The Owl Taxi

CHAPTER XVII

THE YOUNG MAN WITH THE LITTLE BLACK MUSTACHE

As Greg proceeded along the street to rejoin Hickey, he measured with his eye the distance from the porch floors to the window overhead. All the houses were of the same design. "Twelve feet," he said to himself; "a ten-foot ladder will do."

"Let's go home," he said to Hickey. "We've got to lay plans for an attack after midnight."

"An attack! Good Lord!" said Hickey apprehensively.

"Hickey, where can we get a ten-foot ladder?"

"There's ladders lying around the yard."

"That simplifies matters."

"Are you countin' on carrying a ladder through the streets after midnight? No cop would let you by."

"Ay, there's the rub, as friend Hamlet says. We might cut it in half and rig it as an extension ladder. Then we could carry it inside."

"How about a window-cleaner's ladder? That works up and down on ropes."

"Excellent idea! Do you know any window-cleaners?"

"No, but it's only eight o'clock. The big stores are open for the Christmas trade. You can get most anything at Macymaker's."

"Hickey, sometimes you display almost human intelligence. En avant to Macymaker's!"

Sure enough in the house-furnishing department of that vast emporium, Greg found what he wanted. The salesman wondered perhaps that any one should pick out a window-cleaner's ladder for a Christmas present, but Greg was not worrying about what the salesman might think. With a couple of sheets of store paper wrapped about it, and tied with twine, the ladder was sufficiently disguised, so that there was little danger of the most zealous policeman's suspicions being aroused by the sight of it.

As he and Hickey tied it on top of the flivver outside, Greg said with a chuckle: "Burglary made easy!"

Hickey shivered. "Don't use such ugly-sounding words!" he begged.

They went on. Greg offered Hickey a cigar. "We have time on our hands now," he said. "Light up and let the old girl trundle home at her ease like a lady."

The phantasmagoria of Houston Street was spread before them again. Here was Christmas shopping of the humbler sort. End to end the push-carts extended along the curb lighted by smoky kerosene flares and displaying an amazing variety of wares from sets of "genuine imitation ermine furs" down to apples pickled in brine. The pavement was literally packed, largely by reason of the fat shoppers who took up the room of three or four.

Coming towards them they perceived a stir of excitement in the throng. A big policeman was slowly forcing his way through, presumably urging before him some unfortunate they could not see. In the policeman's wake was a struggling procession of those who were trying to get a look. The quality of excitement in their faces suggested that the affair was something out of the common.

As Greg and Hickey passed abreast of the policeman the crowd opened for a moment, and they had a brief glimpse of the man he had in charge. They saw the slight and sagging figure of a young man with small features. His face was greenish; he shambled along with eyes half-closed. His hat was gone, and to their surprise they saw that his clothes were drenched. They were near the river.

"A would-be suicide," said Greg. "Poor devil!"

An odd little grunt escaped from Hickey, and he brought the cab to a stop with a jerk.

"What's up?" asked Greg.

"That—that face," stammered Hickey.

"What of it?"

"I've been looking for it for three days by your orders. That's the fellow with the little black mustache, who hired me on the pier that night."

Greg was effectually galvanized into action. Slipping out of his seat, he said: "Turn the first corner to the right, and wait for me in the side street. I'll look after him. He doesn't know me."

Greg ran down the roadway until he got in advance of the policeman; then forcing his way through the crowd, who gave way before his determined air, he fronted the officer.

"Beg pardon, officer. I think I know this man. What's he done?"

Greg's good clothes and assured air were not without their effect. The policeman was disposed to be complaisant. "Attempted suicide. Jumped off a Houston Street ferry, he did. A deckhand pulled him out."

The crowd, delighted to receive exact information as to the affair, waited open-mouthed for more. The prisoner glanced at Greg with indifferent, lack-luster eyes. He said nothing.

"He's soaking wet," said Greg. "And at this time of year——"

"I'm keeping him walking," said the blue-coat. "And the station is but a block away. We'll give him blankets there."

Greg fell into step beside the policeman. "Poor devil! Are you obliged to lay a charge against him?"

"They always do. Attempted suicide's a crime."

"But nobody's ever sent to jail for it."

"If I let him go he might try it again."

"Four days to Christmas, officer. Let me take care of him. I'll give him a square meal and a bed. I've got a cab around the corner. I'll take him home in that."

Voices from the crowd said: "Aw, let him go. It's Christmas. He ain't harmed nobody but himself."

The blue-coat was a bit nettled by the implication of hard-heartedness. "'Tain't nothin' to me," he said. "Come on to the station, and if the loot'nant says all right, all right."

"I'll be there," said Greg. "You take him on, and I'll get my cab."

Greg and Hickey doubled back through the next street and were already at the station-house door when the officer arrived with his prisoner. Greg had no great difficulty in persuading the good-natured officer at the desk to let the wretched young man go. The inconsistency of arresting a man for trying to kill himself cannot but be apparent to all. It is something that he cannot be prevented from doing if he wants to. A mumbled promise was extracted from the prisoner that he would not try it again, and he was handed over to Greg's care.

Wrapping him in the lap-robe, Greg bundled him into the flivver and they drove off amid the plaudits of the crowd gathered around the station-house steps. The young man did not come face to face with Hickey. Greg felt a little shamefaced that the people should think he was playing the part of the good Samaritan.

"If they knew!" he thought. "It's only out of the frying pan into the fire for him, poor wretch!"

As the cab started the young man never so much as looked up. He half sat, half lay in the corner of the cab like an old man in whom the last spark of life is almost quenched. His eyes were open, yet they saw nothing. He seemed to be quite indifferent as to where Greg was taking him; he seemed not to care whether he were in jail or out again. Greg, who had never seen a human creature so beaten down, scarcely knew how to act towards him. His heart was touched by the sight of such utter wretchedness, but to offer him sympathy would have been both cruel and hypocritical. On the other hand he could not hit the man while he was down by letting him see that his crime was known. For the present it seemed best merely to try to restore him by warmth, food and sleep, until he was better able to meet his fate like a man.

The young man himself broke the silence. "You would have done better to let me go," he muttered. He spoke with a slight foreign accent.

"Buck up!" said Greg. "Nothing's so bad but what it might be worse." To Greg while he uttered them the words sounded hollow, addressed to one in this young man's position, but he had to say something.

"I suppose I ought to thank you," said the other with weary bitterness.

"You needn't trouble about that," said Greg grimly.

"If you want to do me a real kindness, stop the man and let me out. I can still walk to the river."

"Mustn't talk like that," said Greg. "There's food and warmth waiting for you. Let that do you for the present."

Hickey drove into the yard, and Greg hustled the young man directly into Bessie's kitchen. Bull Tandy and Ginger McAfee were sitting there one on each side of the table, smoking and enjoying their unwonted evening of leisure. Bessie the monumental was wiping dishes. They had been discussing the case all evening, and still had plenty to talk about when lo! Greg provided them with a fresh sensation. The two men stared at the ghastly and bedraggled figure with pipes half way to their mouths; Bessie held plate and towel in the air.

"Good land! who is he?" she exclaimed.

"Tell you later," said Greg. "Help me get him in bed, and to put some hot food and drink in him. Is Blossom back?"

He was not.

Bessie promptly took command of the situation. "You, Bull, go up-stairs to Greg's room, and light the oil heater. Ginger, fetch me a pail of coal from the cellar. Greg, you fill the kettle at the sink and go into the store and get a can of soup. That's the best for him." Bessie herself vigorously shook the fire and opened the draft.

"Poor fellow, you've been in the river, I see," said she. The river is always ominously present in the minds of those who live near. "Take this chair close by the stove until the room up-stairs heats up."

The object of this solicitude accepted it apathetically. He huddled in the chair that was placed for him as if his backbone lacked the pith to hold him straight. He made no effort to speak. While they were bustling about on their various errands he was left alone in the room for a moment. To get him out of the way, Bessie had put his chair on the far side of the stove. This brought him facing the door into the yard, and when Hickey, having backed the flivver under the shed, came in, the young man's eyes fell full upon him.

They were brought running from various directions by the sound of a choking cry followed by a fall. They found the young man lying face downwards on the floor. Hickey was standing with his hand still on the door, scared halt out of his wits.

"Lordy! I clean forgot the sight of me would be a shock to him," he stammered.

"It had to come," said Greg grimly. "We couldn't go on making out to be his friends."

The young man was insensible. They carried him up-stairs and put him in Greg's bed, wrapped in all the blankets the house afforded. Bessie heated bricks in the oven and placed them about him. Hickey was dispatched in the flivver for a doctor.

The doctor came, brought the patient to, and upon hearing all the circumstances, prescribed a small portion of the soup, which Bessie by now had hot upon the stove. They forced it down his throat. He seemed utterly distraught, shaking and moaning Spanish words. Before leaving, the doctor gave him a hypodermic to induce sleep.

Greg said he would watch beside the bed until it should take effect. The patient still twitched and gasped like a creature beyond all control; yet when the others left the room he opened his eyes and asked sanely enough:

"Who are you?"

Greg told his name. "It would take a long time to explain who I am," he added. "You'd better try to sleep."

"You know me?" he asked.

"Yes, your name is de Silva."

"What do you want of me?" the other asked hoarsely.

"Nothing at present except to put a little life into you."

"In order to take it away from me later?"

Greg, taken aback, said: "It isn't your life that I want."

The poor wretch shuddered. "I thought I saw a man down-stairs—or did I dream it? A cab-man——"

Greg saw nothing was to be gained by further concealment. "You saw him," he said. "It was the cabman you engaged on the pier the night the Allianca docked."

The young man raised himself on his elbow. "Then all is known?"

"Pretty nearly all."

He fell back. "Well—I'm glad," he said weakly. "The worst agony is over."

Presently he opened his eyes, attacked by a new fear. "Who are you?" he demanded. "And those others down-stairs? His men?"

"Whose?" asked Greg, perplexed.

"De Socotra's."

"No, by God!"

The recumbent figure relaxed. "Detectives, then? I don't mind that."

"Not detectives, either," said Greg. "I'll tell you this much—I'm after de Socotra. I know he's the principal in this affair, not you. I only want you as a means to get him."

"You'll never get him," said de Silva with hopeless assurance. "He's not a man like others; he's a fiend out of Hell."

"That may be," said Greg grimly. "But just the same I mean to get him! Better not talk any more. Let yourself relax."

"I've got to talk. I've kept it in too long. I'll go out of my mind if I don't talk. I think I'm losing my mind anyway I've been in Hell the last three days. Couldn't think what I was doing. But only of him. This is what they call being haunted maybe. Not like books. All of a sudden his face comes between me and what I look at—nice old face with a half-smile and quiet eyes. Oh God! Oh God! I never can forget it now——!

"I never set up to be any better than I was. It isn't the first job I've done for different men. I sort of got in the way of it young. Men sent for me when they wanted something nervy done. I could get away with anything because I was little and thin and looked harmless. I had nerves of steel until this happened. I was proud of my reputation."

"Good God!" interrupted Greg aghast. "Do you mean to say that murder was your trade?"

"Well, why not? It takes more nerve and cleverness than holding down an office stool. I liked the spice of danger. And anyhow the men I put out before this one only got what was coming to them. They were no better than them that wanted it done. Fair game. I don't give a damn for any of the others. They don't trouble my sleep. But this one—Oh God! he's got me! ...

"I didn't know him beforehand. I was sent down from New York to Central America to get next to him. They told me he was a blackguard that was trying to raise the niggers to cut Hell loose down there. I was to get the job as his secretary because I spoke Spanish and English, and come back to New York with him. The job was to be done here.

"Well, we were on the ship together almost a week. That was what queered me. He wanted to make friends, see? He wouldn't let me alone. God! it raked me up and down with little sharp points—his friendliness. It started me thinking, and I wasn't any good to myself any more. He wasn't a preacher, nothing like it. Just a jolly old gentleman who could tell a story in the smoking-room as well as any man, and laugh till his fat sides shook. He liked me; that's what got me. I couldn't make it out. Nobody ever liked me before. He was always trying to make me talk about myself. God! it scared me what I found myself telling him! I told him lots of funny things—at night on deck. He didn't mind; he didn't blame me. He would only say: 'Well, life's a queer affair!' He didn't stop liking me. And I killed him! Oh God, how I hate myself! ...

"When we got to New York I was in no shape to carry out my job. My nerve was gone. But I couldn't turn back then. Always prided myself I never failed to pull off a job. I thought I could work myself up to it. And I did it. But my hand shook. He looked at me as I gave him the needle. Just one look!"

"How did you do it?" asked Greg.

"With a hypodermic needle. In the jugular here"—he put a finger on his throat. "There was curare in it. What the San Blas Indians dip their arrow-points in. Kills like a hammer-stroke. De Socotra gave me the needle and showed me how. But I bungled it. The cabman heard something and stopped by the curb. My nerve was gone. I beat it."

"Where did you go then?" asked Greg.

"I went—I don't know—I went—I went——"

The voice trailed off. The narcotic was taking effect.

CHAPTER XVIII

BLOSSOM'S REPORT

Greg heard a new voice in the kitchen. De Silva was now in a heavy sleep, and he went down to investigate. Blossom's failure to turn up had made him very anxious.

This was the boy from the drug-store to say that Greg was wanted on the telephone. Greg went back with him.

Over the wire he heard Pa Simmons' old voice:

"Say, Greg, I'm sorry, but I lost his nibs, the Spanish bloke. On the level I couldn't help it. He took after Blossom and a girl, and I took after him, but they all got in the subway, and I couldn't leave me old boat in the street while I traveled all over town in the subway, could I?"

"Hold on! Hold on! Begin at the beginning!"

"Well, I was on'y waiting a few minutes in Eighty-third Street when his nibs come out of that house, you know, 311. He got in his cab and went back home; through Eighty-third to Broadway, up Broadway to Ninety-fourth and down to the Drive, me following. Well, while we was going through Ninety-fourth, I see Blossom and a good-looking girl coming along on the sidewalk. His nibs in front, he musta seen 'em too, for he stops his cab and slips out and takes after them on foot. They didn't see him. Well, I went on a little way, turned around, and followed the whole bunch around to the Ninety-sixth Street subway station.

"Blossom and the girl went down, his nibs follows them, and I follows his nibs. We goes to the down-town platform. On the platform Blossom gets wise to me, see? And when his nibs ain't looking I gives him a little sign that that is his nibs, see? Blossom gets it all right. Well, a train come along then and they all got in. But I couldn't leave my cab. I went back to Stickney Arms, but his nibs ain't come home yet. You told me to call you at nine. What do you want me to do now?"

Greg considered a moment. "If his wife is alone in the apartment he's pretty sure to be back soon. Better stay on watch where you are. Call me up again in an hour."

Greg returned home in no little anxiety. It seemed like a gratuitous stroke of ill luck that de Socotra should just have happened to run into Blossom. Blossom was a good fellow and loyal without a doubt, but he could scarcely be expected to prove a match for the astute de Socotra. And almost two hours had passed. Greg would have given something to know what had happened. But all he could do was wait.

A few minutes later Blossom walked in the kitchen door. Nina was with him. One look in the man's face told Greg that nothing serious had happened; on the contrary the morose and jejune Blossom looked fairly rejuvenated.

"The little black book?" cried Greg. "Have you got it?"

By way of answer Blossom held it aloft. A cheer went up in the kitchen.

"Thank God!" cried Greg. "Now we're all right!"

Bessie was standing, arms akimbo, taking it all in like a comical solemn child. The temptation was too much for Greg. Before she knew what he was doing, Greg had seized her round the waist and waltzed her—or rather swayed her, for it was impossible to move her from her firmly planted stand. The men roared.

"Bessie! Bessie!" cried Greg. "Did you hear that, you dear little thing. We have it!"

"Go along with you!" said Bessie, giving him a little push—and he went along, flat against the wall.

He snatched the little black book out of Blossom's hands and hastily turned the pages. It was all in Spanish, of course. He could not read it.

"Hold your horses," said Blossom warningly. "There's maybe something funny about that. Wait till I tell you."

"What happened?" asked Greg sobered. "It looks all right; letters, affidavits, just what Estuban said."

"In the beginning everything went off all right," Blossom began. "Miss Nina, she went up to the apartment, and after giving her a minute I followed her to the service entrance. She let me in and told me she'd squared herself with the old lady all right. She went and told the old lady the piano man had come and I got off my song and dance about Mr. Fairweather and the christening and all."

"Merriweather was the name," put in Greg.

"Oh well, any kind of weather was the same to her, being Spanish," said Blossom. "Miss Nina, she translated it to her. At first the old lady looked doubtful. She said I'd have to wait till Mr. Soakoater come home. But when I told her I had three more calls to make up in the Bronx, she said she guessed it was all right. She was a nice old lady, not naturally suspicious like. She was all broke up about the little Miss being took away.

"She stayed in the parlor and watched while I worked. I had to take the whole back off the piano. There was sixteen screws in it, four to a side, and every blame one of them stuck. I was sweating with nervousness before I got the last one out, expecting to hear his nibs in the hall any moment.

"When the little book dropped out on the floor, 'What's that?' says the old lady. 'There it is!' says I, real quick and glad-like. 'My list of customers that I lost the last time I was here! I been looking everywhere for it.' 'Let me see it,' says she. 'Sorry, ma'am!' says I, 'it's confidential; we ain't allowed to show our lists to anybody.' Say, she was easy. It was a shame to lie to her. She let me get away with it.

"Well, say, I put on that piano-back quicker than I took it off—only one screw to a side. Then I beat it for the basement. I breathed easier when I got out.

"I waited down-stairs for Miss Nina, and the two of us made tracks for the subway at Ninety-sixth Street. Somewhere on the way back the Spanish gent must have picked us up, though I didn't notice him at the time. Miss Nina and me was talking. I first got on to it that there was something funny when we was waiting on the platform. All of a sudden I see Pa Simmons there looking like a lost dog offen his cab.

"I recollected that Pa's job was to trail the Spaniard, so I looked cautious-like around for him. There wasn't many on the platform and the only one that could be him was a tall guy with his head behind a newspaper. All I could see was his elegant creased pants and his fancy shoes. You had said he was a swell dresser, so I guessed this was him. And afterwards I caught Pa's eye, and he gave me a sign that it was him.

"Well, a train come in and Miss and I got in one door, and the Spanish gent in another. Don't know where Pa went. Miss Nina had not got on to it that we was being trailed, and I didn't tell her because I thought she'd be scared and let on. He was at the other end of the same car.

"Well, all the way down town I was thinking how I could shake him. I remembered the crowd along Houston Street, but I didn't want to risk bringing him so clost home. I remembered there was a gang of Christmas shoppers on Fourteenth Street too, so we got out there and walked west. There's a big nickelodion on Fourteenth Street—you know, a long hall with penny-in-the-slot phonographs and move-em-pitchers that's supposed to be naughty but they ain't. It runs right through to Thirteenth. I steered Miss Nina in there. She didn't like it, thought I was trying to put something over on her, so I had to tell her the Spaniard was after us. Say, it made her a little weak in the knees.

"I was hoping the Spaniard would wait outside for us, and we could sneak out the back way, but not on your life! He followed us right through. So we went on down Thirteenth, and I cut into the back entrance of a big store, hoping to lose him in the crowd. But he stuck closer than a brother—up-stairs, down in the basement, out on Fourteenth Street again. By this time he must have guessed of course that we were on to him.

"Next I went back to the subway again. I took him up to Times Square, but I couldn't shake him in the crowds there, neither. Well, I tried the subway once more and this time I had a bit of luck. There was a big crowd coming and going, and as we got down to the down-town platform there was a train on each side, express and local. The local was just opening her doors.

"I steered Miss Nina aboard the local, and the Spaniard got on by another door. I watched my chance, and just as they were ready to close the doors of the express I grabbed the girl, hustled her acrost the platform and into the other train, and the door closed behind us. It took the Spanish gent by surprise. He run too, for the next door, but it closed in his face."

"Good work!" said Greg.

"Wait a minute! I ain't told you the funny part yet. The train started and we was carried right past the Spaniard close enough to touch him only the other side of the glass. Well, I couldn't help having a bit of sport with him. I knew anyway he knew what I'd been up to as soon as he went home and the old lady told him. So as we passed by I held up the little black book; like that, right before his nose."

"The deuce you did!" cried Greg delightedly.

"Wait a bit! It didn't get acrost like I expected. He give me the laugh first. Yes, sir, threw back his head, and laughed fit to die. What do you know about that?"

"Just a bluff," said Greg.

Blossom shook his head positively. "No, sir, I know a real laugh when I see it!"

"But here is the book," said Greg.

"Just the same, he thinks he has us, somehow."

Blossom's words carried conviction, and Greg's feeling of triumph was considerably dashed. "I wish Estuban was here," he said.

CHAPTER XIX

THE ABDUCTION

Though he had seen him but on the one occasion, Greg had more confidence in Estuban than in any of the taxi-drivers, good fellows though they were. He much desired Estuban's help on the dangerous expedition he had planned, and waited for him as long as he dared. But one o'clock drew near without any sign of him, and in the end Greg had to go without him.

He was in difficulties when it came to choosing a man in Estuban's place. They all wanted to go; each man loudly and shamelessly proclaimed his own superior qualities. Greg finally decided to take them all. It was possible he might need them, and if he did not, they could remain in concealment in the cab. He swore them by a mighty oath to obey him in the smallest particular.

Meanwhile during the evening the old car had received a grooming like an athlete before his supreme race. From all the cabs in the yard the most nearly new tires were borrowed; every nut was screwed home, every wire tested. With black grease they smudged the license plates so that the numbers were illegible. Nor did they fail to test the extension ladder. Afterwards it was put back in its paper and tied on top of the flivver.

On the way up-town all rode inside. The front window was allowed to remain down, so that Hickey could share in Greg's instructions and exhortations. While he talked to them Greg was sizing up his men. They showed their excitement in characteristic ways. Bull Tandy smoked deep, and there was a calm and delighted smile on his face; Blossom whistled incessantly through closed teeth; little Ginger twisted on his seat like a restless schoolboy. "I'll pick Bull for the closest work," thought Greg.

When they got to the corner of Columbus Avenue and Eighty-third Street, Greg said to Hickey: "Drive all the way through the block and come back again, so that we can get a look over the whole ground."

It was a long block down to Amsterdam Avenue, more than a furlong. A slight hill rose towards the middle of the block, and descended beyond. As Greg had expected the neighborhood was absolutely deserted, scarcely a light to be seen the whole way. Number 411 was near the beginning of the block, the Columbus Avenue end. All the windows were dark, but a dim light showed in the doorway, likewise in the doorway of the connecting house.

Half-way through the block, that is to say, at the top of the little hill, they came upon a stationary figure, an officer, but one whose gray coat differed from the uniform of the city police. He was leaning back with his elbows propped on a stone post, one heel cocked up on a step, and his club dangling from its thong.

The hearts of all went down at the sight. Uncomplimentary epithets were directed towards the innocent officer in the performance of his duty.

"Damned unlucky!" muttered Greg.

At the end of the block Greg directed Hickey to turn the corner and stop, until they could decide what was best to do. The broad, unbeautiful expanse of Amsterdam Avenue was as empty as the side street. It was like the avenue of some dead city, where the lights had been left burning.

"What did you make of him?" said Blossom. "Not a regular cop."

"Worse," said Greg, "a private patrolman. I had forgotten that the residents of a private block like this often club together and hire a man from an agency to keep watch. He'll be there all night, damn him!"

"What are you going to do?" asked Ginger anxiously, "give it up?"

"Not on your life!" said Greg grimly. "Let me think a minute."

All four of them waited with blank minds for Greg to give them a cue.

"We must create a diversion," he said finally.

"A what?" asked Bull Tandy.

"Attract his attention elsewhere; draw him off."

"I get you," said Ginger. "Get up a fake burglary or something down at this end of the block."

"Exactly. That'll be your job: yours and Blossom's."

Ginger's face fell. "Have a heart, Greg! S'posin' we git five years apiece for it."

"You don't have to be the burglars. You can be the honest citizens who discover the crime."

Ginger looked relieved. "Lay it out to us, partner."

"Listen carefully. First give Hickey three minutes to get back through Eighty-fourth to Columbus again. Then you show yourselves in Eighty-third Street. Choose the last house on the north side. I don't know who lives there; that doesn't make any difference. Well, run out into the middle of the street and look up at the windows. Run up the front steps and down again. Run in and out the area way. The idea is to give plenty of action, see?

"Well, the cop is standing up at the top of the hill where he can look down both sides his beat. He'll soon get on to you two milling around down there, and he'll run down to see what's the matter. You tell him you were walking up Amsterdam when you saw a peculiar light in the basement of that house, and looking through the windows you saw a fellow snooping around with a flashlight; handkerchief over his face, hat pulled down—you know the stuff. And afterwards he went up-stairs. Fix up the story any way you like. You can tell a good story, Ginger.

"The cop will probably send you around to watch the rear while he rouses the household and makes a room-to-room search. It's hard on the people, but it will bring a little excitement into their dull lives, anyway. As soon as you get the cop all worked up you make a quiet sneak, see? I only need a couple of minutes to pull off my trick. Long before the excitement down here dies down, we'll be safe away."

"We're on," said Ginger and Blossom.

Greg, Hickey and Bull drove around the block and returned to the corner of Columbus and Eighty-third, where they stopped the cab before turning into the side street. They could still see the private patrolman at the top of the hill and they waited. Beyond him they could not see for the hill, and they had the satisfaction of knowing that once he ran down the other side he could not see them.

Presently they chuckled to see him straighten up and dart away down the hill. The scheme worked.

No one was in sight within the four blocks that they commanded. They cut the ladder from its wrappings and Greg and Bull took it, leaving Hickey with the flivver. The engine was left running. Hickey was to run up to them when Greg gave him a flash.

Greg and Bull were each armed with two short lengths of wire. Reaching the two houses, Greg took 411 and Bull 413. Running down the area steps they wired the iron gates of the basement entrances fast to their frames. Then springing up their respective stoops they wired the two handles of the double doors together. All this took but a minute, and effectually safeguarded them against a surprise from within the houses. This done, Greg carried the little ladder up the steps of 413 and planted it under the bathroom window. The street remained empty and silent.

While he worked Greg kept the tail of an eye on the windows of Amy's room. He was not rewarded by a sight of her face. He hoped she was watching from farther back in the room. The bathroom window was raised an inch or two from the bottom. Bull stood on the sidewalk with the handkerchief in one hand and the flashlight in the other, ready to signal to Hickey the instant Amy appeared.

When the ladder was in place Greg nodded to Bull—all this was carried out in the full light of the moon and of a street lamp almost in front of the house—and Bull let the handkerchief flutter to the pavement.

They waited. The seconds passed. The suspense was almost more than mortal nerves could bear. Greg holding himself taut was glad that it was Bull he had with him. Bull had no nerves. The seconds passed, and there was no sound or movement from above. The sickening conviction took shape in Greg's breast that something had gone wrong. Amy of her own free will would never keep them waiting at such a juncture.

Suddenly Bull with a warning gesture darted noiselessly down the area steps. At the same moment Greg heard brisk footsteps coming up the street. Somebody had turned the corner from Columbus Avenue. Greg swiftly telescoped the ladder and carried it inside the vestibule. Closing half the storm door, he concealed himself behind it, and lived through a horrible moment or two. Suppose this person were bound for the Sanitarium?

But he passed by whistling softly, all unaware of the drama he had interrupted. Greg had a glimpse of his disappearing back; a young back with a debonair swing to it, a lover, perhaps, returning from his lady.

They had to wait until he mounted the steps of one of the houses above. Then Greg joined Bull.

"Something's gone wrong," he whispered. "I'm going in to see."

"Into the house! Good God!" said Bull.

Greg was no less appalled by the task than he. "Got to be done," he said. "Go down and get Hickey. Let him bring the cab up softly. If we signal he'll come up with the cut-out roaring. It's all or nothing within the next three minutes. If I am not out again by the time you come back with Hickey, you are to follow me in. Are you game for it?"

Bull nodded. "I am, if you are."

Bull left him. Greg looked up and down. No one was in sight. He mounted the steps and brought out the ladder again. In the light of the street lamp he felt as conspicuous as a naked man in a dream, yet to put the light out would have only been to call attention to the spot where it had been. To tell the truth he had no stomach for this job, but his resolution held him to it. Amy depended on him.

With a thumping heart he mounted the ladder. It creaked like a rusty wheel. But no matter if he waked the entire block now, he had to go on. At the top he put his hands under the window and threw it up. There was no time to open it with care. It would all be over in a minute anyway. He flung a leg over the sill and entered the bathroom. A rapid survey of the windows across the street revealed no scared white face watching him.

The door into the bedroom was closed. He opened it as softly as he could. The light from the street lamp below was thrown strongly on the white ceiling, and its reflection filled the room. He could see perfectly. The sight was photographed indelibly on his brain; Amy lying motionless in her bed beside him, and across the room Bianca sitting up in a cot bed, her eyes fixed upon him wide with terror. She was too terrified to scream; a little gasping cry escaped her; she had no breath for more.

Greg sprang across the room, and clapping a hand over her mouth, bore her back on her pillow. His lightning glance at Amy told him she had been drugged, and he felt no compunctions in dealing with this other woman. Bianca struggled but feebly; terror held her in a partial paralysis. Greg's ears were stretched for sounds from the house. He heard quick, soft steps approaching the door, and his heart misgave him. There was a little tap.

"Miss, did you call?"

Greg held his breath. He expected her to come in. How could he deal with two women? She did try the door, but it was locked. Greg's pent breath softly escaped. After a moment the steps retreated. He heard the scrape of a chair on the bare floor. Evidently there was a nurse stationed at a desk out there.

Greg glanced over his shoulder at Amy. He was scared by the stillness of her pose, like a lovely effigy on an old tomb. But the sound of her breathing reassured him. It was too loud. Assuredly she had been drugged—not without a struggle, he was sure. The thought of his delicate little Amy struggling in the grip of a brutal strength made his breast burn. He could have strangled Bianca without remorse.

Bianca's struggles were growing stronger now. She was doing her best to bite him. It seemed to Greg that Bull had had plenty of time to get Hickey. What could be the matter? Suppose Bull's nerve failed him when it came to entering the house. Suppose the policeman came back, or another passer-by. Greg's nerves were at the cracking point.

Then he heard the flivver coming. It passed and stopped just beyond the door. In his imagination he measured the steps that Bull must take to the foot of the ladder. Would he dare mount it? He listened in an agony of suspense. At last he heard it creak and dared to breathe a little. But Bull's heart might fail him at the window! His own had failed him! The silence was too long! No! there stood Bull's bulky figure in the bathroom doorway. A little sob of relief escaped Greg.

Greg beckoned him close with his head. Indicating Amy he whispered: "Pick her up. Wrap her well in a blanket, and carry her to the window. Pass her to Hickey. When they reach the pavement, give me a little signal and I'll come."

"There's a fellow seen the ladder and run back for a policeman," Bull whispered hoarsely.

"Then hustle! Hustle!" whispered Greg.

The heavy man moved with a surprising celerity and noiselessness. Rough as was his exterior there was a gentle strain in him; he gathered up Amy as tenderly and unselfconsciously as if she had been a little child.

Bianca had ceased to struggle, and in his eagerness to follow the movements of the other man Greg relaxed his vigilance for a second. With a sudden cat-like twist she freed her face from his hand. A piercing shriek escaped her.

Greg quickly silenced her, but the mischief was done. After a second's breathless silence an uproar arose through the house. The nurse ran to the door and rattled it and beat upon it. Other doors opened and slammed, and running feet were heard throughout the house. In different parts of the house the insane patients infected with the excitement began to scream.

Bianca, encouraged by the sounds of approaching help, began to struggle with redoubled energy. She fought with every fiber of her being, like a cat in a snare. Greg was more than a match for her in strength, but scarcely in quickness. She got her head free again, and screamed:

"They're taking her out of the window. Go to the street!"

A voice in the hall said: "Break in the door!"

Running footsteps receded down the hall.

Bull had disappeared with Amy. It was no time for Greg to linger. If Bull did make him a signal, he couldn't hear it in that uproar. Releasing Bianca he ran for the bathroom window. Springing up, she followed, screaming incessantly.

Bull was barely over the sill, and Greg had to wait. Bianca clawed at his back, but he scarcely felt her. He heard the door of the bedroom go in with a crash, and waited no longer. Thrusting Bianca out of the way, he scrambled over the sill. He and Bull landed in a heap together on the stoop. Greg pulled the ladder from the window, just as hands reached out to grab it.

Hickey, bearing the inert figure of Amy, had all but reached the cab. In both the houses now they were furiously striving to burst open the wired doors. The fat doctor in negligee attire was at a parlor window. Throwing it up, he let himself over the sill, and dropped into the areaway. Other men followed. Greg and Bull ran for the cab. From the corner below came the sounds of more running feet and the shrilling of a police-whistle.

Into the flivver they piled, somehow, anyhow. Hickey had dropped Amy on the seat, and was already at the wheel. As Greg and Bull laid hands on the car, he let the clutch engage. The little car sprang ahead. The policeman, seeing them likely to escape, fired his revolver into the air. Hickey grunted and pulled the throttle lever all the way down. The exhaust roared. A second shot struck the asphalt behind them and ricochetting made a dent in the back of the car. A third shot went wild. Then they passed out of range.

They breasted the little rise, and plunged down the other side. Here they met the private patrolman running towards them. Blossom and Ginger were not to be seen. There was a harrowing moment as they passed this officer. Would he shoot? But if he had a gun, he was too confused to draw it. He flung his night-stick at the wheels of the flivver, but it caromed harmlessly off. They reached the corner and turned.

After a brief mad course around many corners they reached one of the Park entrances. There was no sign of any pursuing car and they slowed down. They breathed freely again.

Greg said grimly: "Well, if you fellows wanted excitement, I hope you're satisfied."

"I am," said Hickey fervently. "Me for a rest cure, now."

"Makes me feel like a boy again," chuckled Bull.

CHAPTER XX

EXIT SENOR SAUNDERS

Before they got home Amy began to awaken from her unnatural sleep. Greg gave her over to the care of Bessie, who had him carry the little figure up to Bessie's own room, where by methods known to herself she completed her restoration.

Greg learned that during his absence Pa Simmons had sent in a message that de Socotra had returned to his apartment about ten in company with a young Spanish-American whose description suggested Henry Saunders. A little before midnight de Socotra had come out again, leaving the young man within, and Pa Simmons had followed him to the house on East Seventeenth Street, where presumably he still was.

No word had come from Estuban. De Silva still lay in his deep sleep.

As soon as Amy had recovered she asked for Greg. He found her sitting up in bed, pale, great-eyed and smiling. Bessie, it appeared, was not without a secret, feminine fondness for pretty caps and negligees. Producing such articles from a hidden store, she had dressed Amy up like a French doll. After a few moments, the good-hearted Bessie made believe to discover an errand down-stairs, and left them alone.

But they had nothing to say to each other that any one might not have heard. There was no constraint; they gave each other their eyes freely, but they instinctively hung back from the deep waters of speech. They had been through too much to-night; Nature demanded a let-down. Their eyes had reached an understanding, their tongues wagged irresponsibly.

By and by they heard the disturbance incidental to a new arrival in the kitchen below. Amy, recognizing the timbre of the voice, looked at Greg and said:

"Henry."

Ginger McAfee came running up-stairs. Though invited to enter, an excessive delicacy constrained him to deliver his message from the other side of the door.

"It's the young Spanish gent wants to see Miss. Him that come to the yard yesterday morning. Bull's watching him till she says what to do with him."

Amy looked at Greg again.

Said he: "Might as well get it over with."

She nodded. "Let him come up," she called to Ginger.

Señor Henry rushed into the room, and oblivious to the presence of Greg fell on his knees beside Amy's bed and reached for her hand. "Amèlie! Amèlie!" he cried. A flood of Spanish followed. Gone was the high-bred disdain. His yellow face worked with the uncontrollable emotion of a weak nature.

For some obscure reason Amy blushed and glanced uneasily at Greg. He, no less uncomfortable, looked away.

"Get up," she said curtly to the other. "Speak English."

Señor Henry obeyed neither command.

"I shall not answer you unless you speak English."

He made the attempt, but it was not easy for him to express his overmastering emotion in the unfamiliar tongue. The stammering effect of it all was: "Come away! This is no place for you!"

"This is where my friends live," said Amy coldly.

It was lost on him. "Come away! I have a cab down-stairs."

"Where to?" asked Amy dryly.

"Back to Señora de Socotra."

"And Señor Francisco? No, thank you."

"Let me take you to a hotel, then."

"In this? I have no other clothes."

Señor Henry's feelings were too much for him. He relapsed into Spanish. Amy clapped her hands over her ears.

"Speak English!" she commanded.

The dark-skinned youth, guessing that the English was for Greg's benefit, shot a glance of purest hatred across the bed. To Amy he said: "Tell the Señora the truth, and she will leave Francisco."

"And die of a broken heart," said Amy. "I'd rather kill Francisco."

"But you cannot remain here among these people."

"Remember, you are speaking of my friends," Amy warned him. "Answer me a question. How did you know you'd find me here?"

"I guessed it."

"That's not enough. How did you guess it?"

"Well, Francisco asked me to spend the night in his apartment, so that the Señora would not be left alone. He had to be out late. Bianca telephoned from the sanitarium that you had been carried off. What was I to do? I didn't know where Francisco was. I dared not tell the Señora what had happened. Bianca said it was——" he jerked his head across the bed, "so I came down here."

"You knew then that they had put me in a private madhouse," said Amy relentlessly.

He shrugged.

"Perhaps you thought I was mad?"

"I did not. I told Francisco it was an outrage. Nothing I could say would move him. What was I to do?"

"What steps did you take to get me out?"

"Francisco swore to me that it was only for the night. As soon as he could arrange to get a private car, he said, he would send us all home together."

"Why did Francisco put me in that place?"

Señor Henry shrugged again. "Surely you know that. He had learned that you were working against him in political matters. I warned you, you know."

"You mean criminal matters," Amy amended.

Greg spoke for the first time. "Ask him how Señor Francisco learned of your activities."

Señor Henry's shoulders and eyebrows were agitated together. "How should I know?"

"Did you tell him?" Amy asked directly.

He sprang up. "I did not tell him! I swear it! You insult me by asking such a question!"

Amy turned to Greg. "What do you know?"

Greg answered coolly: "He told him, right enough."

"It's a lie!" cried Señor Henry, turning a little yellower than his wont. "I might have known who put that idea into your head! Would you take the word of this—this cabman, against mine!"

Greg laughed.

"When could he have told him?" Amy asked Greg.

"This afternoon when Señor Francisco started from the apartment for the train, he met Señor Saunders at the door. Señor Saunders entered the cab with him, and they started down-town together. He told him then. That is why Señor Francisco came rushing back in the state that you saw him."

The Spanish-American youth fell back. Rage and fright made his weak face hideous. A cold sweat had sprung out on his forehead; his teeth were bared. "It's a lie! a lie!" he repeated. "I never saw Francisco until afterwards. How do you know so much about my movements!"

"I drove the cab," said Greg simply.

Señor Henry stared at him speechlessly.

Amy very quietly started to pull a handsome ring from her finger. It was tight; it did not come easily. Both men watched the action with a fascinated gaze. She finally held out the ring towards Señor Henry. He refused it with a passionate gesture. She let it drop on the floor.

"Go!" she said.

He burst out in desperate appeals, reproaches, excuses, all in Spanish. Amy turned wearily away.

Greg stood up. "You've had your answer," he said harshly. "Go, before you're helped out."

Señor Henry stopped short, stared from one to another, biting his lip, then turned, and rushed from the room as violently as he had entered. They heard the front door slam behind him.

Amy covered her face with her hands. "I'm so ashamed!" she murmured. "To think that I could ever have thought—even for a moment—that!"

"Forget the mannikin," said Greg calmly. "He means nothing in your life."

Greg heard Estuban's voice in the kitchen and hastened down-stairs. Their eyes brightened at the sight of each other like old friends. Estuban quickly explained that he had been carried as far as Philadelphia by the express on which he had expected to find de Socotra, and had been obliged to wait there several hours for a returning train.

"What has happened here?" he asked eagerly.

"Quite a bit," said Greg dryly. "We've got both the girl and the book out of de Socotra's hands. That is to say, we got a book."

"The little black book!" cried Estuban, his black eyes gleaming. "Let me see it!"

Greg handed it over, watching for Estuban's verdict with more anxiety than he cared to show. Estuban hastily turned the pages. What Greg read in his face confirmed his worst fears; amazement, incredulity, anger.

"This is not it!" he cried. "He has fooled you! This is an impudent substitute manufactured out of whole cloth!"

"I was half prepared for that," said Greg gloomily.

Estuban went on: "This is what de Socotra meant to carry to the President. Look! testimonials of respect to His Excellency; addresses of felicitation from public bodies of every class in Managuay; the Santiago Chamber of Commerce; the Planters' Association; The Rubber-Gatherers' Union! The last is a masterpiece; listen! 'The Rubber-Gatherers' Union of Managuay, happy in their situation on a fertile soil under a liberal government, desires to express to his Excellency, the President of the United States,' etc., etc. My God! what sublime impudence!"

"Then our work is still to do," said Greg grimly.

"Do you know where de Socotra is at this moment?" asked Estuban with a dangerous glitter in his eyes.

"At a house on East Seventeenth Street, the headquarters of his gang. He got that book there earlier in the day."

"It was made there under his direction, no doubt, and the original is presumably there."

"If they have not destroyed it."

"They would scarcely do that unless they thought it was in danger of falling into our hands. Think of the handle it will give them against those who dare oppose them in Managuay. The unfortunate ones who made these affidavits will be marked men hereafter."

Greg looked around the kitchen at the men who were awaiting the outcome of this talk, and looked back at Estuban. The corners of his mouth turned up with grim humor. "Let's go and get it," he said suddenly.

Estuban's hand shot out to meet Greg's. "My idea, too," he said with satisfaction.

"We have four good men here," Greg went on, "and a fifth is watching the house now. With the exception of de Socotra himself, that gang is not formidable. Their morale is poor.

"What do you propose?" asked Estuban.

"The simplest plan possible; to get into the house by force or by trickery, and hold them up. Are you armed?"

Estuban nodded.

"They got a gun from me on our last meeting. I'll see what there is in our outfit here."

Greg and Estuban were talking low-voiced in a corner of the kitchen, while the others waited. All thought of sleep had been given up for this night. Even Bessie, infected by the general excitement, had yielded to their solicitations in so far as to prepare a small-hour supper. The clock had just struck three.

"Boys," said Greg. "Are you game to turn another trick before daylight?"

"Try us," said Bull, grinning.

"Me and Blossom was done out of the best fun before," said Ginger.

Greg briefly explained what had to be done. It appeared that their appetites were only whetted for danger. They jumped at the chance. Even Hickey, encouraged by the size of the attacking party perhaps, did not bewail his fate this time. It transpired that both Blossom and Bull possessed revolvers. Greg borrowed Blossom's and let Bull keep his, unloaded.

"You won't mind if I empty out the shells?" he said. "Estuban and I feel that we ought to take the responsibility of any shooting that may be necessary."

Bessie, who had taken everything in, disappeared into the store, and returned with a small object which she offered Greg. Said she: "If you're going to break into the house—mind, I didn't say I held by any such foolishness, but if you're going to do it anyway, better take my glass-cutter. It may come in handy."

"Bessie, you've got a better head than any of us!" cried Greg—"or maybe you're more experienced in house-breaking."

"Go along with you! Mind you bring it back safe. I can't sell window glass without something to cut it."

When they were ready to start, Greg ran up-stairs to bid good-by to Amy. He told her what they designed to do.

It was at the hour of the night when human vitality is at its ebb. The plucky lip trembled. "Must you?" she faltered. "On top of everything to-night?"

"It must be at once, while he is off his guard. He does not yet know of your escape."

"If I could only go too! But to wait here in suspense—how can I endure it?"

"Oh, this is a simple job."

"Simple! You don't know Francisco."

"I must go. Send me with a smile."

She smiled. "I want you to promise me something," she begged. "You mustn't be angry."

He looked his question.

Her eyes searched his deep. "I want you to promise me you will not kill Francisco. I could not have that. After all he has cared for me for nine years, and he is the husband of the one I love."

There was more implied in this than was spoken. Greg understood. "I promise you," he said gravely,—"unless it is a question of defending myself."

"Do not think that I mean to let him go free," she said; "he shall be punished, terribly punished; but it must be in the way that I set."

CHAPTER XXI

UP-STAIRS AND DOWN

Leaving all cabs at home this time, they proceeded in couples by different streets to a rendezvous at the northeast corner of Stuyvesant Square. Greg and Estuban walked up First Avenue to Seventeenth, then west to the meeting-place, thus passing the house that was their objective.

Their examination of it revealed these salient facts: there was no light in any window; the basement windows were protected by iron bars, the basement door by an iron gate, while above, before the front door, heavy oak storm-doors were closed. In short, a wholly unpromising prospect.

"We need an ax to get into this," said Estuban dejectedly.

"We'll have to try the rear," said Greg.

The question then was how to get around to the back. The whole block presented an unbroken brick front from First Avenue to the Square.

At the Square they joined the other men and Pa Simmons who was there with his cab. The latter reported that de Socotra had not left the house.

"Damn glad you come," said he. "I'm at the end of my wits, how to keep watching that house without the police force getting wise to me cab. I watches from this corner for awhile, then runs around the block and takes a stand down by First. Then I come back again. But there's a cop down there's got his eye on me already. I don' know where to go now."

"You can be our mobile scout," said Greg. "Keep moving. Drive through this block every minute. We'll signal you if we need you."

Pa Simmons drove off.

At the corner where they stood there was a modern apartment house. A space of three feet separated the back wall of this building from the side wall of the first dwelling. This crack offered the only discoverable opening into the interior of the block. As the house they were seeking to enter was the sixth from the corner, it meant that they must climb six back fences to reach it.

"Bull, how are you on climbing fences?" asked Greg.

"O.K., if somebody will hold me overcoat."

"Hand it to one of the fellows. Estuban, Bull and I will go over the fences and break in the back way. You other fellows hide yourselves up and down the block here, but choose places where you can watch that house. If anybody comes out you are to jump on him and frisk him for the little black book, see? If it isn't on him let him go. If we get in the rear all right, and want your help, one of us will come to the front door, and saw his arm up and down so, like a semaphore."

There was a flight of steps down to the rear basement-door of the apartment house. An eight-foot fence separated the narrow yard here from the yard of the first dwelling. Greg and Estuban boosted Bull up on top; Bull from the top and Greg at the bottom hoisted Estuban up; then the two already up each reached Greg a hand. Once up they found the way was easier than they had expected. There was a longitudinal fence separating the yards of all the houses on Seventeenth Street from those in Sixteenth. This fence was topped by a three-inch plank along which Greg and Estuban were able to walk upright. Bull, less sure-footed, straddled it and hunched himself along. At one of the back yards a cautious householder had set his fence with great spikes against cats or marauders. Here they had to drop down and go around. The sky was overcast and it was very dark. Few lights showed in the back windows.

They reached the sixth yard at last and silently dropped to earth. The back of the house facing them at first glance showed no gleam of light, but upon looking closer they saw that the principal room on the second floor was lighted. In two of the three windows on this floor cracks of light showed around the edges of the opaque blinds that had been pulled down. Two windows and a door gave on the yard. The windows were barred, so they could be left open in hot weather, but the door had no outer protection, and glass panes had been let in the upper panels.

"Here's where the glass-cutter comes in handy," murmured Greg. "Good old Bessie!"

They wrapped a handkerchief around the tool to deaden the sound as far as possible. Nearest to the lock of the door Greg traced a square big enough to admit his hand. There was nothing to do but let the piece fall inside.

"If the sound of it brings them we'll already be in," said Greg grimly.

He struck the outlined square a light blow with his fist and it tinkled to the floor within. Thrusting his arm through the hole he drew the bolt and turned the key. They stole in. Greg gave his pocket light a swift flash around. They were in a kitchen, a disused kitchen; the range was gray with dust, the shelves empty.

"Wait here a minute till we see if they were alarmed by the sound," whispered Greg. "Keep on this side away from the windows."

They waited, holding their breaths to listen. Not a sound was to be heard through the dark house except the rats scurrying behind the plaster.

Satisfied at length that the broken glass had passed unnoticed, they proceeded to investigate their surroundings. Four doors faced them; two gave on cupboards, the third on a short passage ending in the front basement room, while the fourth opened on the stair hall. The other room on this floor was as empty as the kitchen. Though so far there was no sign of human usage they were struck by the warmth of the house.

"They don't stint themselves coal," whispered Greg. "Let's drop our overcoats."

A door under the stairs gave on steps leading to the cellar. A gaslight had been left burning down here. They saw the furnace that supplied the heat, but there was no person in the cellar.

Greg left Bull on guard on the basement floor. "If anybody gets past us up-stairs, don't let him get by you without frisking him for the book. If they come too fast for you, call for help."

Greg and Estuban stole up to the main floor. Two long parlors front and rear opened off the hall. They were dusty and empty like the rooms below. At the head of the next flight of stairs a crack of light showed under a door, and a murmur of voices came down to them.

Greg whispered to Estuban: "Creep up stairs and listen. It may be valuable to us. I'll call the other men in."

With infinite caution Greg unchained and unlocked the two sets of doors and stepped out on the stoop. The block was empty. But there were eyes out. For when Greg gave the prearranged signal three figures appeared from the shadows opposite and noiselessly hastened to him. He drew them inside the house and shut the doors.

Hickey was sent to help Bull because there were two ways out from the basement to be watched; Blossom was left at the front door; Greg and Ginger stole on up and joined Estuban at the turn of the stairs. Putting his lips to Greg's ear Estuban breathed:

"We're just in time. They're breaking up here. There are not more than four men with de Socotra in there. The rest have already scattered. He's giving these their final instructions now."

Greg whispered back: "Is the door locked?"

"I don't think so. There's no key in the other side. Now that you're here to back me up I'll try the handle."

"Wait a minute. Front and rear bedrooms in these houses usually communicate. Ginger, go in the front room and stand guard. Take my flash."

Estuban yielded first place to Greg. Greg tried the door. It gave. Slamming it open the two entered the room with their guns before them.

"Hands up, gentlemen," said Greg.

There were four men; three seated in various attitudes about a table near the window, and the fourth, de Socotra, arrested in the act of pacing back and forth. The table was littered with papers. Several valises stood about the floor. The three sitting men, Abanez and Alfieri were two of them, flung up their hands without a sound as if impelled by an electrical current. Not so de Socotra. His nerves were under iron control. He actually laughed. With his eyes fixed on Greg's eyes he coolly drew a cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket, took a cigarette, tapped it finically on the lid, and stuck it between his grinning lips. Returning the cigarette case, from another pocket he produced a match, struck it on his sole, lighted the cigarette and flicked the match away.

"Ah, our good friend Mr. Parr again," he said mockingly. "Really, Mr. Parr, you ought to be in moving pictures. Or perhaps you are. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

If he expected to rattle Greg he mistook his man. Greg saw a tell-tale bulge over the man's right breast, and that was all he wanted. Matching the other's tone, he said:

"You're a remarkable man, Señor de Socotra. I didn't want to lose touch with you. To-night I have brought an old acquaintance of yours with me."