Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 44, No. 5, September 28, 1929

Gang Vengeance Creeps A round the Girl Who Knew Too Much, But One Man Stands in the Way — “Under Cover” Lane

I

At eight o’clock on Friday evening, it became evident to Foxcroft that a new criminal project was being planned in the underworld. He did not learn the exact nature of the affair, for he was unable to hear enough of the snatches of conversation.

The meeting was in the little back room at the Roost — a room from which many quiet orders had been sent out, and in which, more than once, sentence had been passed upon unfortunates who had incurred gangland’s disfavor. Few of the patrons of this notorious resort knew of the little back parlor. One-Eye Beckett, the manager, knew, and several of the waiters; but to all appearances the space was only a part of the big wine locker which adjoined the gaudy clubroom.

On occasions, nevertheless, there were secret gatherings there — as on the Friday evening when Foxcroft learned that a plot was afoot.

He sat with “Bugs” Flaherty, a gunman, at the outer end of the room, close to a narrow back stairway which led downward three floors to an alley. Both men were silent, sipping liquor, awaiting orders from the group around a table a few feet away.

The talk at the table was in low voices; and the intermittent pounding of jazz on the opposite side of the partition, together with sounds of hilarity from the booths and tables, kept Foxcroft from hearing all.

He well knew the identity of those present. F. Henderson “Stuffy” McHugh, politician and gang leader, dominated the group, holding the others’ attention with his bright eyes while he accepted or rejected their suggestions. There was a flush upon McHugh’s cheeks to-night, an extra keenness in his glance; and Foxcroft felt that it boded ill for some one. Then there were Murphy and Culhane, runners for the biggest gang lawyers; a bootlegger, Sawtell; and Jack Conlon, proprietor of a chain of gambling houses.

“Aw, it’s a cinch!” The bootlegger spoke in rough assurance. “It’ll be dead open and shut—”

“But get this,” interposed Culhane, tall and beady-eyed, tapping the table with his forefinger. “You’ve got to be darn certain he’s in his rooms at twelve-thirty, and alone.”

“We’ll make sure of that,” said Jack Conlon.

Then for several minutes Foxcroft could hear little. At intervals Conlon vigorously nodded his small, round head. The gaming-house keeper had a repulsive face, and this evening it wore a leer. His cheek bones stood out prominently.

At length Stuffy McHugh’s voice broke in, smooth, rich, and forceful. “Now, you fellows let me handle that end of it. I’m not a lawyer, but neither am I a fool. Tony must do his stuff. That’s just where you’ve gone wrong once or twice before. You think the details aren’t important—”

“But what’s the need of it, chief,” Conlon protested, “if Massey and Pearson will swear they seen him there? And then there’s Benny — a coupla grand’ll buy his testimony any day.”

“I’ve told you, I’ll handle this. It’s all right for three men to swear a thing happened at a certain place — but under cross-examination they’ll have to go into details before and after. And if they rely on imagination for that part, all three may not imagine the same things. I tell you, for that reason as well as for another, Tony is going to do his stuff.”

McHugh rose abruptly and glanced toward the other end of the room.

“Bugs — there’s a job for you tonight. Foxy — we’ll not need you.”

Foxcroft nodded, set down his glass, and pushed back his chair, while his companion crossed to join the others. When the gang leader said that a man wasn’t needed, it meant that he wasn’t wanted. Foxcroft knew better than to invite displeasure by remaining. He took up his cheap straw hat, opened the door, and stumbled down the long, steep, creaking stairway to the alley at the rear of the building.

The fragments that he had overheard had left him perplexed and uncertain. All of the gangsters, by their tense, quiet demeanor, had made it plain that the occasion was momentous. It might prove an evil night indeed for the unknown victim against whom their plans were being directed!

The Roost was at the top of an old brick building on Columbia Street, in the heart of gangland. Crossing thoughtfully toward an intersecting thoroughfare which led to his third-rate rooming house, Foxcroft caught sight of a crowd gathered on a corner a block farther south. He advanced with interest.

There was a raid in progress — a raid on a notorious dive, Hurley’s gambling joint. Two patrol wagons waited outside, and the lower floors of the structure swarmed with officers in plainclothes. Foxcroft shook his head grimly. Here was another slap for the big mob — a raid conducted within a stone’s throw of their leaders’ conference in the back room at the Roost!

As he moved on, he passed a knot of gangsters on the opposite corner. They were watching the police and muttering darkly. He paused, ostensibly to light a cigarette.

“Leonardos—!”

“He never comes wit’ th’ cops.”

“Dat’s all right wait! De dirty skunk will turn up one o’ dese nights!”

“Leonardos... the—!”

II

Foxcroft smiled oddly, bitterly, a twisted smile, as he walked through the poorly lighted thoroughfare. Here was an example of the reward of the common crooks, the vast majority of crooks. They weren’t even permitted to share in inside information necessary for their own protection. It was Leonardos, editor of the Beacon, the reform newspaper, whom they blamed for the campaign against gang-controlled interests; it was Leonardos whom they hated and threatened — with never a thought of the man behind Leonardos!

Stuffy McHugh and a few more at the top knew, of course. They were aware that there was another with whom they must reckon; an outsider, a man who had planned the whole long series of raids and prosecutions, and who had signed a contract to rid the city of organized gang rule. A very few knew also that their arch-enemy’s name was Lane — “Under Cover” Lane — a consulting expert. Yet even the chief, McHugh, didn’t guess the whole truth.

The vast campaign had been almost ruinous for McHugh. One by one, his biggest enterprises had been halted; police captains in the gang districts had been moved about like chessmen; and nearly all of the mob’s best friends had been transferred. And McHugh laid the blame upon the police commissioner, wondered at his unerring knowledge; he didn’t suspect that the commissioner’s hand had been forced by the Governor, nor that the latter’s information had come from — Under Cover Lane!

Foxcroft gave a quiet, hollow laugh. Perhaps Lane’s work was nearly ended — this time might be the last! He knew of the sums offered by different gang leaders for the exposure of the secret investigator who had cut off their enormous profits. In Cincinnati, in Cleveland and Brooklyn and other cities, Lane’s identity had never been known.

He had directed huge drives against law-defying organizations: yet in every case, others had received the credit. The present task might have a different outcome — a single slip meant the end.

The end! There wouldn’t be the slightest doubt about that part. It would come without warning, in a flash; and through all the underworlds would spread a murmur of relief and satisfaction. In gangland there is no hatred so deadly as that which the mob holds toward an agent who works from the inside; he is called a snitcher, a stool pigeon, a rat!

Crossing the street, the man known as Foxcroft entered a small rooming house, a dingy and unattractive place like hundreds in the South End. He slipped up the stairs to his room, where he lit the gas, drew the shades, and went to work at once with the thoroughness of one who realized that his life might depend upon his care.

A cracked and dusty mirror hung facing the light, reflecting an oblong patch on the faded wall paper. It was a lean and sallow man of forty, prematurely gray, whom the glass first revealed; a man cheaply yet flashily clothed, with several gold teeth prominent among others broken and darkened, and with hollow, pale, bitter eyes. The underworld was well acquainted with this individual — Foxcroft, inveterate gambler, rapidly aging, buffeted by the winds of chance.

But in a few minutes an amazing change had taken place. The flaring check suit, the bright shirt and tie, were discarded, and the man donned plain, quiet apparel. His sallow, dry complexion disappeared beneath a dampened cloth, and a sponge dipped in dye hid temporarily the gray streaks in his thinning hair. His eyes lost their sunken appearance. Finally he took from his mouth his full set of false teeth, and opened a wallet which he kept in his pocket.

In this wallet were two other sets of plates. One, much more repulsive than that with the gold teeth which he had just removed, displayed only two crumbling fragments adorning the lower jaw and one above. The third set were faultless — small, white, and regular. He selected these, and his transformation was complete.

No longer was Foxcroft, the gangster and gambler, reflected in the mirror. A different man, erect, well-poised, square-jawed, had taken his place. The highest executives of several states knew this man, and listened attentively when he spoke.

Opening a drawer which he kept locked, Under Cover Lane paused, glancing at an assortment of hats and caps. He chose a dark felt, despite the warm evening. Turning out the gas, he quietly raised the shade and window at one end of the room, peering out.

A musty odor rose from the back yard below. There was no sound. Lane groped for the railing of the fire escape and softly descended. In silence he made his way through an alley to the street.

From the point where he emerged, he walked three blocks, then signaled a passing taxicab. Riding to a corner well outside of the South End, he entered a drug store and slipped into a telephone booth.

A man’s deep, well-modulated voice answered his call.

“Donaldson?”

“Yes. Who’s speaking?”

Lane’s reply was quiet, in a tone very different from Foxcroft’s whine. “My initials are J. B. L.”

He heard a quick word of recognition.

“I must talk with you, Donaldson, to-night.”

“Yes. Well, I must talk with you,” said the other. “Er... where are you now?”

“Public booth.”

“Well, you know that young woman who stepped into the situation at the Roost a few months ago, and spoiled some very interesting plans in regard to marked money? Beatrice Ashton is her name. She phoned me just now.”

Lane caught his breath. “You don’t say! Knew where to find you, eh?”

“Apparently she looked me up. The... er—” He dropped his voice slightly. “The gang have been after her.”

“Eh? Well, they would!” was the instant, bitter comment. “They must have found out she was the one that queered the game — although I tried to cover it.”

“Listen. I don’t want to say any more over this line. Miss Ashton is on her way up here to consult with me now. Take a taxi and you can get here first. I’d like to have you present.”

“I’ll be right up!” replied the under cover man.

III

Beatrice Ashton had found herself involved in the situation without warning. For months she had been in dread of such a meeting, had been constantly on guard, until in recent weeks the comparative tranquillity of her life had lulled her almost to a sense of security. The more unnerving, therefore, had been her experience.

As she stepped from an uptown subway entrance a few minutes before nine on Friday evening, only a sharp observer could have guessed that she was in a state of uncertainty and uneasiness bordering upon terror. There was, perhaps, a hint of forced resolution about her firmly set lips, an unusual watchfulness in the glance of her blue-gray eyes. And, as she walked briskly away from the entrance, one might have noticed that occasionally she glanced backward and across the street, pausing at times as though looking for a friend.

It was not a friend, however, for whom she was on the watch; and in her heart a growing fear conflicted with a sense of obligation. Of one fact she was certain: her danger, if already great, might soon be greater. To be observed arriving at her present destination might lead to the more dire consequences.

Accordingly, when she had crossed several intersections and arrived opposite a large apartment building where the figures 447 stood out dimly on the glass of the main entrance, she stopped, carefully regarding each of the other pedestrians within view, and waiting until each had passed out of sight. An automobile had drawn to the curb a short distance down the street, and she did not move until all of its occupants had alighted and disappeared. Then, watching her chance, she crossed the busy thoroughfare.

Entering the door numbered 447, Beatrice glanced quickly at the several bells, pressed one, received a response, and heard the clicking of the latch on the inner door. She ascended hastily to the second landing, where, in an oblong of light, a pleasant, dark-eyed woman of thirty-five stood smiling and returning her glance with quick interest.

“I’m looking for Mr. Donaldson’s suite,” Beatrice said.

“Yes. Come in. I am Mrs. Donaldson.”

Stepping over the threshold, the girl passed through a well furnished hallway to a comfortable room lined with bookshelves, where a large, rugged man of uncertain age, who was busy at a writing desk, rose instantly and welcomed her with quiet courtesy. He had a prominent chin and quick, active, light blue eyes.

“I’m very grateful for your interest, Mr. Donaldson.”

“It is I who should be grateful, Miss Ashton,” he replied.

A warm glance from Mrs. Donaldson showed that she shared her husband’s knowledge of events that had occurred at an underworld rendezvous several months earlier. She excused herself politely and left the room.

“I hope I’ll not take too much of your time,” Beatrice declared, when they were seated.

“Don’t feel troubled about that in the least,” the investigator assured her. “My first concern at present is to hear your experience. I judge from what you said over the telephone that it was a rather trying one.”

He had taken a chair near a wide, dark-curtained doorway which apparently led to another room. The curtain was fully drawn.

“It was startling — terrifying,” she answered, meeting his gaze earnestly, “although, of course, I’ve realized for weeks that sooner or later such a meeting would be likely to take place.”

“You met one of the underworld characters? One of the gangsters?”

She hesitated, then spoke a trifle timidly. “I... I’m not sure, Mr. Donaldson, how much you know about — about — past events.”

“I know nearly everything about them,” he returned frankly. “That’s why I’m grateful.”

“You’ve learned about the marked money?”

He nodded. “It was to have been planted in my pocket.”

“Then... then you know also about my assisting the gangsters?”

“I know that you did so without knowledge of what you were doing.”

She drew a deep breath, conscious of relief mingled with amazement.

“Since that evening, Miss Ashton — have you found other employment?”

“Yes. I have a position in the advertising department of King, Hadley & Company — drawing pictures for clothing advertisements. The manager has spoken of having me transferred to their big store in New York, and I’ve been hoping the change would come soon. As I said, I’ve been living rather in terror of the very meeting which took place to-night.

“Recently it has been my custom to have supper at the Lisbon Café, a very quiet, pleasant place not far from where I am rooming. I was there this evening when a man suddenly stepped to my table and sat down in the chair opposite mine. I looked up in surprise, which changed to horror when I saw who he was; and for an instant I was so frightened that I couldn’t speak at all. The man was the gang leader, Mr. McHugh.”

“You mean F. Henderson McHugh, the politician?”

“Yes. It was he who... who employed me, because of my ability to draw people’s faces from memory. Since the night when he sent me to place money in your pocket, I hadn’t seen him. I was terrified; I glanced wildly around to see how many others of his gang were in the café. And then, all at once, I noticed that Mr. McHugh’s manner didn’t appear to be menacing — he was smiling.

“He spoke to me then, asked me why I had disappeared so suddenly; and I still couldn’t find words to answer. He said, ‘You don’t think we hold it against you because you slipped on that one occasion?’

“Bitter words came to my lips when he said that, and I was on the point of denouncing him openly, regardless of consequences, but at that instant he made another remark, a bewildering one.

“ ‘Come,’ he said, ‘tell me, Miss Beatrice. You don’t think I’m so ungrateful as that — after all the fine work you had done previously?’ And then, just in one amazing instant, I realized the truth — that Mr. McHugh didn’t know I had spoiled his plans intentionally, but thought I had become confused and had made a mistake.

“How he could have failed to learn what really happened,” the girl added, “is beyond my conception! Because there was the man Foxcroft — I threatened him with a pistol — and he was one of the gang! The only possible explanation is that Foxcroft, for some reason, didn’t make a full report to McHugh; perhaps he realized that the gang’s revenge would be a dreadful one.”

Donaldson was listening intently, his face expressionless.

“Well,” she continued, “the instant I realized the true situation, I checked the remarks that I had been about to make. If Mr. Stuffy McHugh didn’t know that I had intentionally upset his scheme, I certainly didn’t want him to know! I made an excuse, explaining that I had obtained a well-paying position with a clothing firm, and that I had been afraid my error at the night club would make it impossible for me to continue as one of his secret agents.

“To my still greater astonishment, he leaned across the table and said quietly: ‘Miss Beatrice, there is an exceedingly important matter that I’d like to send you on to-night.’

“He added: ‘If it’s on account of insufficient salary that you deserted us, I’ll increase it. I will pay you two hundred dollars for to-night’s work.’ ”

The investigator sat forward quickly. “Did you accept?”

“I pretended to, yes. I did so because I was afraid a refusal would anger him, and I didn’t know how many others were close at hand.”

“Then he told you what he wanted you to do?”

She nodded.

IV

“Of all the assignments that Mr. McHugh ever gave me,” Beatrice declared, “I think this is the strangest, the most incomprehensible. As was usually the case before, it’s a piece of work which makes use of my ability to draw accurate likenesses of faces from memory. At ten minutes after twelve to-night I am expected to leave my lodging house—”

“Pardon me just a moment,” Donaldson interrupted. “Did you tell McHugh where you are living now?”

“I told him in a rather vague way,” was her answer. “I didn’t give him the number of the house, yet I didn’t say anything actually misleading, for I thought he might have me followed home—”

“He didn’t ask for your telephone number?”

“Not when he learned that it wasn’t a private phone.”

“I see. Proceed, Miss Ashton.”

“At ten minutes after twelve I am expected to leave my lodging house in the West End, take a cab, and ride at once to the corner of Mortimer Avenue and Groveton Street, in the South End, alighting opposite the Mortimer Avenue car barn. A Mortimer Avenue surface car leaves this barn at twelve twenty-five every night. I am expected to be a passenger on that car.

“Then, according to McHugh’s plan, one of his gangsters will enter the car at the next corner, a man named Flaherty, in a dark brown suit and cap. We are ordered to pay no attention to each other. But farther along, at Albion Avenue, another man will enter. He will be of very dark complexion, wearing a stylish blue suit with a light line in it, and a straw hat. He will be reading a Greek newspaper, Mr. McHugh said.

“This stylishly dressed man will ride across town in the car until it arrives at Columbia Street. There he will suddenly glance out of the window, give a sharp, quick gasp, throw down his newspaper, and hasten out, signaling to the conductor to stop. The first man, Flaherty, will then pick up the newspaper, make a grimace when he finds that it is in Greek, and lay it on the seat.

“Meanwhile, I am expected to watch the other passengers, and to select any two who are together, and who have observed the incident at Columbia Street. I am to indicate my choice to Flaherty, and he is to follow these two people to their destination, wherever it may be. I am instructed to leave the car at Dover Street, then to return home and draw close likenesses of the two people whom I have chosen.”

The investigator was puzzled.

“You mean that you are to draw pictures of any two people in the car whom you choose?”

“Yes — any two who are together. Mr. McHugh says there are always quite a number of passengers on that car, late home comers, and he wishes me to choose two of the most respectable. Aside from that, the selection rests entirely with me.”

“And Flaherty, you say, is to follow whatever pair of strangers you indicate? He isn’t to follow the stylish man with the Greek newspaper?”

“No. That man leaves the car at Columbia Street.”

“Humph,” said Donaldson. He sat in silence for a moment with heavy brows contracted. At length he shook his head.

“I confess, Miss Ashton, that at present I’m in the dark about this proposition. You’ve narrated everything that McHugh told you?”

“Yes, Mr. Donaldson. When he and I parted at the door of the café, he understood that I would be in the street car as directed, and would bring the two pen drawings to his residence to-morrow morning. I went to my lodging house, very much unnerved by the interview, and quite at a loss what I should do. I thought of going at once to the police. Then I decided that it might be better to consult with you.”

“I’m very glad you did,” was his comment. “The matter interests me deeply.”

“And then, another reason why I came,” she told him, “I felt that after having done so much, unknowingly, for the other side — so much against the commissioner of public safety and other honorable men — I felt it was my duty to place these facts before you right away.”

He nodded. “You may be sure that I appreciate it. Your information may serve to prevent some very serious crime. I only wish that I knew more of the details—” He hesitated, glancing at her in a quick, thoughtful manner.

He rose and took a chair nearer. “I wonder, Miss Ashton, if you would be willing to be of still further service to us. If you are still troubled by any slight qualms of conscience at having done so much for the other side — would you consider squaring the account by undertaking to do a little for us? I promise that you will be well paid for your time.”

For a moment the girl did not answer. With her whole heart she shrank from further contact with the underworld, its furtive denizens, its ugliness and greed. The thought of returning to such surroundings filled her with nameless dread. Donaldson seemed to realize what was passing through her mind.

“Let me resolve the question to more definite terms,” he suggested. “You spoke of being transferred to New York by your firm. I certainly advise it, and I think you should ask to have it arranged as soon as possible. While you remain here, you are in danger of suspicion by McHugh and his gang. If you remain passive, if you fail to keep your agreement with McHugh to-night, you merely increase the risk of suspicion. Therefore, why not take sides with us?”

“What would you like me to do?” she asked doubtfully.

“To follow McHugh’s instructions to-night exactly as he has given them — then to return here and report to us, drawing pen sketches of all the actors in this little piece of melodrama. Then, in the morning, if McHugh pays you, accept the money; and we’ll see that it is turned over to the proper authorities later.”

She hesitated, a deep uncertainty in her eyes.

“But... but suppose,” she objected, “that the gangster, Foxcroft, should betray me? He might not maintain silence if he saw that I was about to do his friends more harm.”

Donaldson smiled faintly. “I think I can guarantee—” He stopped.

“Did some one knock?” Beatrice asked.

He glanced toward the hall, then shook his head.

“I was going to say, Miss Ashton, that the danger of Foxcroft’s betraying you cannot possibly become any greater than it is already, now that his chief has engaged you to do more work. He probably knows of it. If he has failed to speak so far, he can scarcely do so now, for he would have to explain his previous silence. In any event, we, too, are rather well organized, and I think we shall be able to warn you promptly in case of danger.”

She drew a long, steady breath.

“I... I certainly think, in the interests of justice, I should do as you request—”

Donaldson rose, thanking her heartily.

“You must permit me to take you to your neighborhood in my car. We can’t risk your being recognized in this vicinity. Now—” He paused again. “I’m considering whether or not you should make your report to me tonight.”

Beatrice turned her head. “I’m sure some one tapped. In that direction.” She nodded toward the room beyond the drawn curtain.

He gave her a swift, half-humorous glance.

“Spirit knockings, perhaps, Miss Ashton. I think you should return here with your report to-night, no matter how late it is. I’ll send two operatives to make sure that you aren’t followed or molested on the way. One moment — I’ll send for my car.”

Mrs. Donaldson said good night to the girl, and presently the investigator accompanied her downstairs to the front door, where his sedan was wait-ting, his chauffeur at the wheel. Donaldson was quick to observe Beatrice’s apparent surprise.

“My profession is one where a chauffeur is really needed,” he remarked as they stepped into the car. “When I move from place to place, I need all my faculties to give to the problem at hand; I can’t be obliged to watch red and green lights.”

He explained that there was one stop to be made; and soon afterward they were joined by a well-built, freckled youth wearing spectacles, who was waiting at the curb. Beatrice started in surprise.

“Miss Ashton — Mr. Somers. Oh, you’ve met?” said Donaldson.

“Mr. Somers of the National Detective Agency?” the girl asked.

“Yes!” replied the youth. “And I certainly remember you, Miss Ashton! Wasn’t it you — the evening when you met with an accident—”

Beatrice did not explain that the accident had been a sham, and Donaldson judged that she didn’t wish Somers to know of her previous alliance with the underworld.

In the West End, they left the girl within a few blocks of her lodging house, and she promised to return to Donaldson’s home as soon as she had completed the night’s assignment.

When she had hurried from view, the younger detective turned a puzzled glance upon his companion.

“Who is she, Mr. Donaldson? And what’s up to-night?”

The other gave him a swift look, half amused and half anxious, as he answered:

“She’s a mighty smart girl! And I’m afraid there’s the devil to pay!”

V

Donaldson’s face wore an expression of deep gravity, his lips were firmly set, as he alighted from his sedan on Temple Street at nine in the morning. He spoke briefly to his chauffeur, then entered the building where the car had stopped. An elevator carried him to the second floor, which was occupied by the editorial and news rooms of a small daily newspaper, the Beacon, owned by a wealthy resident of the city, Colonel Franklin Graye, who was interested in law enforcement.

Entering, Donaldson stepped at once to the office of the editor in chief in a manner of familiarity. An erect, energetic man of thirty-five, with a keen Grecian countenance, bounded to his feet.

“Ah — Donaldson! Good morning!”

“Good morning, Leonardos,” returned the investigator, very quietly.

The other sobered. “You don’t seem in good humor to-day.”

“Oh, I’m always in good humor,” said Donaldson, taking several papers from a portfolio. “I’ve brought my operatives’ reports.”

He crossed to the most comfortable chair, sat down slowly, and thereupon lit a cigar — to the young editor’s obvious annoyance.

Leonardos had become widely known through the Beacon’s campaign against gang rule and crime. In a little village not far from Athens he had begun life humbly, dreaming, as he grew older, of the time when he would journey to America and provide comfort for his large family. But in America his way had been long and hard, an uphill battle.

Hampered by the necessity of learning English, handicapped by race prejudice, Leonardos had struggled on, through college, through a school of journalism, unfaltering in his determination to achieve success. One friend there had been whose advice and encouragement had proved invaluable. Then, in later years, had come a modest fame, and with it new hopes — a girl; but Leonardos hadn’t been able to think much of her yet; his family in Greece still needed nearly all that he could earn.

Donaldson sat regarding him steadily through a swirl of cigar smoke.

“That’s a nifty suit you have on today, Leonardos,” he remarked at length.

“Do you like it? I bought it at King, Hadley’s.”

“Indeed?” The older man raised his heavy eyebrows. “That’s curious. I know a young lady who designs advertisements for them. Yes; I like the suit. That light gray line goes with the blue very nicely.”

Leonardos was eager to hear the operatives’ reports. The recent work was of great importance in his drive against organized gambling.

“We want these taken down, together with my verbal interpolations,” Donaldson suggested, shuffling his papers. “Has your estimable assistant, Winston, got in yet?”

“Winston is not an assistant editor,” Leonardos corrected with dignity. “He is a man without previous newspaper experience, whom Colonel Grave engaged to act as my special assistant and secretary, in connection with the law enforcement campaign.” He rose and went to the door in exasperation.

“Not here, as usual! Ten minutes after nine. The fellow keeps banker’s hours, comes and goes as he pleases! I’ll have a stenographer step in—”

“No. One of these reports has rather tough language.”

Leonardos breathed a sigh of uneasiness.

“I don’t like this Winston,” he said. “He is too inquisitive. And twice he has had the temerity to offer me suggestions. S-sh! Here he is—”

The special secretary, a lean, rather sharp faced man of forty, entered and hung his hat in a closet.

“Winston, we have some material to be taken down in shorthand,” Leonardos directed with a frown.

Without answering, the newcomer obtained a pencil and pad and took a chair at a desk near the door. Donaldson at once began reading the reports, adding comments at intervals.

Suddenly he paused and again regarded the editor.

“By the way, where were you late last night, Leonardos?”

It brought a scowl to the other’s keen, dark features.

“Surely that is immaterial. I was at home after eleven.”

“That is, at your new apartment? Were you alone?”

“Of course.” Then sharply the editor caught his breath. “But, now that you speak of it, there was a very peculiar occurrence late last night!”

“M-mm!” said Donaldson dryly. “Well, as a certain associate of mine might remark, there would have been! What happened?”

Leonardos cast an uncertain glance toward his special secretary before explaining quietly:

“Exactly at twelve thirty I was awakened by the bell. I rose and answered through the speaking tube, but received no reply from below. This made me somewhat uneasy. I put on the light. Then I stepped quietly to the open window, and, as I did so, several men who had been at the mouth of an alley across the street disappeared.”

The investigator’s countenance was grave. He thoughtfully tapped the ashes from his cigar.

“I, too, encountered a peculiar situation last night,” he stated. “It was brought to my attention by a young—” He stopped. “When I was first told of the matter last evening I misread its significance completely.

“Plans had been made by McHugh’s crowd for a stylishly dressed, dark-complexioned man to be in the twelve twenty-five Mortimer Avenue car; and I thought the man in question was a well-known gunman, Frankie the Greek, framing an important alibi. You see, it was clearly a case where two strangers were to be located, persons who had observed this particular man in the car, and who would be called later as witnesses. But the matter has now taken a very different aspect.”

Leaning forward, he drew an envelope from his pocket. “I’m afraid that the new aspect is unmistakably indicated by these several pen sketches.”

Again Leonardos turned his head toward his assistant. “Have you any further dictation?” he asked Donaldson.

“Yes; let Winston remain. And now look at these first two drawings and see if you recognize either face.”

A man of sixty and one much younger had been represented on separate slips of paper. There was a distinct family resemblance.

“These two men were selected at random from among the passengers in the car. So far we don’t know their identity.”

The editor shook his head. “I have never seen either.”

“Then look at this man.” Donaldson offered a third sketch.

“That’s a gangster, ‘Bugs’ Flaherty,” said Leonardos at once.

“Right. And now what about this man?”

“W-why—!” The other started. “It... it appears to be my own likeness!”

“M-mm,” Donaldson mused. “So it does. You will be surprised to learn that this individual was seen by my informant in the Mortimer Avenue electric car at twelve thirty last night. He was reading a Greek newspaper — or, rather, pretending to. His eyes weren’t moving.”

Leonardos was troubled. “Why didn’t you bring your informant to my office?”

For a moment Donaldson hesitated. He had avoided bringing Beatrice Ashton because Under Cover Lane had deemed the move inadvisable; but Lane did not wish any one connected with the Beacon to know that he was now in full charge of the work.

“Listen to this carefully,” Donaldson urged. “You are facing an ugly situation. You’re probably about to be framed. I’ve warned you often that you shouldn’t live alone, shouldn’t go around alone—”

“Fiddlesticks!” replied the young editor. “I am not afraid of the mob in this city. They are always threatening. They’ve been trying for years to frame the head of the National Detective Agency—”

“And why have they never succeeded? Because, wherever he goes they’re afraid he may have operatives near by; they don’t dare risk false testimony. At present, my friend, the whole underworld is seething with hatred of you. For months you’ve been pushing the big gambling ring extremely hard — Jack Conlon’s three joints in particular.”

“Jack Conlon’s yes!” agreed Leonardos, and a deep, warm light crept into his dark eyes.

“It was my dear friend’s last case,” he explained. “The Rev. Mr. Wentworth. To him I owe everything. He was working to close Conlon’s chain of establishments when he died; and then” — he bent forward earnestly, a new intensity in his voice — “and then, even before Mr. Wentworth was in his grave, a dastardly traitor was at work, selling out his cases to the mob!”

Much moved by the discussion, the editor rose, looking at his watch. “You must excuse me for a few minutes, Donaldson. I have an important engagement.”

With another troubled glance at the four pen drawings, and a stare of dissatisfaction toward his assistant, he left the room.

VI

Donaldson came to his feet slowly, brushing ashes from his clothes, and peered over Winston’s shoulder.

“Are you taking this down accurately?” he asked.

The secretary turned. “Could you do any better?”

“Probably not; but you might make it look something like shorthand. Leonardos was looking askance at the pad as he went out.”

“Eh? Well, he would!” was the man’s response. “He’s too damned suspicious of me to have time for much else!

“But I mustn’t blame him too much,” he added. “He has the most thankless job in this city. A man who works for a reformer has either got to be a crook, or be called one. What do you make of this now?”

Donaldson regarded him soberly. “It’s beginning to take pretty definite shape, isn’t it?

“They’ve found a man who looks almost exactly like Leonardos. The two strangers are to be located by the gang and summoned, to testify that they saw him leave that car in considerable excitement at Columbia Street. They want corroboration; civilian testimony is worth twice as much as police testimony in most cases. They’ll be able to bring almost any charge!

“This other Greek, wearing the right clothes, is a dead ringer for Leonardos. He purposely attracted attention to himself—”

The man at the desk shook his head.

“Not a Greek, Donaldson. An Italian.”

“Why do you believe so?”

“In the first place, because of his name, Tony. McHugh refused to take chances on a pure tissue of lies — Tony must do his stuff. Then you know Miss Ashton said the man in the car wasn’t reading his newspaper, only pretending.

“If you were in that fellow’s place, and had an open newspaper before you for appearances, you’d read without consciously doing so, even though you read the same paragraphs over and over. Wouldn’t you — eh? But this man’s eyes never moved — he didn’t read. Why didn’t he? Because he couldn’t. Eh? He’s not a Greek; he’s an Italian.”

He tapped the pen sketches with a lean forefinger. “We may be able to beat this thing yet. Have copies made out of this Italian’s picture. Send three or four good men to scour the South End for him. Send others to the North End. If we can hit this before it breaks—”

Somers and other operatives were dispatched, each with a sketch of the mysterious Tony as well as a photograph of Leonardos. All efforts, however, to locate the ringer, who had impersonated the young editor, were fruitless; and by Sunday evening Lane and Donaldson were convinced that the man had left the city.

On Monday the blow fell.

Donaldson first learned of it when he heard newsboys shrieking as he descended from the office of the National Detective Agency on State Street. Gradually the significance of their phrases came to him. He snatched a paper from an urchin’s hand.

The details were clear at last. Leonardos, editor of the Beacon, was under heavy bail, together with “Big Bill” Bonnell, a stick-up man with a long record, and Fred Loger, who was already facing trial on a bank robbery charge. Evidence had been unearthed, it was said, of a conspiracy between Leonardos and the two hold-up men to loot a chain of gambling houses on the busiest nights, when many thousands could be taken.

The account added that Loger and Bonnell had been arrested while attempting a robbery at one of the gaming parlors early Saturday morning, after police had shadowed them from a meeting place in the cellar of the ruined South End Church at Mortimer Avenue and Columbia Street. Loger’s subsequent admissions had led to the apprehension of Leonardos, who was said to have been present at the meeting.

“You see?” Donaldson remarked, as he sat in his comfortable living room that evening with Under Cover Lane. “Loger’s part in the game is clear enough. He’s there to turn State’s evidence. Why shouldn’t he, when he’s already facing a long term on another charge?”

His companion lit a cigarette and nodded bitterly.

“Their aim,” Donaldson continued, “is to deal our campaign a terrific blow by showing that our supposed leader has been in cahoots with bandits. Brought to court with these two hardened criminals, Leonardos will be prejudged as surely as fate. Unless we can prevent it—”

“We must find Tony,” the undercover man insisted.

“Yes; that’s our one chance. But I have no doubt that he’s been sent many miles away. He probably doesn’t live near here, anyway, or they wouldn’t have felt safe in using him. I suggest that we interview every railroad and steamship ticket agent.”

Lane nodded. “And while we’re about it, let’s match them at their own game. They engaged Miss Ashton to draw the witnesses’ pictures so they’d be sure of locating them afterward. Now, if Tony looks just like Leonardos, then Leonardos looks just like Tony.

“Eh? Get me? Don’t rely wholly on an inanimate sketch when you interview the ticket agents. Present Leonardos in person. His face might jog the ticket seller’s memory. But don’t let him talk — his voice may not match Tony’s so closely.”

The effect of the accusation upon the young editor had been peculiar. His was an artistic and idealistic temperament; not at all a suitable type to deal with crime and corruption. It wasn’t so much the serious charge that had unnerved and crushed him; it was the experience of being placed in the dock between habitual lawbreakers, vicious gunmen.

“It will be in the Greek papers, of course,” he told Donaldson in an odd, harsh voice. “My family will see it.”

He breathed a shuddering sigh. “Will you stand by me? The worst is to come. I know it would kill my mother if she should read of my being sent to prison.”

“But if it was an unjust conviction—”

Leonardos shook his head hopelessly. “She wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, you’re not in prison yet, old man.”

“Will you stand by me Donaldson?” begged the younger, seeking his face with his deep, dark eyes. “You are almost the only friend I have—”

“No; you have at least one other, although you may not realize it — a very powerful friend. We’ll do our part, and you must help.”

There was little time in which to work. The district attorney, aroused by the discovery that a reformer had stooped to crime, had promised to push the trial with all possible speed. While Donaldson and Leonardos went that night to begin their rounds of the ticket agents in the several depots. Under Cover Lane moved quietly through the underworld in the guise of Foxcroft, on the alert for the slightest clew.

He did not make inquiries, for he knew better; his years of constant hazard had taught him never to do that. A casual question regarding the missing man’s whereabouts might do no immediate harm; but later, if Tony were found, it would be remembered! Throughout the evening Foxcroft drifted back and forth, to various dives and hangouts, watching the faces, listening for chance remarks.

At Cassidy’s, a den where two shifts of keen-eyed men accepted horse race bets throughout the afternoon and served as gamekeepers at green-covered tables by night, Lane picked up his sole scrap of information. It came unexpectedly, from a group who had stepped from the gaming room to a spacious bar at the rear.

“Tony ain’t in town now, is he?”

“Naw. He lit out Saturday.”

“A game sport, Tony.”

“Smart driver, too... eh, Pete?”

“Dat’s right — go on, kid me, damn youse!” exploded the man addressed. “Youse t’ink I minda da spill, loosa da booze. But dat is not so; it’s his damn crazy drive in town I mind — lika to get pinch—”

“Yeah,” agreed another, “Tony starts to make a left turn off the avenue — he pulls ’way over to the right curb and tries to make it from there!”

“Shouldn’t have let him drive. Might have known—”

The group moved on, and Foxcroft heard no more.

VII

The next two days brought further set-backs.

Donaldson, in his efforts to locate an agent who had sold the unknown Tony his transportation, had met only failure. By Wednesday evening he and Leonardos had visited every ticket window and stateroom office in the city, at various hours; and they were ready to admit the probability that some other person had paid the Italian’s fare.

But when Donaldson reported this to Under Cover Lane, the latter’s firm jaw tightened. A glitter appeared in his pale eyes.

“No, no, man — I won’t say it — I won’t say yet that we’re beaten! There’s just a chance; there’s one more reference that might prod some fellow’s memory.”

He leaned across sharply, poking the other’s knee.

“You go the rounds once again — take Leonardos and the pictures — ask each agent if he remembers selling such a man a ticket to Atlantic City.”

Donaldson was curious.

“Eh? A guess — that’s all,” said Lane.

A curly-haired young man, in the second grilled window of a long row, shook his head with a pleasant grin as Donaldson and Leonardos approached.

“You’ve tried me before,” he said. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

At the older investigator’s words, however, he suddenly snapped his fingers together and stared at Leonardos.

“By Jove! I do recall you now, sir! If you’d mentioned Atlantic City before—”

“Is there any way you can fix the date?” asked Donaldson.

The agent considered for an instant. “Yes! I know just when it was — last Saturday morning! I was standing part of Berry’s trick; he had a severe headache and went to a doctor for a prescription—”

The two men were jubilant as they left the depot. The editor hurried to his office.

“My new hat’s off to you!” declared Donaldson to Lane. “But please enlighten my feebler mentality as to how you guessed it.”

The undercover man seemed irritated by the tone.

“Well — if you must hear it — I had three reasons. First, the remarks I overheard at Cassidy’s gambling joint. Tony tried to make a left turn from the right curb.”

“Oh. That’s permissible in Atlantic City—”

“Permissible, man? It’s obligatory! Of course, I don’t say that’s the only place where there’s such a regulation. But Atlantic City has gang-controlled interests very much like the ones here. And it has a large percentage of Italians.”

He hastily busied himself, thus averting his face, as an operative arrived to report to Donaldson.

In the afternoon, Somers of the National Detective Agency and another youth left the city by train, still carrying their photographs and ink drawings. Donaldson’s hopes were high as the pair departed. But as day after day passed and brought only expense accounts and reports of failure, his anxiety rapidly deepened. He knew that there wouldn’t be time to redeem another false start.

The district attorney was making every effort to bring the defendants to an immediate trial. Kent, the shrewd lawyer defending Leonardos, fought desperately for delay.

“It’s all in the bag. This proves it!” Donaldson pointed out. “Bonnell isn’t trying to prolong it; both he and Loger probably have been promised quick paroles. It’s Leonardos they want.”

“Eh? Well, they’ll know they’ve been in a fight before they get him!” returned Lane, thrusting out his lean, pointed chin.

A week dragged along, and another report came from the two absent operatives. Again it was negative.

“They’ll never find him!” rasped the undercover man.

The next night there was a new figure sauntering through the streets of Atlantic City — a large man, plainly dressed, with a soft hat pulled over his eyes to avoid recognition. Yet Donaldson knew that in all probability he had been identified. He was well known at the resort.

Hidden between the railroad and the famous Boardwalk, and extending westward from New York Avenue, exists a side of Atlantic City’s life of which most visitors know little — a secret and sinister side. It was through this district that the investigator was strolling, constantly watchful, searching every face. Twice he was almost certain that he was being followed. Groups of men at corners appeared to stare at him with hostility.

He turned south on Missouri Avenue and ascended to the Boardwalk, mingling with its throngs. Here, he knew, a shadow’s task would be more difficult. He moved along with the crowd, pausing occasionally to gaze at the brilliant windows of the shops.

His glance fell upon an unoccupied chair, approaching eastward in the slowly moving line. He stepped across.

“I ain’t allowed to pick up passengers,” said the man.

Donaldson handed him a dollar.

“Down to the Steel Pier — I’m tired walking,” he said.

He watched to see if any of those walking westward turned to follow. The man pushing the chair observed his backward glance.

“Out for a little entertainment tonight, guv’nor?” he offered.

Donaldson grunted. “I’m off the night clubs.”

“This place ain’t no club, boss. A cabaret show — the finest at the resort, or your money back.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes, sir. On New York Avenue. The Sunset Café. Lots of pretty girls.”

“Only cost you a sawbuck,” he added. “See the doorman. See Tony DiRocco.” As he said the last he bent close to Donaldson, his twisted smile revealing an almost toothless mouth.

The other returned to his hotel in elation. Tony DiRocco, doorman at the Sunset Café, could not be summoned from the State of New. Jersey; but there were other plans. Late that night he sent a code telegram.

Then came the Monday when Leonardos was notified that he would be called to trial on the following morning. Defense summonses were sent out. Somers, the freckled youth with glasses, was detailed to interview Beatrice Ashton. This task was not unpleasant to the operative. He had seen the girl several times before.

“McHugh hasn’t called upon you again?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re sure that you’d be willing to testify if needed, knowing what it would mean?”

Her lips came firmly together. “I’m willing.”

“You’ll not be called if we can avoid it. What about being transferred to New York by your firm?” he asked anxiously.

“I can make the change at any time.”

“Good,” said Somers. “Then try to arrange it for to-morrow. It... it might be advisable.”

There was a strained note in his voice that he couldn’t hide.

Early in the morning he and Donaldson visited Leonardos’s office. The editor of the Beacon was putting his desk in order.

“In case I don’t return!” he explained grimly.

“What nonsense,” scoffed the young operative.

“Where were you late last night, Leonardos?” asked Donaldson.

“I was out driving.”

“Out driving?”

“Yes!” he replied, his deep, dark eyes lighting for an instant. “I hired a car. I drove past Conlon’s three gambling houses. The windows were dark, the doors boarded, the paraphernalia destroyed. Gentlemen” — he drew a long breath — “my automobile drive last night has given me great courage. Are you ready? Let’s go to the court!”

VIII

The trial was well advanced. The police testimony had been brief but damaging. Two special officers and a route patrolman had been standing at Mortimer Avenue and Columbia Street at about twelve thirty on the night in question. They had observed Leonardos alighting hastily from an electric car. His furtive actions had caused them to watch him, and they had seen him enter the cellar beneath the ruins of the church.

Investigation had revealed two other men in the cellar. Loger and Bonnell had been followed and captured in the act of attempting a holdup at a dive on West Middleboro Street. After long questioning, the former had admitted his part in a conspiracy to commit grand larceny. He had named Leonardos.

Loger had become the State’s principal witness. In hard, sharp syllables he had told of the plot to loot a chain of gaming houses. He and Bonnell and others were the actual robbers, while Leonardos, from investigator’s information, had chosen the nights when business in the various gambling houses was at its peak.

The bandit was cross-examined at length by Kent, Leonardos’s counsel. His long criminal record was shown, but he stuck doggedly to his story. When he stepped from the stand the jury appeared impressed.

The two defendants displayed contrasting reactions. Bonnell was slouched in an attitude of stolid indifference, while Leonardos was rigid, following every move with troubled eyes.

The State called Edmund Gormley.

A man of sixty, thick-set and heavy build, advanced and took oath. The district attorney assumed an ingratiating tone.

“Where do you live. Mr. Gormley?”

“I now live at 65 Kirby Street,” replied the witness, speaking with a precise Canadian accent.

“Do you recognize either of the defendants?”

“Yes, sir. The one on my right,” replied Gormley.

“That is the defendant Leonardos. When and where have you seen him previous to this morning?”

The jury then heard of the peculiar incident in the Mortimer Avenue car at the corner of Columbia Street.

“Were you alone in the car?”

“No, sir. My son, Clinton Gormley, was with me.”

“How do you fix the date as August 31, Mr. Gormley?”

“Because, since September 1 there has been no Mortimer Avenue car at that hour.”

“Your witness,” said the district attorney.

There was a slight stir in the jury box. The character of this witness was obviously above question.

Kent rose quietly, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Er... Mr. Gormley. You said that August 31 was the last date when a Mortimer Avenue electric car ran at that particular time?”

“It was, sir.”

“But that fact was announced to the public in advance, by means of new schedules, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Now, Mr. Gormley, do you feel positive that the man with the Greek newspaper, whom you saw in the car that night, was Mr. Leonardos?”

“I should not have testified to the fact if I didn’t feel positive, sir.”

“You feel quite sure that it couldn’t have been any one else?”

“I do.”

Kent took two photographs from his desk.

“Will you kindly glance at these, and tell us if you can identify either as a photograph of Mr. Leonardos — and, if so, which one?”

The prosecutor was wary. “I pray your honor’s judgment,” he said, rising. “I don’t think the witness’s opinion in regard to these photographs—”

There was a pause while Kent sought to have the snapshots admitted as exhibits. He was allowed to repeat the question.

“Indeed, sir,” was Gormley’s response as he glanced at the two pictures, “I believe they are both excellent photographs of the defendant Leonardos. This one, in particular, is unmistakable.”

“Mr. Gormley, if you should be shown positive proof that the photograph you have selected is not of Mr. Leonardos, what would you say then?”

“Your honor, I ask that the question be stricken out.”

Judge Kenyon considered. “It may be stricken out,” he ruled.

“Your honor will note my exceptions,” requested Kent.

“They are saved.”

“That’s all, Mr. Gormley,” Kent said.

Clinton Gormley then took the stand and corroborated his father’s testimony. Asked by Kent if he could identify either photograph, he chose one unhesitatingly. Of the other he felt reasonably sure.

“Are you aware that you have not selected the same one as your father?”

The young man showed confusion.

“Of course he’s not aware of it,” the court interposed. “You haven’t demonstrated the fact.”

“It’s marked on the back, your honor,” replied Kent mildly.

He had no further questions, and the State rested its case.

The first witness called by Kent was the defendant, Leonardos. In a clear voice he told of his whereabouts on the night in question. He narrated his experience in his apartment at twelve thirty. Under Kent’s questioning, he denied emphatically any knowledge of the criminal plot by Loger and Bonnell. “It’s a damnable lie!” exclaimed Leonardos — and the court reproved him.

The State’s attorney spent little time in cross-examination. He had one telling question, which he brought out with full effect.

“Is it not true, Mr. Leonardos, that you had intimate knowledge, through certain investigators’ reports, of the nights when the largest amounts of money were in play at the different gambling establishments?”

Leonardos was obliged to answer in the affirmative.

“Walter Merrihew!”

A curly-haired young man stepped to the witness box. Sworn, he named the suburb where he lived.

“What is your occupation, Mr. Merrihew?” asked Kent.

“I’m ticket agent at the South Central Depot.”

“Were you on duty there on the morning after these events are alleged to have occurred?” He repeated the date.

“Yes, sir. That morning I relieved a friend who was ill.”

“Did you, on that morning, see the defendant, Mr. Leonardos?”

“No, sir. I saw a man who looks almost exactly like him.”

There was a spreading murmur of amazement, a general craning of necks. The jurymen sat up sharply.

“Did you have any conversation with the man who resembles Mr. Leonardos?”

“I did. I sold him a ticket to Atlantic City.”

“Have you, on any occasion, seen Mr. Leonardos at the depot?”

“Yes; twice. In company with an investigator, Mr. Donaldson.”

Court officers tapped for silence.

Handing the witness two photographs, Kent asked: “Can you tell us which is Mr. Leonardos, and which is the man who resembles him?”

“I cannot, sir. They look too much alike for that.”

Kent gave a swift, shrewd glance at his opponent.

“You may examine,” he said.

The prosecutor rose, facing Merrihew. “If these men, as you say, look too much alike to tell their photographs apart, how were you able to differentiate so positively in your testimony?”

Merrihew smiled.

“Their voices are altogether different,” he replied.

The room was buzzing with excitement when he left the stand. Kent hesitated, drew a calculating breath. He searched the jurors’ faces. It was evident that he had scored heavily. But the State’s case, with six witnesses, was still dangerous.

In a low but resonant tone he called:

“Beatrice Ashton!”

IX

Escorted by Donaldson and Somers, Beatrice advanced between rows of tense faces, beneath the glare of hostile eyes. Sharp intakes of breath, mutterings, told her all too plainly that she was recognized by gangsters among the spectators. Trying to conceal the nameless terror which clutched at her heart, she went steadily forward to the witness stand.

She raised her hand mechanically. The clerk’s voice, administering the oath, seemed to jump and pound in her ears.

Moistening her dry lips, she gave her name and place of residence.

She heard Kent’s tone, calm and reassuring. “What is your occupation, Miss Ashton?”

“I draw designs for clothing advertisements.”

“A little louder, please,” said Judge Kenyon.

Kent repeated her answer. “And you also possess ability to draw faces accurately from memory, do you not?”

“I’ve drawn faces from memory for years.”

“Do you recognize the defendant Mr. Leonardos?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Miss Ashton, were you in the twelve twenty-five Mortimer Avenue car on the Friday night — or, rather, the Saturday morning—”

“On August 31,” replied Beatrice.

She heard a tapping. There was a growing murmur in the room. Glancing for an instant among the rows of spectators, she recognized denizens of gangland there, members of the big mob. These men knew what was coming. She read the implacable hatred in their gaze.

Like wolves in a circle they had gathered, waiting for the kill, waiting to carry the word to the underworld — that the young Greek who had won his way to prominence would trouble them no more. A shudder passed over the girl as she met those burning eyes. She did not hear the attorney’s question.

He repeated: “Was there a man in the car that night who very closely resembled Mr. Leonardos?”

“Yes. He left the car at Columbia Street.”

“We don’t hear you,” the prosecutor said.

“Try to speak a little louder,” the judge again requested.

“Was it Mr. Leonardos who was in the car, Miss Ashton?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“There are two slight differences. Mr. Leonardos’s forehead is just a trifle wider; his chin is a little more rounded.”

“Is this witness to qualify as an expert?” the State’s attorney ventured in an acid voice.

“Have you seen the other man since that night?” Kent persisted.

“Yes. In Atlantic City.”

“Can you tell us his name?”

“He is known there as Tony DiRocco.”

“Were you present when a snapshot was taken of him in Atlantic City?”

“Yes, sir.” She identified one of the photographs.

“What others were present when it was taken?”

“Your honor, my brother is leading this witness—”

“Were there others present?” Kent asked.

“Yes. The photographer and Mr. Donaldson.”

“Now, Miss Ashton, when you were in the electric car that night, did you see the two men who have since been summoned by the State?”

“Yes. Mr. Edmund Gormley and his son.”

“Did you draw their likenesses shortly afterward?”

Beatrice replied in the affirmative, and there was a legal wrangle while Kent sought to have her drawings exhibited to the jury. Again, as if in a dread fascination, the girl found her gaze wandering among the spectators. Suddenly she caught sight of a gangster whom she well remembered — Foxcroft. He returned a chilling stare from his dull, pale eyes.

“Miss Ashton,” asked Kent, raising his voice a trifle, “why did you make these two drawings?”

“My services had been engaged for that purpose.”

“By whom?”

There was an instant of silence.

“By a Mr. F. Henderson McHugh,” answered Beatrice.

The district attorney leaped from his chair. He was white.

“I object! This line of inquiry is absolutely irrelevant—”

Judge Kenyon shook his head.

“The State has offered evidence pertaining to the electric car.”

The prosecutor sat down, glaring. Beatrice testified that McHugh had made the request at the Lisbon Café.

“And, as a result, you knew that there would be a man with a Greek newspaper in the car?”

“Yes.”

“You knew that he would leave the car at Columbia Street?”

“Yes!”

“How much did Mr. McHugh pay you for this service?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“What did you do with the money?”

“I turned it over to Mr. Donaldson.”

“Stool pigeon!” came in a low, guttural voice from the back of the room.

Kent sprang up. “Your honor,” he cried, while officers hastened to restore order, “I ask that the spectators be restrained from making threatening remarks while this witness is testifying.”

“It wasn’t a threatening remark—” the prosecutor demurred.

“If there is another disturbance of this nature,” Judge Kenyon warned, “the offender will be ejected from the court.”

Steadily and calmly, using all her force of will, Beatrice answered the district attorney’s questions. In vain he tried to shake her quiet story.

“Isn’t it true,” he thundered finally, “that you have lent your aid to a half dozen lawless enterprises in this city?”

This precipitated a fiery exchange between Kent and the prosecutor. Soon afterward, court was adjourned for the day.

X

Surrounded by operatives, the girl went quickly from the building and was hurried to a waiting automobile.

“You’ll not be needed to-morrow,” Donaldson said, when he and Somers were seated with her in the machine, with a carload of their associates behind. “No honest jury could fail to acquit Leonardos after hearing your evidence and Merrihew’s.

“Nevertheless,” he added, gravely, “if McHugh hadn’t gone one step too far, if he hadn’t engaged you to sketch the two witnesses, a good man might have been sent to prison. It makes us wonder who is safe, while machines of corruption rule.”

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“To your lodging house. You must start for New York to-night.”

“But... but I can’t get ready—”

“You’ll have to manage. You must take the midnight train.”

She returned their glances uncertainly.

“You must pack at once, Beatrice,” declared Somers.

“And remain at a hotel, guarded, until train time,” Donaldson added. “Also, be sure to request your employers not to give any information about where you’ve gone. I’ll see that they receive an official request of the same nature.”

“But I’m sure all this — can’t be necessary—” Her voice trembled slightly.

“I dislike to alarm you,” the older man said, “but you should realize your peril. If you can’t imagine what might happen to a young woman who’s done what you have, it would be useless for me to go into details. Not only is it a question of gang revenge; the whole mob will be mortally afraid that you may testify against McHugh later.”

In a dazed way Beatrice peered out the window. Amidst the rush of traffic on the streets, the whole situation seemed grotesquely unreal, unbelievable. Yet in her mind’s eye was the fearful hatred which she had seen in the faces at court.

Bolton of the National Detective Agency, at the wheel, was driving fast. In the mirror they could see the second machine keeping the pace. At length they turned into Beatrice’s street and stopped.

Donaldson and Somers entered with the girl while she informed the landlady of her departure, and waited upstairs in the hall until she had finished packing her trunk and suitcase. Her nervousness made the task difficult.

At length she emerged, dressed for traveling, and contrived a wan smile when she found her protectors on guard.

“We’re now going to the Fenmore Hotel,” Donaldson confided. “You will remain there until eleven twenty, when my chauffeur will call to take you to the depot. But not to a depot in the city. He’ll take you to Framingham.”

“And you must send a man for your baggage,” Somers cautioned. “Don’t, under any circumstances, return to this house!”

Beatrice promised that she wouldn’t.

Three operatives were stationed in the hotel, mingling unobtrusively with the guests. Donaldson and Somers remained in the lobby until the evening was well advanced. It seemed impossible to both men that the underworld could have learned any part of their plans, yet neither was willing to take chances.

At length the two rode in Somers’s coupe to the South Central Depot to complete arrangements for Beatrice’s reservation at Framingham. The curly-haired Merrihew had returned to service in his window, and he saluted them cheerily.

“Watch yourself for a week or two,” Donaldson advised. “I don’t imagine they’ll hold it against you, but one never knows.”

Entering a booth, he called the hotel and left final instructions. Then he inserted another coin and obtained communication with a man who frequently supplied him with information about gang conditions.

The other’s words were not reassuring. Gangland was in a frenzy.

“God help the girl if they find her!” the informer told him.

Donaldson stepped out of the booth and stood twirling his watch chain.

“What did you learn?” Somers asked.

“Nothing very surprising,” was the older man’s response. He glanced to where the New York expresses were being made up.

“Confound it,” he muttered, “I don’t know why I’m nervous! There’s no reason to be.”

A few minutes later, Donaldson suggested that they go back to the vicinity of the lodging house. A man had been left to watch the neighborhood, and both were anxious to learn if he had observed any of the gangsters.

As they neared the street in the West End, Donaldson drew out his watch for the fourth time in a half hour.

“Miss Ashton will be on her way to Framingham in eleven minutes.”

“Once in New York,” opined Somers, “she’ll be safe.”

“Yes; for only three of us know her destination.”

“As a matter of fact,” the youth confided, “I’m expecting to be moved to the New York office of our agency next month.”

“Oh-ho!” said Donaldson with interest.

They turned the corner, parked the coupe. Suddenly Somers gripped his companion’s arm.

“A light!” he whispered. “In that window. That’s the room Beatrice had—”

“There’s some one moving inside,” the other remarked.

“Can it be the man for the baggage, as late as this?”

“No. Probably the landlady,” replied Donaldson. He laughed, to convince himself that their alarm was needless. Yet away in some deep corner of his mind, a dreadful thought was crying out to him. What if the girl had discovered that she had left something — and, despite her promise, had returned for it?

Somers uttered a sharp, husky exclamation. “Look... look there!”

Both men saw it now, plainly — a single shadow thrown dimly against the curtain, a shadow that was swaying, swinging.

Donaldson gave a cry of horror and raced madly toward the door, Somers at his heels. They stumbled up the steps, into the dim front hall; then, halfway to the top of the carpeted staircase, they met two figures descending.

“Where’s Mrs. Winters?” cried Donaldson.

“She’s gone out,” said one of the pair, a big, swarthy man.

“Well, who’s in charge? We must get into Room 7!”

“I’m Mrs. Winters’s brother,” was the dull response. “You the guys for the baggage? Go ahead in — there’s no one there.”

The door, however, was locked. Donaldson drew back and flung his big shoulder against it, and with a splintering sound it crashed inward, revealing a shocking spectacle.

From a steam pipe which ran part way across the ceiling, hung a slender form, smartly clad, the head and throat enveloped in a pillow-slip and bound cruelly with the same stout cord which stretched above.

Dashing forward with a low cry, Somers whipped out a pocket knife; and in an instant they had laid the form upon the bed. While Donaldson worked frantically to loosen the rope, the younger man plunged across the room for water. After a few seconds the suffocating linen was torn away, and two great realities impinged upon Donaldson’s consciousness: that the girl would live, and that she was not Beatrice Ashton.

A woman, wide-eyed, was standing on the threshold.

“Do you know who this girl is?”

“The Lord have mercy!” she burst forth in answer. “If I’d ever dreamed she intended to do this—”

“When did she come?”

Others were crowding to the door.

“W-why — about six o’clock — Miss Ashton left. She telephoned — said she wouldn’t be back — asked me to tell the man to check her baggage on the train that stops at Framingham — so we moved her things downstairs and let this girl have the room—”

“Your brother didn’t know it—”

Her gaze was blank. “I have no brother.”

Donaldson whirled, and Somers followed him as he ran down the stairs to the street. A dark form rushed to meet them.

“Burke! Two men — did you see them? Came out of the house—”

“Three men!” gasped the operative. “I tried to tell you; their car was right at the curb as you went in. The third man came out just now, ahead of you — they drove away—”

Somers started. “Then he told them it wasn’t Miss Ashton?”

“Speak, man! What did he say to the others?”

“I think he made some reference to Leonardos. Something about ‘framing him’—”

“About framing him?” repeated Donaldson. Then, in staggering realization — “My God!”

Somers turned to face him, and the same word was on each man’s white lips:

“Framingham!”

XI

Beatrice Ashton stepped from the entrance of the hotel and crossed the sidewalk to the waiting sedan in nervousness which she still endeavored to conceal. For many minutes she had been ready, waiting, watching the gilded hands of the clock in the lobby with a strange fascination. Eleven twenty! Precisely at the moment, the big car had rolled quietly to the door.

She heard the double snap of the latch, then a soft acceleration of the motor. Through the window she saw two operatives in the doorway of the hotel. The men raised their hats to her, and the automobile glided away.

Beatrice settled back in the roomy seat with a peculiar mixture of emotions. Although eager to be on her way, she felt regret that she must leave the city. Her struggles in the weeks following her arrival, her determination to attain success, made it doubly hard to realize that she must flee for safety. She sat for a few minutes recalling the chaotic events of the day.

The route from the city led uptown through the suburbs, far from the gang districts, yet here and there were flashing electric signs, reminding her of those which beckoned to the cabarets of gangland — places which she had grown to abhor. There was no doubt of it now: fear was in her heart; and it had been there, slowly mounting, through the long hours while she had tried to keep Somers and Donaldson, and even herself, from realizing its presence. Somehow her terrors were more real at night. She shuddered when a touring car drew abreast and passed; and when men stared in at her from street corners, she shrank back from the glass. The terrible hand of the underworld seemed reaching out toward her from the dark.

The chauffeur was driving fast — much faster than necessary, she thought, as she remembered the distance to Framingham. The lights and traffic of the city slipped behind, the streets became quieter, intersections less frequent. Finally, as the car turned sharply off into a much less traveled thoroughfare, Beatrice sat forward in uncertainty.

“Are you sure this is the right road?”

The man did not answer. His silence chilled her. She strained forward in her seat, but only the side of his begoggled face was visible in the dim light from the dash.

A bridge swept into view, and beyond was a solitary blinker marking five corners. The man at the wheel diverged slightly to the right, entering a highway that was lonely and unlighted. He sped on.

“This... this isn’t the way to Framingham!” cried Beatrice, in a hollow, unnatural voice.

The chauffeur spoke thickly:

“To Framingham? No, miss. To Woodfields.”

A choking gasp escaped the girl’s lips. Her throat seemed gripped convulsively, rendering further protest beyond her power. Woodfields! That wasn’t on the railroad division which passed through Framingham; it was a tiny village miles to the south.

But it was too late to call for assistance. The flitting roadside was utterly black, deserted. Into her mind leaped that most fearful phrase in all gangland — “taken for a ride!”

In the tiny railroad station at Woodfields, the lights winked out. A well-built man of thirty appeared in the darkened doorway, fumbling with a ring of keys. From down the track came the staccato coughing of a train gathering headway; a pair of red lights were receding. The man turned in quick surprise as a large sedan swerved into the driveway.

A chauffeur wearing goggles leaped out. Then the rear door opened and a slender, well-dressed girl appeared.

“You’re too late!” called the station agent. “The last train’s just gone.”

“It’s the New York train we want,” returned the chauffeur.

“There’s no train for New York on this division! Only the Nightingale, the crack flyer, no stops.”

“Take a look at this!” the driver of the automobile said, thrusting something toward the railroad man.

They were standing in the glare of the headlights. The motor was still running.

The station agent stared downward, and gave a startled exclamation.

He darted back to the depot and switched on the lights. Seizing a red lantern, he lit it, then hastened out and continued at a rapid trot along the track to the east.

Far down the track, around a bend, came the scream of a whistle, piercing the night. The station master quickened his pace. He stumbled on over the roadbed until a single bright eye appeared in the distance, growing larger, and the shining rails began to pound and sing.

There was another shrill warning — two long and two short — for a crossing. The man raised his lantern.

There was a rush of wind that caught his breath — and the great, glistening hulk of the locomotive took shape behind the headlight. The long line of dark Pullmans went flashing by; then, above the clatter and roar, he heard the grinding bite of the brakes — and sparks were flying from the wheels.

Adrip with cold perspiration, the agent raced back to the depot. He saw the tail-lamps come to a standstill; then quickly they crept again into motion; there came the snorting barks of the giant locomotive as if in indignation — and the night flyer was on its way.

The station master found the platform deserted, the big sedan still waiting with motor running. He paused, unfolding again a crumpled paper — an order signed by the president of the railroad, at the request of the Governor of the State.

The chauffeur had entered the station and was at a telephone.

“Hello? Hello... yes, I hear you perfectly!” came Donaldson’s strained voice from the other end of the line. “Where’s Miss Ashton?”

“On the train.”

“On what train?”

“The Nightingale. Shore line express.”

“Great idea!” cried Donaldson. “And lucky, too, by the Lord! Somers and Burke went racing to Framingham to overtake you, to warn you. The mob learned our plans! They sent gunmen to the Framingham depot!”

“Eh? Well, they would!” the chauffeur flung back. It was the voice of Under Cover Lane.