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SYNOPSIS.
On Windward Island Palidor) intrigues
Mrs. Golden into an appearance of evil
which causes Golden to capture and tor
ture the Italian by branding his face and
crushing his hand. Palidori floods the is
land and kidnaps Golden's little daughter
Margery. Twelve years later in New York
a Masked One rescues Margery from I>--
gar and takes her to her father's home,
whence she is recaptured. Margery’s
mother fruitlessly implores Golden to find,
their daughter. The laiughing Mask
again takes Margery away from I.egar.
la-gar sends to Golden a warning and a
demand for a portion of the chart of
Windward Island. Margery meets her
mother. The chart is lost in a fight be
tween Manley and one of La-gar's hench
men, but is recovered by the laughing
Mask. Count Da Espares figures in a
dubious attempt to entrap I.egar and
claims to have killed him. Golden’s house
is dynamited during a masked bail. Le
gar escapes but Da Espares is crushed in
the ruins. Margery rescues the laughing
Mask from the police. Manley finds Mar
gery not indifferent fo his love. He saves
her from Mauki’s poisoned arrows. Man
ley plans a mock funeral which fails to
accomplish the desired purpose, the cap
ture of the Iron Claw and his gang. Mar
gery is saved from death at the hands ol
the Iron Claw by the Laughing Mask.
TWELFTH EPISODE
The Haunted Canvas.
The daughter of Dan O'Mara was a
very happy girl. So happy, in fact,
was the freckled-nosed Peggy that
there were times when the sheer nov
elty of her good fortune somewhat
frightened her. For the tide had
turned. The O’Mara family, as Peggy
put It, was at last in clover. That mys
terious Tighter of wrongs known as
the Ijaughing Mask had interested
himself in getting honest work for
Dan O’Mara. And that gracious-eyed
lady known as Margery Golden, once
she had realized the true position of
the family, had become equally Inter
ested in doing what she could for the
spindle-legged Peggy.
It is true, none the less, that this
last-mentioned young lady's benefac
tress had been momentarily nonplused
by Peggy’s choice of a vocation, when
this choice was placed before her.
“What would you like to do most?”
Margery had asked at the end of her
second trip to the O’Mara cottage
with a bundle of clothes for the all
but breathless Peggy.
“Be a artist's model!” promptly an
nounced the rapt-eyed factory girl.
“But why a model?” asked the
amazed Miss Golden.
“To doll up in glad rags and get
meself painted!” explained the dream
er of the dye vats. And odd as that
choice seemed to her. Margery Golden
did not depart from her promise. She
sought out her artist friend, Frank
Aimick, and inveigled him to experi
ment with a new and somewhat un
tried model.
Frank Aimick, however, soon found
the ardent-eyed young Peggy more of
a help to him than he had anticipated.
Some of her unctuous yet uncouth at
titudinizing, in fact, brought a smile
to the face of the busy artist.
But that smile was never broader
than when he noticed her standing
wide-eyed before the large canvas
above the fireplace at the end of his
studio. For this painting, which bore
the title of “The Vigilante,” was a re
markable piece of work, in more ways
than one. It showed the life-size fig
ure of a frontiersman staring out into
the room, with a leveled carbine at
his buckskinned shoulder. But the ar
resting feature ef the painting lay
in the fact that both the eyes of the
figure and the barrel of the leveled
rifle seemed always to be directed at
the spectator, no matter what position
the spectator might take.
“That guy gives me the willies!”
Peggy protested as she made her way
back to the model throne.
“Why?” asked the smiling man at
the easel.
“He keeps such a bead on you, no
matter where you get in this room!”
was the girl’s reply.
But destiny, in the form of one Jules
Legar, had secretly ordained that
Peggy’s happiness should not be a last
ing one. For Peggy O’Mara was no
longer a trivial factor in the activities
of the Iron Claw. This slip of a girl
had brought defeat to his plans when
success seemed well within his hand.
And for these humiliations Legar de
cided that the girl should pay, and pay
to the full.
The modest home of the O’Maras,
however, had no inkling of this deci
sion until Da» O’Mara himself, wan
dering about his combined kitchen and
living room in search of his pipe, was
somewhat startled to see a square of
paper pinned to the faded door panel.
Peggy herself. Joining her father, was
equally mystified by this slip of paper,
for its surface showed nothing but a
round blot or two of black ink on a
square of white. Neither Dan O'Mara
nor his daughter had any reason to
know the meaning of the spotted
warning, any more than they knew
that one Mauki, the stealthy emissary
of the Iron Claw, stood hidden behind
tbe walls of one of the three cottages
commanding a clear view of the
O’Mara home.
They had no way of knowing that
this same Mauki lurked there behind a
shuttered window, patiently watching,
hour after hour, the house across the
way. Close beside him as he watched
stood a magazine rifle to which a Max
im silencer had been adjusted. And
on the floor beside the rifle lay yet
another wedpon. This, however, was
a weapon of defense, for it consisted
of a craftily constructed cape which,
for purposes of disguise, could be
promptly converted into a woman s
skirt.
So sure was Mauki of his defensive
arrangements that when he caught
sight of Peggy O’Mara and her father
at the window he promptly reached
for his rifle, adjusted the barrel be
tween the shutter slats, and took aim.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The next moment a bullet went
crashing through the window of the
O'Mara home.
Instinctively the two startled fig
ures leaped away from the window.
As they did so they realized that a
third person had entered the room.
And a second glance showed them
that It was the Laughing Mask him-
self.
He stood for a moment or two, star
ing down at the spotted warning that
lay face upward on the floor. Then
he stared at the shattered window.
The next moment he was pushing
Peggy and Dan O'Mara bodily back
from that square of light.
“But what’s the meanin’ of all this,
anyway?” demanded the astonished
householder.
"It means that a bullet came through
that window,” the Laughing Mask ex
plained. “And I know that bullet was
intended for your daughter here.”
The next moment the Laughing
Mask had caught a broom from the
corner and about it was draping one of
Peggy O’Mara’s well-worn waists.
Above this he placed the girl’s hat,
tying it in place with a scarf. Then
dropping to his knees well out of sight
on one side of the window, he slowly
advanced his improvised dummy into
the square of light.
That rough outline of a human fig
ure was scarcely in position at the
window before a second pane crashed
in and the broom was knocked from
the hand of the masked man hold
ing it.
“That shot could have come only
from one of those three houses across
the way. And it’s ten to one it’s from
that empty house on the right!”
He drew away from the window and
stood for a moment deep in thought.
“O’Mara, I want you to slip out by
your back door and get help. Call on
any neighbors you can trust in a case
like this. Then hurry back here, for
I don’t want that scoundrel to suspect
his plans haven’t worked out exactly
as he imagines!”
“Well get the divil!” announced
O'Mara as he slipped away. And while
waiting for his return the Laughing
Mask sent Peggy for a cupful of flour.
With this he powdered her hands and
blanched her thin young face. Dan
O’Mara had stepped back into the
house before the masked visitor had
completed his task.
“Now, I want that sniper to think
he’s done his work, I don’t want him
to break from cover until your friends
have surrounded that house. So take
your daughter and carry her out, just
as though she were a dead girl.”
Dan O’Mara, doing as he was di
rected, stepped from the doorway with
his own white-faced daughter hanging
limp in his arms. He acted his part
with a sincerity that was not without
conviction. For, two minutes after he
had staggered into the open with that
apparently sad burden, the sniper from
the shuttered house was detected slip
ping out of a cellar window and scur
rying along a broken fence.
That escape, however,*came before
Dan O’Mara's friends could completely
take up their position about the sus
pected house. But one of those friends
caught sight of the fugitive in the
strange-looking cape, the alarm was
given, and the pursuit began.
It was not a long chase, but it was
a stern one. Determined as those in
dignant factory-toilers were to run
down the mysterious gunman so wan
tonly threatening their homes, the
fleeing Mauki proved himself starting
ly fleet of foot. He gained sufficiently
on his pursuers to round a corner,
dodge into an empty coalshed, and
emerge a moment later as a stooped
old woman in amber-colored spectacles
and a rusty gray wig. Being obviously
hard of hearing, this same old woman
could not give much information to
the group of excited men suddenly ac
costing her as she hobbled across the
street.
Five minutes later a swarthy-skinned
man with wiry black hair was hurry
ing across country to one of the well
concealed dens of Jules Legar, where
he duly reported to the Iron Claw the
news of his enemy's ruse and his own
narrow escape.
Before the second day had passed
Legar had evolved yet another plan
for the subjugation of his enemies.
This took the form of a decoy mes
sage delivered to the unsuspecting
Peggy O’Mara, purporting to be a
hasty request from Frank Aimick to
come to his Studio at nine o’clock that
night, to the end that he might hurry
to completion one of his unfinished
canvases for which the girl was act-
Aulhor of
“THE OCCA
SIONAL OF
FENDER.’“THE
WIRE TAP
PERS," “GUN
RUNNERS.’ETC.
Novelized from
THE PATHE
PHOTO PLAY
OF THE
SAME NAME
O'** m> «» A»TMU» rm-cl*
ing as a costume model. Legar and
two of his followers, In the meantime,
entered Aimick’s studio on the pre
tense of being a fire marshal’s inspec
tor, caught the artist off his guard,
and carried him bound and gagged and
helpless to one of the small back
rooms of the studio building.
Peggy herself, before starting out
in answer to that summons, was still
somewhat uneasy in mind over recent
I events. So she left word with her
father to call for her not later than
eleven o’clock.
But more than Dan O’Mara called
for his daughter that night, for ten
minutes after her departure from the
cottage Margery Golden’s limousine
drew up at the door. Margery’s eyes
widened when O’Mara explained the
reason of his daughter's absence from
home.
“But an artist like Frank Aimick
would never be able to work at night,”
she argued, with growing alarm. ”He
must have daylight for working in
color.”
Dan O'Mara turned to the table at
his side.
“Here's his message, plain as day,
written in his own handwritin’,” was
the puzzled workman’s only explana
tion.
Margery took the message in her
hand and studied it. Then.her color
faded a little.
“That is not Frank Aimick’s writ
ing!” she suddenly announced.
“We must get to that studio as fast
as my car can carry us.
Peggy O’Mara, in the meantime,
was being confronted by more than
one surprise. The first came with her
arrival at the Aimick studio, when
the stranger who opened the door in
response to her knock informed her
that the artist was out, but would re
turn in a minute or two. The sec
ond came with the quiet movement
of yet another man who sidled up to
the studio door and promptly locked
and barred it. But the greatest sur
prise of all awaited her as she turned
“It Means That a Bullet Came Through That Window!”
from the door and saw Legar himself
standing before her.
She stood there, white lipped, star
ing from one evil face to the other as
Legar’s companions closed in about
her.
“You’re a fine bunch o’ cradle
snatchers!” she finally and wrathfully
burst out at them, with the ultimate
and reckless anger of desperation in
her eyes. “You're a grand army o
heroes, you are, to come five strong
agin’ a girl like me!”
“Stop that brat!” commanded the
irate Legar. And there was a general
movement in the direction of the blaz
ing-eyed girl.
There was one man in that group,
however, who did not join in that
movement. The reason for this lay
in the fact that at that moment he
happened to be looking up at the paint
ing of “The Vigilante.”
He was about to reach for a heavy
easel-peg, to fling at the canvas, when
he suddenly straightened up, clapped
a hand to his shoulder, and turned
about. There was a look of mingled
wonder and incredulity on his face.
Then he slowly drew from the fleshy
part of his upper arm a small steel
dart, little bigger than a knitting
needle.
The next moment a second man,
moving across the room to catch up a
curtain cord with which to tie the
captured girl, felt a sudden sting in
his hip, stopped abruptly and point
ed with a shout of anger toward the
canvas above the mantel.
Still another of Legar's followers,
not realizing the meaning of that cry,
stepped forward and stared at the
painting. Out of the barrel-end of the
painted rifle, as he did so, shot still
another dart which buried itself in his
neck.
“Th’ darts!” he mumbled, as thick
ly as a drunken man might. “Th’
darts ’re drugged!”
But even before those mumbled
words were spoken the swarthy
skinned Mauki, trying to hold the still
struggling Peggy O’Mara down on a
divan, felt a sharp pain above his
shoulderblade, turned about, and saw
Legar run across the room and catch
up the heavy brass fire tongs from be
side the mantel end.
“The painting!” squeaked Mauki.
staggering out against the model
throne. “The painting—it is spit
ting steel at us!”
Legar, however, was no longer in
need of that warning. Standing to
one side of the mantel, close beside
the wall, he attacked the huge can
vas with his fire-tongs, beating in the
center of the picture at the same time
that Peggy O’Mara, realizing that
she was no longer being held a pris
oner, caught up a teakwood tabou
ret and with it precipitated her
self on the preoccupied Legar.
He ignored that flank attack, how
ever, for the Iron Claw suddenly found
himself confronted by a figure of more
Importance than either the spindle
legged girl or a painted gunman.
Out from behind that tattered can
vas had emerged a man wearing a
yellow mask, tossing to one side a
slender blowpipe as he came. Before
he could regain his feet after that hur
ried leap from the mantel shelf, Legar
himself had dropped the fire tongs and
whipped a revolver from his pocket.
This he leveled directly at the body
of the Laughing Mask. But before
he could pull the trigger, Peggy’s
tabouret struck against his out
stretched arm, knocking the weapon
up in the air.
By this time the Laughing Mask
was up on his feet, and face to face
with his enemy. Before the revolver
could again be brought into play the
two had clenched. Then the Iron Claw
went down before a clean-cut blow
from his opponent. He recovered him
self sufficiently, however, to roll to
where his fallen revolver lay. But
before he could level that firearm at
his adversary the Laughing Mask, re
membering that even the officers of
the law were no longer his friends,
dived out through the small door at
the rear of the studio and disappeared
from sight, for already the sound of
O’Mara and his rescuing party could
be heard as they swarmed up the
stairs.
The Iron Claw himself heard those
sounds, drew himself together, and
stared helplessly about the disman
tled studio. Then the instinct of self
preservation reasserted itself. He ran
to the back of the room, dived into a
kitchenette, found a small door in its
wall, swung it open, discovered a
dumb-waiter shaft in front of him, and
escaped to the street.
The Corridors of Dread.
Margery Golden, as she sat in the
taxicab which carried her homeward,
was comforted by the thought that she
had at least saved the life of a factory
girl to whom she stood indebted for
her own escape from death. The
further thought that she had sent Dan
O'Mara and hi 3 exhausted daughter
safely home in her own luxurious
limousine even reconciled her to the
somewhat stuffy-aired public convey
ance in which she found herself. She
blinked meditatively out at the back
of the heavy faced driver so sullenly
and yet so adroitly piloting her
through the tangle of traffic. Then the
abstraction suddenly went from her
eyes and the listlessness from her
pose. For, from the back window of
the red-wheeled taxicab immediately
in front of her she caught sight of a
peering face. And it took no second
glance to tell her that It was the
deep-seared face of the Iron Claw him
self.
The next moment Margery was
shouting to her sullen-faced driver.
“Follow that red-wheeled taxi," she
told him, pointing down the side
street. “Keep within sight of it, what
ever happens!”
Soon they had left the city well be
hind them and were in that twilight
zone which is neither quite rural nor
quite urban. But Margery, the mo
ment she saw the red-wheeled taxicab
come to a stop, commanded her driver
to draw in under the shadow of a
dense row of catalpa trees. There,
from the running board of her car,
she beheld Legar step out on the road,
pay his chauffeur, and stand looking
after the departing taxicab until it dis
appeared from sight. Then he turned
about, pushed his way in through a
tangle of shrubbery, and left the lone
ly roadside as empty as a desert trail.
Then the resolute browed young wo
man turned to her chauffeur.
“I'm going to follow that man. If I
fail to return here inside of ten min-
Then He Pulled the Trigger.
utes, I want you to get any help you
can, and come after me.”
Margery stole along the shadowy
roadside to the spot where she had
seen Legar creep in through the
bushes. She followed as best she
could, found herself face to face with
a tunnel-opening that showed itself
dimly in the* moonlight, and after a
moment’s hesitation stooped low and
crept into this tunnel, feeling her way
cautiously along the smooth brickwork
of its walls. She came to a turn, but
tressed with heavier masonry, and
padded along this wall until her grop
ing fingers came in contact with a
light switch. This, after a moment's
thought, she turned on. The next mo
ment a number of bulbs along the cor
ridor roof above her flowered into
light.
Staring ahead of her, she saw that
the corridor ended in nothing hut a
blank wall. But as she stared intently
at the wall she detected in one side of
it a partially concealed electric but
ton. She moved toward this cautious
ly, for she had learned of old to be
wary of approach to any of Legar’s
fastnesses. Then, as she advanced,
she came to a sudden stop. For she
saw on the flagstone upon which she
was about to step a small cross. There
was also a minute crevice, unnotice
able in its companions, about this
quadrangle so suspiciously marked by
its cross. So she stepped carefully
over the suspected area, crept forward
to the button, and touched it with a
tentative fingertip.
The next moment a remarkable
thing happened. A section of the
heavy masonry shutting off the end
of the corridor, at that touch, swung
silently about on its axis, leaving an
aperture wide enough for a human
body to pass through. The girl, hold
ing her breath, stepped through the
ponderous masonry.
This chamber, she saw, was empty,
except for two mysterious strands of
iron chain that ran from ceiling to
floor, close against the wall, while
against the other stood a deal table
and a camp couch across which lay a
couple of very dirty blankets. But
along the floor at the far end of the
room her quick eye detected a thin
pencil of light. So she tiptoed quietly
forward until she stood close to the
door above this illuminated crevice.
Then she stooped lower, listening in
tently, for the sound of muffied voices
came to her from the room within.
“1 tell you we can’t afford to fail in
this move,” she heard the voice of
Legar himself announce. "The thing’s
got to be settled, and settled before
morning!”
“But how?” asked one of his fol
lowers.
“With two pounds of guncotton and
a time fuse,” was Legar's reply.
“In the O’Mara cottage?” asked an
other voice.
“Yes; I want that cottage wiped off
the face of the earth, and the family
with it! And I want it done before
morning!”
Margery listened, oblivious of the
passing of time, as the conspirators
behind the closed door continued to
debate on their plan of action. Then
she started, even as much as they did,
•when the sudden buzzing of an elec
tric annunciator warned that intent
group of an intruder’s approach.
It was then and only then that the
girl remembered her parting message
to the taxicab driver. All that was left
her to do was to dart over to the camp
cot, and drop down on the stone floor
beside it.
The next moment Legar and his
men were in the outer chamber. While
one of the men crept to a secret out
look crevice in the farther wall Le
gar himself stepped to one of the con
trol chains which ran from floor to
ceiling on the other side of the room,
and by pulling one of these started
into action some mysterious mech
anism which the watching girl could
not quite comprehend. She saw
them run back to the inner room
and stand waiting while Legar
manipulated still another secret
spring which threw open a hidden
door in the back wall of that room.
And that door, she surmised, led by
some unknown passage to the outer
world.
But Margery did not give much
thought to this, for there came to her
as she regained her feet the repeated
cry of a human being, a cry husky
with terror. She ran to the pivot door
in the masonry, swung it back, and
there beheld a sight which made her
blood run cold. It took her, in fact,
a ponderable space of time to under
stand the scene confronting her. But
as she stared out she saw- where her
unsuspecting chauffeur had stepped
on the cross-marked flagstone, for it
was now several inches lower than:
the .rest of the floor. And this, ob
viously, had released a steel arm
which had swung suddenly forward and
swept the startled intruder flat
against the stone wall, holding him
there as in a vise. And as he stood
pinioned there a great block of gran
ite, released by some hidden ma
chinery, was slowly descending from
the roof of the corridor. Margery
quickly manipulated the chains and re
leased the chauffeur.
“Let me at ’em!” he shouted, bran
dishing the automobile wrench which
he still carried in his hand. “Just
let me at ’em!”
"It’s no use,” cried Margery, hold
ing him back. “They have gone, the
lot of them. And we’ve got to follow
quickly, or there’ll be a whole fam
ily meet a worse fate than yours
might have been tonight!”
She had taken the wrench from his
hand and was leading him out of the
tunnel mouth by this time, explain
ing that he would have to bring his
taxicab from its hiding place and at
once start In pursuit of the Iron Claw.
But these explanations came to a sud
den and an unexpected ending, for Le
gar and his followers, skulking in the
bushes, caught that betraying sound
of voices and saw a chance that was
too good to be missed. They closed In
on the girl and the taxi-driver. Yet
that sullen-spirited driver, when cor
nered, fought with an energy so ex
plosive that the entire circle became
involved in the struggle. It was Le
gar himself, and only Legar, who had
the presence of mind to direct the at
tention towards the girl. He swung
suddenly about and started for her.
She saw him coming, raised the heavy
wrench she still carried and sent it
flat against his bony temple and took
to her heels. She jumped Into the
empty taxicab and headed for the
O’Mara cottage.
So colorless was her face as the be
wildered Dan O’Mara opened the door
that he-started back in alarm. And
her words were even more disturb
ing.
“Come away!” she called out.
“Come quick, or it will be too late!”
“And what’s wrong now?” asked
the astounded householder.
“Get Peggy!” gasped the girl as she
stared frantically about the little
room. “Get her away from here, quick!
The house has been mined! There’s
been a bomb left here, and any mo
ment —”
She stopped speaking, for the pun*
gent smell of powder smok® had as
sailed her nostrils. Then from the
open window, in which a somewhat
neglected flower-box stood, came a
faint sputter of sound.
She ran to the window. Lying in
the flower-box she saw a heavy
cylinder of metal. Even before she
caught sight of the time-fuse which
quietly hissed and burned at one end
of the cylinder, she knew what it was.
It was the infernal machine which Le
gar’s agent had placed there to de
stroy the house. And at any moment
the explosion might take place.
Margery caught the heavy cylinder
up in her hands. She even tried to
blow out the fuse. But this was use
less. Then she tried to tear it away.
But this second effort was equally
fruitless. And sheer panic took pos
session of her at the thought of her
helplesness. The bomb dropped from
her fingers to the floor. She made one
instinctive effort to warn poor young
Peggy O’Mara away, as the girl ran
to her side. But instead of repeating
that warning she let her arms close
about the slender body as though in
mute acknowledgment that she knew it
was already too late. For the fuse, she
could see, was burning down into the
end of the cylinder itself. She even
closed her eyes, awaiting the inev
itable.
She opened them again, at the sound
of a sudden step. She opened them
to see a masked figure dart into the
room, catch up the smoking metal
cylinder, and with one and the same
movement hurl it out through the
open window.
The next moment a great detona
tion shook the walls of that house.
The bomb had exploded. But the
house of O’Mara still stood. And
Pe&gy and her father stared open
mouthed at the newcomer, who, in
stead of staring back at them, stood
intently regarding Margery Golden.
“The Laughing Mask!” said that
somewhat shaken young lady, in little
more than a whisper.
“At your service!” replied the man
in the yellow mask, with a hah-hum
ble and half-mocking bow as he stood,
for one fleeting moment, in the nar
row doorway.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)