deeply as my unfortunate sister."

"And when it is all over you will be ready for your vows?"

Her answer gave no sign of the hesitation he had hoped for and half expected.

"Of course."

He shook his head doubtfully. "Somehow, I—I feel that fate will keep you from that life; I cannot think of you as a Sister of Mercy." In spite of himself his voice was uneven and his eyes were alight with the hope which she so steadfastly refused to recognize.

As she rose to leave she said, musingly, "How strange it is that this master of crime and intrigue should betray himself through the one good and unselfish emotion of his life!"

"Samson was shorn of his strength by the fingers of a woman," he said.

"Yes. Many good men have been betrayed by evil women, but it is not often that evil men meet their punishment through good ones. And now— a riverderci."

"Good-by, for a few days." He pressed his lips lightly to her fingers.



XX

THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS



Late one day, a fortnight after her visit to Blake's office, Vittoria returned from a call upon Myra Nell Warren, to find Oliveta in a high state of apprehension. The girl, who had evidently kept watch for her, met her at the door, and inquired, nervously:

"What news? What have you heard?"

"Nothing further, sorella mia."

"Impossible! God in Heaven! I am dying! This suspense—I cannot endure it longer."

Vittoria laid a comforting hand upon her.

"Courage!" she said. "We can only wait. I too am torn by a thousand demons. Caesar has gone, but no one knows where."

Oliveta shuddered. "We are ruined. He suspects."

"So you have said before, but how could he suspect?"

"I don't know, yet judge for yourself. I worm his secrets from him at the cost of kisses and endearments; I hold him in my arms and with smiles and caresses I lead him to betray himself. Then, suddenly, without warning or farewell, he vanishes. I tell you he knows. He has the cunning of the fiend, and your friend Signore Blake has blundered." Oliveta's face blanched with terror. She clung to her companion weakly, repeating over and over: "He will return. God help us, he will return."

"Even though he knows the truth, which is far from likely, he would scarcely dare to come here," Vittoria said, striving with a show of confidence which she did not feel to calm her foster sister.

"You do not know him as I do. You do not know the furies which goad him in his anger."

In spite of herself Vittoria felt choked again by those fears which during the days since Maruffi's disappearance she had with difficulty controlled. She knew that the net had been spread for him in all caution, yet he had slipped through it. Whether he had been warned or whether mere chance had taken him from the city at the last moment, neither she, nor Blake, nor the Chief of Police had been able to learn. All had been done with such secrecy that, except a bare half-dozen trusted officers, no one knew him to be even suspected of a part in the Mafia's affairs. Norvin had been quick to sense the possible danger to the two women, and had urged them to accept his protection; but they had convinced him that such a course had its own dangers, for in case the Mafioso was really unsuspicious the slightest indiscretion on their part might frighten him. Therefore they had insisted upon living as usual until something more definite was known.

This afternoon Vittoria had received a message from Myra Nell, requesting, or rather demanding, her immediate attendance. She had gone gladly, hoping to divert her mind from its present anxieties; but the girl had talked of little except Norvin Blake and the effect had not been calming.

Oliveta soon discovered that her sister was in a state to receive rather than give consolation.

"Carissima, you are ill!" she said with concern.

Vittoria assented. "It is my eyes—my head. The heat is perhaps as much to blame as our many worries." She removed her hat and pressed slender fingers to her throbbing temples, while Oliveta drew the curtains against the fierce rays of a westering sun. Later, clad in a loose silken robe, Vittoria flung herself upon the low couch and her companion let down her luxuriant masses of hair until it enveloped her like a cloud. She lay back upon the cushions in grateful relaxation, while Oliveta combed and brushed the braids, soothing her with an occasional touch of cool palms or straying fingers.

"How strange that both our lives should have been blighted by this man!" the peasant girl said at length.

"'Sh-h! You must not think of him so unceasingly," Vittoria warned her.

"One's thoughts go where they will when one is sick and wearied. I have grown to hate everything about me—the people, the life, the country."

"Sicily is calling you, perhaps?"

Oliveta answered eagerly, "Yes! You, too, are unhappy, my dearest. Let us go home. Home!" She let her hands fall idle and stared ahead of her, seeing the purple hills behind Terranova, the dusty gray-green groves of olive-trees, the brilliant fields of sumach, the arbors bent beneath their weight of blushing fruit. "I want to see the village people again, my father's relatives, old Aliandro, and the Notary's little boy—"

"He must be a well-grown lad, by now," murmured Vittoria. "Aliandro, I fear, is dead. But it is a long road to Terranova; we have—changed."

"Yes—everything has changed. My happiness has changed to misery, my hope to despair, my love to hate."

"Poor sister mine!" Vittoria sympathized. "Be patient. No wound is too deep for time to heal. The scar will remain, but the pain will disappear. I should know, for I have suffered."

"And do you suffer no longer? It has been a long time since you mentioned—Martel."

For a moment Vittoria remained silent, her eyes closed. When she replied it was not in answer to the question. "I can never return to Sicily, for it would awaken nothing but distress in me. But there is no reason why you should not go if you wish. You have the means, while all that I had has been given to the Sisters."

Oliveta cried out at this passionately. "I have nothing. That which you gave me I hold only for you. But I would not go alone; I shall never leave you."

"Some time you must, my dear. Our parting is not far off."

"I am not sure." The peasant girl hesitated. "Deep in your heart, do you hope to find peace inside the walls of that hospital?"

"Yes—peace, at least; perhaps contentment and happiness also."

"That is impossible," said Oliveta, at which Vittoria's hazel eyes flew open.

"Eh? Why not?"

"Because you love this Signore Blake!"

"Oliveta! You are losing your wits."

"Perhaps! But I have not lost my eyes. As for him, he loved you even in Sicily."

"What then?"

"He is a fine man. I think you could hear an echo to the love you cherished for Martel, if you but listened."

Vittoria gazed at her foster-sister with a look half tender and half stern. Her voice had lost some of its languid indifference when she replied:

"Any feeling I might have would indeed be no more than an echo. I—am not like other women; something in me is dead—it is the power to love as women love. I am like a person who emerges from a conflagration, blinded; the eyes are there, but the sight is gone."

"Perhaps you only sleep, like the princess who waited for a kiss—"

Vittoria interrupted impatiently: "No, no! And you mistake his feelings. I attract him, perhaps, but he loves Miss Warren and has asked her to marry him. What is more, she adores him and—they were made for each other."

"She adores him!" echoed the other. "Che Dio! She only plays at love. Her affections are as shifting as the winds."

"That may be. But he is in earnest. It was he who gave her this social triumph—he made her Queen of the Carnival. He even bought her dresses. It was that which caused her to send for me this afternoon. Heaven knows I was in no mood to listen, but she chattered like a magpie. As if I could advise her wisely!"

"She is very dear to you," Oliveta ventured.

"Indeed, yes. She shares with you all the love that is left in me."

"I think I understand. You have principles, my sister. You have purposely barred the way to your fairy prince, and will continue sleeping."

Vittoria's brow showed faint lines, but whether of pain or annoyance it was hard to tell.

Oliveta sighed. "What evil fortune overhangs us that we should be denied love!"

"Please! Let us speak no more of it." She turned her face away and for a long time her companion soothed her with silent ministrations. Meanwhile the dusk settled, the golden flames died out of the western windows, the room darkened. Seeing that her patient slept, Oliveta arose and with noiseless step went to a little shrine which hung on the wall. She knelt before the figure of the Virgin, whispering a prayer, then lit a fresh candle for her sister's pain and left the room, partly closing the door behind her.

She had allowed the maid-servant to go for the afternoon, and found, upon examination, that the day's marketing had been neglected. There was still time, however, in which to secure some delicacies to tempt Vittoria's taste so she flung a shawl over her dark hair and descended softly to the street.

A little earlier on this same afternoon, as Norvin Blake sat at work in his office, the telephone bell roused him from deep thought. He seized the instrument eagerly, hoping for any news that would relieve the tension upon his nerves. For uncertainty as to Maruffi's whereabouts had weighed heavily upon him, especially in view of the possible danger to the woman he loved and to her devoted companion. The voice of O'Neil came over the wire, full-toned and distinct:

"Hello! Is this Blake?"—and then, "We've got Maruffi!"

"When? Where?" shouted Norvin.

"Five minutes ago; at his own house. Johnson and Dean have been watching the place. He went with them like a lamb, too. They've just 'phoned me that they're all on their way here."

"Good! Do you need me?"

"No! See you later. Good-by!"

The Acting Chief slammed up his receiver, leaving his hearer stunned at the suddenness of this long-awaited denouement.

Maruffi taken! His race run! Then this was the end of the fight! A ferocious triumph flooded Norvin's brain. With Belisario Cardi in the hands of the law the spell of the Mafia was broken. Savigno and Donnelly were as good as avenged. He experienced an odd feeling of relaxation, as if both his body and brain were cramped and tired with waiting. Then, realizing that the Countess and Oliveta must have suffered an even greater strain, he set out at once to give them the news in person.

As he turned swiftly into Royal Street he encountered O'Connell, who, noting his haste and something unusual in his bearing, detained him to ask the cause.

"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Norvin. "Maruffi's captured at last."

"You don't mean it!"

"Yes. O'Neil told me over the wire not ten minutes ago."

O'Connell fell into step with him, saying, incredulously: "And he came without a fight? Lord! I can't believe it."

"Nor I. I expected trouble with him."

"Sure! I thought he was a bad one, but that's the way it goes sometimes. I reckon he saw he had no chance." The officer shook his red head. "It's just my blamed luck to miss the fun." O'Connell was one of the few who had been first trusted with the news of Maruffi's identity, and for the past fortnight he had been casting high and low for the Sicilian's trail. Ever since that October night when he had supported Donnelly in his arms as the life ebbed from the Chief, ever since he had knelt on the soft banquette with the sting of powder smoke in his nostrils, he had been obsessed by a fanatical desire to be in at the death of his friend's murderers. He left Blake at his destination and hurried on toward St. Phillip Street in the vague hope that he might not be too late to take a hand in some part of the proceedings.

Blake's hand was upon Oliveta's bell when the door opened and she confronted him. Her start, her frightened cry, gave evidence of the nervous dread under which she labored.

"Don't be afraid, Oliveta," he said, quickly. "I come with news—good news."

She swayed and groped blindly for support. He put out his hand to sustain her, but she shrank away from him, saying, faintly: "Then he is captured? God be praised!"

In spite of the words, her eyes filmed over with tears, a look of abject misery bared itself upon her face.

"Where is the Countess?"

"Above—resting. Come; she, too, will rejoice."

"Let me take her the news. You were going out, and—I think the air will do you good. Be brave, Oliveta; you have done your share, and there's nothing more to fear."

She acquiesced dully; her olive features were ghastly as she felt her way past him; she walked like a sick woman.

He watched her pityingly for a moment, then mounted the stairs. As he laid his hand upon the door it gave to his touch and he stood upon the threshold of the parlor. Vittoria's name was upon his lips when, by the dim evening light which came through the drawn curtains and by the faint illumination from the solitary shrine candle, he saw her recumbent form upon the couch.

She was lying in an attitude of complete relaxation, her sun-gilded hair straying in long thick braids below her waist, Those tawny ropes were of a length and thickness to bind a man about the body. Her lips were slightly parted; her lashes lay like dark shadows against her ivory cheeks.

He was swept by a sudden awed abashment. The impulse to retreat came over him, but he lacked the will. The longing which had remained so strong in him through years of denial, governing the whole course of his life, blazed up in him now and increased with every heartbeat. He found that without willing it he had come close to the couch. The girl's slim hand lay upon the cushions, limply upturned to him; it was half open and there sprang through him an ungovernable desire to bury his lips in its rosy palm. He knelt, then quailed and recovered himself. At the same instant she stirred and, to his incredulous delight, whispered his name.

A wild exultation shot through him. Why not yield to this madness, he asked himself, dizzily. The long struggle was over now. For this woman's sake he had repeatedly played the part of bravery in a fever of fear. He had done what he had done to make himself worthy of her, and now, at the last, he was to have nothing—absolutely nothing, except a memory. Against these thoughts his notions of honorable conduct hastily and confusedly arrayed themselves. But he was in no state to reason. The same enchantment, half psychic, half physical, ethereal yet strongly human, that had mastered him in the old Sicilian days, was at work upon him now. Dimly he felt that so mighty and natural a thing ought not to be resisted. He stood stiffly like a man spellbound.

It may have been Oliveta's accusation that affected the course of the sleeping woman's thoughts, it may have been that she felt the man's nearness, or that some influence passed from his mind to hers. However it was, she spoke his name again, her fingers closed over his, she drew him toward her.

He yielded; her warm breath beat upon his face; then the last atoms of self-restraint fled away from him like sparks before a fierce night wind. A fiery madness coursed through his veins as he caught her to him. Her lips were fevered with sleep. For a moment the caress seemed real; it was the climax of his hopes, the attainment of his longings. He crushed her in his arms; her hair blinded him; he buried his face in it, kissing her brow, her cheek, the curve where neck and shoulder met, and all the time he was speaking her name with hoarse tenderness.

So strangely had the fanciful merged into the real that the girl was slow in waking. Her eyelids fluttered, her breast rose and fell tumultuously, and even while her wits were struggling back to reality her arms clung to him. But the transition was brief. Her eyes opened, and she stiffened as with the shock of an electric current. A cry, a swift, writhing movement, and she was upon her feet, his incoherent words beating upon her ears but making no impression upon her brain.

"You! God above!" she cried.

She faced him, white, terror-stricken, yet splendid in her anger. She was still dazed, but horror and dismay leaped quickly into her eyes.

"Margherita! You called me. You drew me to you. It was your real self that spoke—I know it."

"You—kissed me while—I slept!"

He paled at the look with which she scorched him, then broke out, doggedly:

"You wanted me; you drew me close. You can't undo that moment—you can't. My God! Don't tell me it was all a mistake. That would make it unendurable. I could never forgive myself."

She hid her face with a choking cry of shame. "No, no! I didn't know—"

He approached and touched her arm timidly. "Margherita," he said, "if I thought you really did not call me—if I were made to believe that I had committed an unpardonable offense against your womanhood and our friendship—I would go and kill myself. But somehow I cannot believe that. I was beside myself—but I was never more exalted. Something greater than my own will made me do as I did. I think it was your love answering to mine. If that is not so—if it is all a delusion—there is nothing left for me. I have played my part out to the end. My work is done, and I do not see how I can go on living."

There was an odd mingling of pain and rapture in the gaze she raised to his. It gave him courage.

"Why struggle longer?" he urged, gently. "Why turn from love when Heaven wills you to receive it and learn to be a woman? I was in your thoughts and you longed for me, as I have never ceased, all these years, to hunger for you. Please! Please! Margherita! Why fight it longer?"

"What have you done? What have you done?" she whispered over and over. She looked toward the open door as if with thought of escape or assistance, and despite his growing hope Blake was miserable at sight of her distress.

"How came you here, alone with me?" she asked at length. "Oliveta was here only a moment ago."

"I came with good news for both of you. I met Oliveta as she went out, and when I had told her she sent me to you. Don't you understand, dear? It was good news. Our quest is over, our work is done, and God has seen fit to deliver our enemy—"

She flung out a trembling hand, while the other hid itself in the silk and lace at her breast.

"What is this you tell me? Maruffi? Am I still dreaming?"

"Maruffi has been arrested."

"Is it possible?—this long nightmare ended at last like this? Maruffi is arrested? You are safe? No one has been killed?"

"It is all right. O'Neil telephoned me and I came here at once to tell you and Oliveta."

"When did they find him? Where?"

"Not half an hour ago—at his house. We have been watching the place ever since he disappeared, feeling sure he'd have to return sooner or later, if only for a moment. He is under lock and key at this instant."

Blake attributed a stir in the hall outside to the presence of the maid-servant; Margherita, whose eyes were fixed upon him, failed to detect a figure which stood in the shadow just beyond the open door.

"Does he know of our part in it—Oliveta's part?" she asked.

"O'Neil didn't say. He'll learn of it shortly, in any event. Do you realize what his capture means? I—hardly do myself. For one thing, there's no further need of concealment. I—I want people to know who you are. It seems hardly conceivable that Belisario Cardi has gone to meet his punishment, but it is true. Lucrezia has her revenge at last. It has been a terrible task for all of us, but it brought you and me together. I don't intend ever to let you go again, Margherita. I loved you there in Sicily. I've loved you every moment, every hour—"

Blake turned at the sound of a door closing behind him. He saw Margherita start, then lean forward staring past him with a look of amazement, of frightened incredulity, upon her face. Some one, a man, had stepped into the dim-lit room and was fumbling with the lock, his eyes fixed upon them, meanwhile, over his shoulder. The light from the windows had faded, the faint illumination from the taper before the shrine was insufficient fully to pierce the gloom. But on the instant of his interruption all triumph and hope, all thoughts of love, fled from Norvin's mind, bursting like iridescent bubbles, at a touch. The flesh along his back writhed, the hair at his neck lifted itself; for there in the shadow, huge, black, and silent, stood Caesar Maruffi.



XXI

UNDER FIRE



Blake heard Margherita's breath release itself. She was staring as if at an apparition. His mind, working with feverish speed, sought vainly to grasp the situation. Maruffi had broken away and come for his vengeance, but how or why this had been made possible he could not conceive. It sufficed that the man was here in the flesh, sinister, terrible, malignant as hell. Blake knew that the ultimate test of his courage had come.

He felt the beginnings of that same shuddering, sickening weakness with which he was only too familiar; felt the strength running out from his body as water escapes from a broken vessel. He froze with the sense of his physical impotency, and yet despite this chaos of conflicting emotions his inner mind was clear; it was bitter, too, with a ferocious self-disgust.

There was a breathless pause before Maruffi spoke.

"Lucrezia Ferara!" he said, hoarsely, as if wishing to test the sound of the name. "So Oliveta is the daughter of the overseer, and you are Savigno's sweetheart." His words were directed at Margherita, who answered in a thin, shrill, broken voice:

"What—are you doing—here?"

"I came for that wanton's blood. Give her to me."

"Oliveta? She is—gone."

The Sicilian cursed. "Gone? Where?"

"Away. Into the street. You—you cannot find her."

"Christ!" Maruffi reached upward and tore open the collar of his shirt.

Blake spoke for the first time, but his voice was dead and lifeless.

"Yes. She's gone. You're wanted. You must go with me!"

Maruffi gave a snarling, growling cry and his gesture showed that he was armed. Involuntarily Blake shrank back; his hand groped for his hip, but, half-way, encountered the pile of silken cushions upon which Margherita had been lying; his fingers sank into them nervously, his other hand gripped the carven footboard of the couch. He had no weapon. He had not dreamed of such a necessity.

In this imminent peril a new fear swept over him greater than any he had ever known. It was not the fear of death. It was something far worse. For the moment, it seemed to him inevitable that Margherita Ginini should, at last, learn the truth concerning him, should see him as he was that night at Terranova. Swift upon the heels of his long-deferred declaration of love would come the proof that he was a craven. Then he thought of her danger, realizing that this man was quite capable in his fury of killing her, too, and he stiffened in every fiber. His cowardice fell away from him like a rotten garment, and he stood erect.

Maruffi, it seemed, had not heard his last words, or else his mind was still set upon Oliveta. "Gone!" he exclaimed. "Then I shall not see her face grow black within my fingers—not yet. God! How I ran!" He cursed again. "But I shall not fare so badly, after all." He stirred, and with his movement Blake flew to action. Swiftly, with one sweep of his right hand, he brought the silken cushions up before his breast and lunged at his enemy. At the same instant Maruffi fired.

In the closed room the detonation was deafening; it rattled the windows, it seemed to bulge the very walls. Blake felt a heavy blow which drove the floss-filled pillows against his body with the force of a giant hammer, it tore them from his grip, it crushed the breath from his lungs and spun him half around. Seeing that he did not fall, Maruffi cocked and fired a second time without aiming, but his victim was upon him like a tiger and together they crashed back against the wall, locked in each other's arms.

Blake's will propelled him splendidly. All that indecision with which fear works upon the mind had left him, but the old contraction of his nerves still hampered his action. The blaze from Maruffi's second shot half blinded him and its breath smote him like a blow.

"Two!" he counted, wonderingly. A pain in his left side, due to that first sledge-hammer impact, was spreading slowly, but he had crossed the room under the belching muzzle of the revolver and was practically unharmed.

There began a struggle—the more terrible since it was unequal—in which the weaker man had to drive his body at the cost of tremendous effort. Blake was like a leader commanding troops which had begun to retreat. But more power came to him under the spur of action and the pressing realization that he must give Margherita a chance to get safely away. If he could not wrest the weapon from Maruffi's hands he knew that he must receive those four remaining bullets in his own body. He rather doubted that he could take that weight of lead.

He shouted to her to run, while he wrestled for possession of the gun. He had flung his right arm about his adversary's body, his other hand gripped his wrist; his head was pressed against Maruffi's chest. The weapon described swift circles, jerking parabolas and figures as the men strained to wrest it from each other. Maruffi strove violently to free his imprisoned hand, and in doing so he discharged the revolver a third time. The bullet brought a shower of plaster from the ceiling, and Blake counted with fierce exultation,

"Three!"

He gasped his warning to the woman again, then twined his leg about his antagonist's in a wrestler's hold, striving mightily to bear Maruffi against the wall. But Caesar was like an oak-tree. Failing to move him, Blake suddenly flung himself backward, with all his weight, lifting at the same instant in the hope of a fall. In this he was all but successful. The two reeled out into the room, tripped, went to their knees, then rose, still intertwined in that desperate embrace. The odd, stiff feeling in Blake's side had increased rapidly; it began to numb his muscles and squeeze his lungs. His eyes were stinging with sweat and smoke; his ears were roaring. As they swayed and turned he saw that Margherita had made no effort to escape and he was seized with an extraordinary rage, which for a brief time renewed his strength.

She was at the front window crying for help.

"Jump! For—God's sake, jump!" he shouted, but she did not obey. Instead she ran toward the combatants and seized Maruffi's free arm, in a measure checking his effort to break the other man's hold. Her closeness to danger agonized Blake, the more as he felt his own strength ebbing, under that stabbing pain in his side. He centered his force in the grip of his left hand, clinging doggedly while the Sicilian flung his two assailants here and there as a dog worries a scarf.

Blake fancied he heard a stamping of feet in the hall outside and the sound of voices, of heavy bodies crashing against the door. Maruffi heard it, too, for with a bellow of fury he redoubled his exertions. A sweep of his arm flung the girl aside; with a mighty wrench of his body he carried Blake half across the room, loosening his hold. Then he seized him by the throat and forced his head back.



The shouting outside was increasing, the pounding was growing louder. Blake's breath was cut off and his strength went swiftly; his death grip on the Sicilian's body slackened. As he tore at the fingers which were throttling him, his left hand slipped, citing to Maruffi's sleeve, and finally began clawing blindly for the weapon. The next moment he was hurled aside, so violently that he fell, his feet entangled in the cushions with which he had defended himself against the first shot.

He rose and renewed his attack, hearing Margherita cry out in horror. This time Maruffi took deliberate aim, and when he fired the figure lurching toward him was halted as if by some giant fist.

"Four!" Blake counted. He was hit, he knew, but he still had strength; there were but two more shots to come. Then he was dazed to find himself upon his knees. As if through a film he saw the Italian turn away and raise his weapon toward the girl, who was wrenching at the door.

"Maruffi!" he shouted. "Oh, God!" then he closed his eyes to shut out what followed. But he heard nothing, for he slipped forward, face down, and felt himself falling, falling, into silence and oblivion.

As O'Connell made his way toward St. Phillip Street he nursed a growing resentment at the news Norvin Blake had given him. His feeling toward Caesar Maruffi had all the fierceness of private hatred, calling for revenge, and he considered himself ill-used in that he had not even been permitted to witness the arrest. He knew Maruffi's countrymen would be likely to make a demonstration, and he was grimly desirous of being present when this occurred.

As he neared the heart of the Italian section he saw a blue-coated officer running toward him.

"What's up?" he cried. "Have the dagoes started something?"

"Maruffi was pinched, but he got away," the other answered. "Johnson is hurt, and—"

O'Connell lost the remaining words, for he had broken into a run.

A crowd had gathered in front of a little shop where the wounded policeman had been carried to await the arrival of an ambulance, and even before O'Connell had heard the full story of the escape Acting-Chief O'Neil drove up behind a lathered horse. He leaped from his mud-stained buggy, demanding, hoarsely:

"Where is he—Maruffi?"

Officer Dean, Johnson's companion, met him at the door of the shop.

"He made his break while I was 'phoning you," he answered.

"Hell! Didn't you frisk him?" roared the Chief.

"Sure! But we missed his gun."

"Caesar carries it on a cord around his neck—nigger-fashion," briefly explained O'Connell.

Dean was running on excitedly: "I heard Johnson holler, but before I could get out into the street Maruffi had shot him twice and was into that alley yonder. I tried to follow, but lost him, so I came back and sent in the alarm."

The Acting Chief cursed under his breath, and with a few sharp orders hurried off the few officers who had reached the scene. Then as an ambulance appeared he passed into the room where Johnson lay. As he emerged a moment later O'Connell drew him aside.

"Maruffi won't try to leave town till it's good and dark," he said. "He's got a girl, and I've an idea he'll ask her to hide him out."

"It was his girl who turned him up—she and Blake—"

O'Connell cried, sharply: "Wait! Does he know she did that? If he does, he'll make for her, sure."

"That may be. Those two women are all alone, and I'd feel better if they were safely out of the way. I'll leave you there on the way back."

An instant later they were clattering over the uneven flags while their vehicle rocked and bounded in a way that threatened to hurl them out.

Even before they reached their destination they saw people running through the dusk toward the house in which the two girls lived and heard a shot muffled behind walls. O'Neil reined the horse to his haunches as the shrill cry of a woman rang out above them, and the next moment he and O'Connell were inside, rushing up the stairs with headlong haste. They were brought to a stop before a bolted door from behind which came the sounds of a furious struggle.

"Blake! Norvin Blake!" shouted O'Connell.

"Break it down!" O'Neil ordered. He set his back against the opposite wall, then launched himself like a catapult. The patrolman followed suit, but although the panels strained and split the heavy door held.

"By God! he's in there!" the Chief cried, as he set his shoulder to the barrier for a second time. "Once more! Together!" Through a crevice which had opened in the upper panels they caught a glimpse of the dimly lighted room. What they saw made them struggle like madmen.

Another shot sounded, and O'Neil in desperation inserted his fingers in the opening and tore at it. Through the aperture O'Connell saw Maruffi run to an open window at the rear, then pause long enough to snatch the taper from its sconce at the foot of the little shrine and, stooping, touch its flame to the long lace curtains. They promptly flashed into a blaze. Parting them, he bestrode, the sill, lowered himself outside, and disappeared. It was an old but effective ruse to delay pursuit.

"Quick! He's set fire to the place," O'Connell gasped, and dashed down the hall.

A tremendous final heave of O'Neil's body cleared his way, a few strides and he was at the window, ripping the blazing hangings down and flinging them into the court below. When he turned it was to behold in the dim twilight Vittoria Fabrizi kneeling beside Blake. Her arms were about him, her yellow hair entwined his figure.

"A light! Somebody get a light!" the Chief roared to those who had followed him up the stairs, then seeing a lamp near by he lit it hurriedly, revealing the full disorder of the room. He knelt beside Vittoria, who drew the fallen man closer to her, moaning something in Italian which O'Neil could not understand. But her look told him enough, and, rising, he ordered some one to run for a doctor. Strangers, white-faced and horrified, were crowding in; the sound of other feet came from the stairs outside, questions and explanations were noisily exchanged. O'Neil swore roundly at the crowd and drove it ahead of him down into the street, where he set a man to guard the door. Then he returned and helped the girl examine her lover's wounds. Her fingers were steady and sure, but in her face was such an abandonment of grief as he had never seen, and her voice was little more than a rasping whisper. They were still working when the doctor came, followed a moment later by a disheveled, stricken figure of tragedy which O'Neil recognized as Oliveta.

At sight of her foster-sister the peasant girl broke into a passion of weeping, but Vittoria checked her with an imperious word, meanwhile keeping her tortured eyes upon the physician. She waited upon him, forestalling his every thought and need with a mechanical dexterity that bore witness to her training, but all the while her eyes held a pitiful entreaty. Not until she heard O'Neil call for an ambulance did she rouse herself to connected speech. Then she exclaimed with hysterical insistence:

"You shall not take him away! I am a nurse; he shall stay here. Who better than I could attend to him?"

"He can stay here if you have a place for him," said the doctor. O'Neil drew him aside, inquiring, "Will he live?"

The doctor indicated Vittoria with a movement of his head. "I'm sure of it. That girl won't let him die,"

The news of that combat traveled fast and far and it came to Myra Nell Warren among the first. Despite the dreadful false position in which Bernie had placed her with respect to Norvin, the girl had but one thought and that was to go to her friend. She could not endure the sight of blood, and her somewhat child-like imagination conjured up a gory spectacle. She was afraid that if she tried to act as nurse she would faint or run away when most needed. But she was determined to go to him and to assist in any way she could. It was not consistent with her ideas of loyalty to shrink from the sight of suffering even though she could do nothing to relieve it.

When she mounted the stairs to Oliveta's living-quarters she was pale and agitated, and she faltered on the threshold at the sight of strangers. Within were a newspaper reporter, a doctor, the Chief of Police, the Mayor of the city, while outside a curious throng was gathered. Seeing Miss Fabrizi, she ran toward her, sobbing nervously.

"Where is he, Vittoria? Tell me that he's—safe!"

Some one answered, "He's safe and resting quietly."

"T-take me to him."

A spasm stirred Vittoria's tired features; she petted the girl with a comforting hand, while Mayor Wright said, gently:

"It must have been a great shock to you, Myra Nell, as it was to all of us, but you may thank God he has been spared to you."

The reporter made a note upon his pad, and began framing the heart interest of his story. Here was a new and interesting aspect of an event worth many columns.

Vittoria led the girl toward her room, but outside the door Myra Nell paused, shaking in every limb.

"You—you love him?" asked the other woman.

The look which Miss Warren gave her stabbed like a knife, and when the girl had sunk to her knees beside the bed, with Blake's name upon her lips, Vittoria stood for a long moment gazing down upon her dazedly,

Later, when she had sent Myra Nell home and silence lay over the city, Norvin's nurse stole into the great front room where she had experienced so much of gladness and horror that night, and made her way wearily to the little image of the Virgin. She noted with a start that the candle was gone, so she lit a new one and, kneeling for many minutes, prayed earnestly for strength to do the right and to quench the leaping, dazzling flame which had been kindled in her heart.



XXII

A MISUNDERSTANDING



Several days later Vittoria Fabrizi led Bernie Dreux into the room where Norvin lay. The little man walked on tiptoe and wore an expression of such gloomy sympathy that Blake said:

"Please don't look so blamed pious; it makes me hurt all over."

Bernie's features lightened faintly; he smiled in a manner bordering upon the natural.

"They wouldn't let me see you before. Lord! How you have frightened us!"

"My nurse won't let me talk."

Blake's eyes rested with puzzled interrogation upon the girl, who maintained her most professional air as she smoothed his pillow and admonished him not to overtax himself. When she had disappeared noiselessly, he said:

"Well, you needn't put a rose in my hand yet awhile. Tell me what has happened? How is Myra Nell?"

"She's heartbroken, of course. She came here that first night; but the smell of drugs makes her sick."

"I suppose Maruffi got away?"

Dreux straightened in his chair; his face flushed proudly; he put on at least an inch of stature. "Haven't you heard?" he inquired, incredulously.

"How could I hear anything when I'm doctored by a deaf-mute and nursed by a divinity without a tongue?"

"Maruffi was captured that very night. Sure! Why, the whole country knows about it." Again a look of mellow satisfaction glowed on the little man's face. "My dear boy, you're a hero, of course, but—there— are—others."

"Who caught him?"

"I did."

"You!" Norvin stared in open-mouthed amazement.

"That's what I said. I—me—Mr. Bernard Effingwell Dreux, the prominent cotillion leader, the second-hand dealer, the art critic and amateur detective. I unearthed the notorious and dreaded Sicilian desperado in his lair, and now he's cooling his heels in the parish prison along with his little friends."

"Why—I'm astonished."

"Naturally! I found him in Joe Poggi's house. Mr. Poggi also languishes in the bastille."

"How in the world—"

"Well, it's quite a story, and it all happened through the woman—" Bernie flushed a bit as he met his companion's eye. "When I told you about Mrs. Poggi I didn't exactly go into all the intimate—er— details. The truth is she became deeply interested in me. I told you how I met her—Well, she wasn't averse to receiving my attentions— Heavens, no! She ate 'em up! Before I knew it I found myself entangled in an intrigue—I had hold of an electric current and couldn't let go. When I didn't follow her around, she followed me. When I didn't make love, she did. She learned about Felicite, and there was—Excuse me!" Bernie rose, put his head cautiously outside the door to find the coast clear, then said: "Hell to pay! I tried to back out; but you can't back away from some women any more than you can back away from a prairie fire." He shook his head gloomily." It seems she wasn't satisfied with Poggi; she had ambitions. She'd caught a glimpse of the life that went on around her and wanted to take part in it. She thought I was rich, too—my name had something to do with it, I presume—at any rate, she began to talk of divorce, elopement, and other schemes that terrorized me. She was quite willing that I murder her husband, poison her relatives, or adopt any little expedient of that kind which would clear the path for our true love. I was in over my depth, but when I backed water she swam out and grabbed me. When I stayed away from her she looked me up. I tried once to tell her that I didn't really care for her—only once." The memory brought beads of sweat to the detective's brow. "Between her and Felicite I led a dog's life. If I'd had the money I'd have left town.

"I'd been meeting her on street corners up to that point; but she finally told me to come to the house while Poggi was away—it was the day you were hurt. I rebelled, but she made such a scene I had to agree or be arrested for blocking traffic. She carries a dagger, Norvin, in her stocking, or somewhere; it's no longer than your finger, but it's the meanest-looking weapon I ever saw. Well, I went, along about dark, determined to have it out with her once for all; but those aristocrats during the French Revolution had nothing on me. I know how it feels to mount the steps of the guillotine.

"The Poggi's parlor furniture is upholstered in red and smells musty. I sat on the edge of a chair, one eye on her and the other taking in my surroundings. There's a fine crayon enlargement of Joe with his uniform, in a gold frame with blue mosquito-netting over it to disappoint the flies—four ninety-eight, and we supply the frame—done by an old master of the County Fair school. There's an organ in the parlor, too, with a stuffed fish-hawk on it.

"She seemed quite subdued and coy at first, so I took heart, never dreaming she'd wear her dirk in the house. But say! That woman was raised on raw beef. Before I could wink she had it out; it has an ivory hilt, and you could split a silk thread with it. I suppose she didn't want to spoil the parlor furniture with me, although I'd never have showed against that upholstery, or else she's in the habit of preparing herself for manslaughter by a system of vocal calisthenics. At any rate, we were having it hot and heavy, and I was trying to think of some good and unselfish actions I had done, when we heard the back door of the cottage open and close, then somebody moving in the hall.

"Mrs. Poggi turned green—not white—green! And I began to picture the head-lines in the morning papers! 'The Bachelor and the Policeman's Wife,' they seemed to say. It wasn't Poggi, however, as I discovered when the fellow called to her. He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. She signaled me to keep quiet, then went out; and I heard them talking, but couldn't understand what was said. When she came back she was greener than ever, and told me to go, which I did, realizing that the day of miracles is not done. I fell down three times, and ran over a child getting out of that neighborhood." Blake, who had listened eagerly, inquired:

"The man was Maruffi?"

"Exactly! I got back to the club in time to hear about his arrest and escape and your fight here. The town was ringing with it; everybody was horrified and amazed. What particularly stunned me was the news that Maruffi, not Poggi, was the head of the Mafia; but my experience in criminal work has taught me to be guided by circumstances, and not theory, so when I learned more about Caesar's escape I fell to wondering where he could hide. Then I recalled his secret meetings with Joe Poggi and that scalding volcano of emotion from whom I had just been delivered. Her fright, when she let me out, something familiar in the voice which called to her, came back, and—well, I couldn't help guessing the truth. Maruffi was in the house of one of the officers who was supposed to be hunting him."

"But his capture?"

"Simple enough. I went to O'Neil and told him. We got a posse together and went after him. We descended in such force and so suddenly that he didn't have a chance to resist. If I'd known who he was at first I'd have tried to take him single-handed."

"Then it's well you didn't know." Blake smiled.

"What bothers me," Dreux confessed, "is how Mrs. Poggi regards my action. I—I hate to appear a cad. I'd apologize if I dared."

Vittoria appeared to warn Dreux that his visit must end. When the little man had gone Norvin inquired:

"You knew of Maruffi's arrest?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were in no condition to hear news of importance."

"Is that why you have been so silent?"

"Hush! You have talked quite enough for the present."

"You act strangely—differently," he insisted.

"I am your nurse. I am responsible for your recovery, so I do as I am ordered."