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ri>/»n<M<f Kiri. It
belt-
her If fir were really dead. I would be
sure lie was dead If—If It wasn’t for
that cold million In cash that’s unac
counted for. I wonder what’s become
of Armour and—what’s become of the
million.”
CHAPTER II.
Winning Her Way.
It was u full six weeks after the
mysterious disappearance of John Jo
seph Armour, without a trace indicat
ing whether he would be found dead
or alive, or whether he would ever be
found at all, that two charmlm? girls
alighted from a cab In Thirty-ninth
street, near Broadway, and made their
way to the stage door of the Spa thea
ter, bizarre in its Oriental archltec-
• ture.
One wore a picture hat of more than
ordinary size, decorated with ostrich
feathers of more than ordinary length
and curliness. Below the somber brim
shone great masses of bright, almost
too bright, golden hair that suggested
fleeting art more than stable nature.
To bo ffank, the original tint of Miss
Stella Gordon’s hair had been dark
brown; but she had sacrificed to stage
jpxlgcnce, und did not care much as
long as the public and her manager
were satisfied. Yes. this was the great
Stella Gordon, bright particular star of
the Spa theater, queen of the “Tune
and Girl” comedy stage; beloved of the
world before the footlights, and (rare
thing) also of the world behind them;
a good singer, a good dancer, a good
actress and a good girl, whose dia
monds—they were few—were really
diamonds and her own.
Her companion’s hat was a lesser
wonder, even as her beauty was of less
striking quality. Her hair was auburn,
perilously near red; where the sun fell
on it. this balmy April afternoon, there
gleamed rare golden lights. Her eyes
were dark swimming blue—an admirer
with a Scriptural turn would call them
“fish pools of Heshbon.” Her complex
ion, like her friend’s Jewel box. was her
own, and. like her friend's diamonds,
real. There was nothing artificial
about It; pale with the healthy pallor
of the country. and relieved only by
the azure of the eyes and the dewy
rosiness of the perfectly curved lips.
Miss Gordon pushed her way inside
the stage door, followed by her pretty
friend. It was a tiny room—two
chairs, a table and a wall lined with
pigeon holes for letters. A giant In
uniform greeted her with the special
courtesy to which a ’‘star” Is entitled.
“Good morning, John. Any mall?*'
‘Mall. Miss Gordon,” he Bald, laugh
ing. ’’Just as If they would leave you
alone.”
He handed her a budget of letters.
"Toddy here yet?” she asked.
“He’s on the stage, miss, with Mr.
Melton and Mr. Athlone.”
"Good. Give me a chair and one for
my friend. Sit down. Peg. and let me
run thru this batch of silly sentiment.
Til show you the funniest ones.”
While Miss Gordon was thus engaged
there was a constant coming and going
of youhg ladles, modest misses and
forward minxes, in costumes of as
tounding variety and more astounding
flamboyance; a rustle and swishing of
silken petticoats, a wind and wash of
frills and flufTery; a wafture of inter
mingled perfumes from rustic lavender
to sophisticated musk, that Jezebel of
scents; and a chatter and babble that
would have amused any one but John,
who kept his martial head thru it
all, and replied to each with the same
formula. “Voice trial, miss? Half past
2, miss. Please to fill up this .slip-
name. age and address.”
Suddenly a high-pitched voice cut
clean us a knife through the murmur
ous confusion.
“Say, mister man—”
John stared. He wasn’t often beard
ed in that fashion In his little den.
“Take my pasteboard In to the boss,
right now—quick—Miss Miml van Al
ster—that’s me. The American girl
that made the hit in London—Tip Top
Theater—that’s me. Tell him if he’s
got something doing for me I might
consent to stay a lUtle while this side
of the drink. Hustle now. Mister
Man.”
“G’wan.” said John.
“My. ain’t you gay! Hurry up—Miss
Miml van Alster’s comps to Mr. Oscar
Hawkman, and she wants to talk. Get
the hang of that?”
“Pardon me.” interrupted Stella Gor
don. putting John gently aside, “but if
you* want an appointment with Mr.
Hawkman I’m afraid you’ll have to
write and ask for it. It’s his way of
doing business.”
“My—all that? Well, thanks anyway
for telling me. I’m a busy girl and—
»ay. ain’t you Stella Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so—played your part in the
"Giggling Girl*’—road company No. 1
—two years ago. Shake. Stella. We’ll
be pals. Have a candy?”
Miss van Alster produced a pretty
bonbon box. Stellu shook her head at
the little bantam, laughing while she
refused the offer.
“Oh. do have one of these llquer
chocolates. All the girls are crazy
about them. They’re a new brand—a
teeny bit of chloral and green char
treuse.”
Stella frankly looked her disgust.
“Never touch them—thanks all the
same.” she said.
“Oh, try one. They give you lovely
sleepy thrills.”
Stella was adamant. Even if she had
dyed her hair, she had not let the per
oxide penetrate her brain and wash out
her moral fiber.
"Come on round to the Cafe da Yur-
“I take two kUmsoh of port wlnr whfn
the duy’s work is over.” said Stella.
"un<l then only because my din-tor or
ders it. I hate the stuff.”
Miss Van Alster sniffed. Then she
looked round the crowd.
"Say,” she sneered, “what’s on this
mornin’? Choir practice or prayer
meefin'?
Stella Gordon did not answer. She
turned to her friend and touched her
on the shoulder.
Got your music. Peg? Come on,
then. I’ll take you down and intro
duce you to Toddy.”
“Oh! Stella, I think I want to go
home. I'm sure I couldn’t sing before
all this crowd. They look so Jealously
at one here—what will it be like on
the stage?”
“Now, Margaret Armour.” said Miss
Gordon, “don’t be a fool. If you think,
after these two hard months of special
training, singing and dancing and elo
cution, which—I’ll be brutal and re
mind you—I’ve paid for. I’m to be de
frauded out of your making a success,
you don’t know me. You come along
—or I’ll have to carry you. Fright
ened at this pack of idiots!”
“Oh, but Stella, do you think my
song Is good enough? I wish I had
brought something else ”
“Your song’s oil right. When the
guv’nor hears it he’ll offer you a hun
dred for It on the spot.”
“When he hears It!”
“I know a good thing when I hear
It—so does the guv’nor.”
By the piano on the stage, convers
ing in low tones, were three men. One
was little and dark and pasty-faced,
and mercurial as a squirrel. His good
temper was unvarying, and his man
ners charming for one who had risen
from call boy to be the power behind
the Spa throne. This was Mr. Toddy.
He hod another name, Mr. Albert
Nobbes.
Another of the group, also small and
dark-haired, but painfully self-con
scious, eternally admiring his beauti
fully manicured hands, was Mr. Ellis
Melton “director of the music.'
The third man was full and pom
pous—"St. Paul’9 In a Panama”—Mr.
Bernard Athlone. He was never seen
ungloved, professing & horror
touching things. And he never laugh
ed. He was Hawkman's official rep
resentative, while Toddy was the real
one.
Mr. Athlone consulted his watch w
Miss Gordon went down the stage to
ward the group, and nodded to Mel
ton.
“You’ve sung before. Miss Gordon?”
said Toddy. “We can give you noth
ing.”
“Not third row In the chorus?” she
laughed.
“I’d sooner see the shutters up,'
said Toddy.
Then she took him by the arm and
led him away into the wings, whls-
pering confidentially.
The “voice trial” began.
Melton called out a name, snatched
the roll of music held out to him by
the aspirant summoned, whacked a
few resentful chords, glanced lovingly
at his perfect nails and rattled Into
Tostl’s “Goodby,” at a speed that would
have given the composer “railway
spine.”
“Last verse, please.”
Bang-bang-bang—Terminus!
“Thanks. I’ve got your name. You’ll
have a postcard tomorrow—Miss De-
Vere! What’s this? ’Violets?* This is
kind; novelty is the bright star of my
I fUMtnlii « night
?1 nut Ion she was
use. and she |
slng-
llfe.'
Miss DeVere had a brassy voice
was not lovely, but it would carry
across the footlights. She might do.
“Sing a scale. ‘Ah’ It. please. Now-
in ’Oh.’ Been on before?”
’Toured with Mr. Hawkman’s 'A*
company in the ’Saucy Girl’ for two
years; Just come back from the *B*
tour of the ’Giggling Girl.’ 1 did think
you’d have remembered me. Mr. Mel
ton—Aggie Brown!”
“Oh, It’s you. Aggie. Tourin’s aged
you. All right. Aggie, I*U see what
we can do. Now cut away like a
good girl. Miss DeCourcy.”
And so the “voice trial” went on.
There were voices that could have fill
ed Madison Square Garden, and others
you could have put In a pill box;
there were voices that ran like cold
water down your spine, and voices that
reminded you of the dentist's chair and
the thick, sweet forgetfulness of chlo
roform; there were scarlet voices that
hurt your eyes, and voices that you
could not see; and once in a while
there was a voice.
Their hearing done, the candidates
hung about the stage, as if loath to
leave a scene they might never trouble
again. And in long after years they
would tell awed friends that they had
appeared on the stage of the Spa.
Toddy left Stella Gordon and came
up to Margaret Armour, lonely In the
shadow of the prompt wings.
“Come along. Miss Armour. Stella
has been telling me about you. This
your song? Cm—catchy title. If you
please. Melton. Just one more.”
“Slip?” said Mr. Melton.
“Pal of Stella’s.” whispered Toddy.
“And. Ellis—do keep an eye on the
time.”
Ellis growled, but looked at Marga
ret and cut short the rude retort.
“Manuscript?" he said. “Who’s the
composer?”
“I am.” said Margaret.
“Genius under a bushel. All right,
come on."
The first line went. “I’m a funny lit
tle. sunny little. Ho-ney Girl/'
trill; In her I
InK to a full
deavoring to get every word and
note across the footlights to them.
Had a house been there she would not
have had to wait long to know that she
had succeeded.
She did succeed, and there was a
house—of one.
He came up the central gangway of
the stalls, a stout man in a blue serge
lounge suit, a flat-brimmed high hat
on the back of his head, an unlighted
cigar between his teeth.
“Who wrote that song?” he called
w-hen he was halfway to the stage.
All eyes turned at the voice, and
there was a whisper of “The guv’nor.”
It was. Indeed. Oscar Hawkman. the
creator of the 'Tune and Girl” comedy,
the proprietor of half a dozen thea
ters, journalist in his spare moments,
playwright on Sunday; a man with a
big head, a big heart and a fondness
for big cigars and bigger dividends.
He had a big banking account, his
friends called him Oscar and “the
crowd” “The guv’nor.”
“Who wrote that song?”
“I did,” said Margaret, looking down
at him.
“Words and music?”
“Yea”
“Will you take a hundred for it?"
“Really. I”—
“One hundred and fifty, then?”
Margaret looked at Stella; Stella
nodded, and Margaret said “Yes.”
“Very good. You’ll see to It, Mel
ton. What’s your name, miss?”
“Margaret Armour."
“See that- Miss Armour has a con
tract, Toddy.
So the impossible came true. Mar
garet Armour was a pensionaire of the
Spa Theater.
When Margaret and Stella got back
to the little flat in West One Hundred
and Ninth-st. there was a whole-heart
ed rush on the tea table. By Mar
garet’s plate lay a black-edged enve
lope bearing the postal mark of New
Orleans. It was redirected from her
last address.
“New Orleans!” she cried. "I don’t
know anybody there. Who can it be?”
“You’ll soon know that if you open
it. dear.” said Stella.
After all. It was the easiest solution,
and yet It took Margaret some time to
bring herself to adopt it. She had an
uneasy notion that this letter was going
to have an unpleasant influence on her
life; her excitement and Joy when she
had not only had her song bought, but
her engagement at the Spa ratified by
the “Guv’nor” himself, were sadly
dashed by this black-bordered enve
lope; she could not explain the uneasi.
ness that seemed to reach down to her
heart and make it beat faster and yet
duller than before.
The letter was laconic and the stiff,
upright handwriting gave no hint of the
temperament of the w-rlter.
New Orleans. March 31, 19—.
My Dear Niece: This Is to inform
you that I am on my way to New York
to assume the guardianship your fa
ther bequeathed to me. I shall be in
New York by the end of next month,
meaning first to take a little holiday
In the South.
I mean to settle down In some quiet
place in the country, where we can be
comfortable; and if you have not yet
made arrangements for leaving your
house in New York, pray make them
so as to be ready to leave a place that
must have many sad memories for
you, and to accompany me Into retire
ment at least temporarily.
I shall advise you later of the exact
date of my arrival.
Believe me. your affectionate uncle,
LANCELOT ARMOUR.
Margaret burst Into tears and flung
the letter across the table to Stella.
—y«*M. wait «•%-«•»» it rurllnK
tikh accompanied by a spirit heater.
Judging from the table and mirrors
. >u might have thought yourself in
the dressing room of a character actor.
And you would have been right.
The swarthy, tall, black-bearded,
rather youngish looking man who had
entered this strange chamber was a
far different man in appearance from
the one who came out of it.
The man who came out of the room
was white-bearded as a patriarch, wore
a rusty black morning coat and had
shoes that had pretensions to solidity,
but not to beauty. On his head was a
felt hat that was still wearable, but
long past its youth.
Mr. Arthur Sacheverel walked with
an assumed jauntiness; this old fellow
stumbled about hesitatingly.
The work of alteration had occupied
but a quarter of an hour. Many first-
rate character actors would have taken
longer. But every stroke had been
made by a master hand; every stroke
was sure and definite. Mr. Sacheverel
had shed clothes and appearance, and
in doing so had shed himself.
In another half hour the old man
was standing in the queue at the en
trance of the Spa Theater. There was
a great crowd, for it was the first night
of the new play. ’The Dear Girl.” the
eleventh in Mr. Oscar Hawkman’s
series of “Girls” Whatever the “Girl”
was. she always made her appearance
on the first Saturday In May; the event
as fixed as the celebration of the
Fourth of July.
A young man of flve-and-twenty or
so was the patriarch’s neighbor in the
queue, a tall, tfiandsome, clean-shaven,
soldierly-looking fellow, with a pair of
honest slightly mocking blue eyes.
A few drops of rain began to fall.
The young man had an umbrella, the
old man had none. - The offer to share
it opened conversation.
So, trivially, ordinarily, banally. be
gan the romance of Lucian Falconer’s
life; just as romances do begin real
life, without any heralding or trumpets,
or beating of drums, or waving of
banners, or thunderstorms, or earth
quakes. or any of the "pomp and cir
cumstance” fletionists give to the com
ing of Fate.
CHAPTER IV.
When they had got their seats the
old man was directly behind Falconer,
who was in the third row, which is
“newspaper row” by long custom at
first nights.
“You are a critic, eh? Mr.—er?” in
quired the old man.
Falconer—Lucian Falconer, yes; I’m
the Era man. Mr.—cr—”
“Carpmael. Jacob,” said the other,
smiling. “I often read your criticisms.
They are very bright, sir, very bright.”
The overture had Just finished. The
orchestra leader waited with poised
baton for the bell signalling all In read
iness back of the curtain. He let the
baton drop slowly, however, for. bow
ing and smiling, the famous manager,
Hawkman, had appeared before the
curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said,
when he obtained silence, “I am con
fident that you will all Join with me In
sending a message of sympathy to one
of your favorites, who, thru a provok
ing accident, finds herself unable to
come and charm you tonight as she
has charmed you so often before. We
are a happy family at the Spa, ladies
and gentlemen, and when one of us
meets with trouble, even if it is only
temporary, we feel that we must say
how sorry we are. Miss Stella Gor
don”—(a chorus of “Ah’s” and a storm
of cheers)—Miss Stella Gordon, who
was to have played The Dear Girl/
has sprained an ankle. She will be
with you again in a few days—a few
days of tedium which will be bright
ened by the knowledge that you sym
pathize with her. (More cheers.)
Meantime. 1 must crave your indulg
ence for the young lady who replaces
her. and who tonight makes her flmt
appearance, absolutely, on any stage.
I hope—nay, I believe—that your opin
ion of her talent will be that of yours,
very obediently," and with a wide
of his folded gibus the great
CHAPTER III.
Three in One.
In a modest-appearing but very se
lect bachelor apartment house in Mad-
Ison-ave. lived Mr. Arthur Sacheverel.
Mr. Sacheverel was supposed by the
real estate agent who leased him the
apartment to be engaged In some sort
of literary work. However, the F
National Bank, which Mr. Sacheverel „.. v „„ ..... m
had given as reference, indorsed him i Hawkman disappeared,
a* a most responsible person financially.
Gay young bachelors had the other
apartments. Its privacy was most de
sirable to one who might not wish his
goings and comings noticed or dis
cussed.. There was no elevator—no
hall boy. Occupants of apartments used
their latch-keys and passed to their
suites thru vacant hallways.
Mr. Arthur Sacheverel was lazily and
smilingly reading an afternoon news
paper that contained for the twentieth
time, perhaps, a description of the miss
ing financier. John Joseph Armour:
“Medium height, sandy hair, clean
shaven, given to wearing clothing of
rather marked pattern.” he read, and
smiled again.
Then he arose.
He pushed back his own hair, that
was black, felt of his black mustache,
and neatly trimmed black beard,
scanned his neat-fitting black frock
coat, and striped gray and black trous
ers and his high-heeled shoes.
As he glanced at his watch and
arose, walking across the room, one
would have said of him that he was a
tall man.
He carefully selected a key from a
bunch on a chain and opened the door
of a little room. He passed into it
quickly.
It was a curious room. Not more
than ten feet by seven. It was lined on
three sides with cupboards, three of
| which had mirrors for doors, mirrors
^ and
took your ear easily. w
Margaret Armour sang It knowingly. I that reached to the floor In'thecen
The gay pot-pourri of song and
music began and went on rapidly,
giddily, whirlingly. madly, like the
brisk whisking of a frothy omelette,
until ’The Dear Girl” appeared, a
charming, youthful figure, with a deli
cate oval face, framed in a cloud of
auburn hair.
She had not made three steps on the
stage before Mr. Carpmael—Mr. Jacob
Carpmael the old patriarch in the
rusty black morning coat—rose from
his seat and staring with all his eyes,
muttered loud enough for his immedi
ate neighbors to hear. “Margaret!”
There was an instant outcry of "Sit
down!" “Put him out?”
But Mr. Carpmael was pulled down
by the hand of Lucian Falconer, and
the music of Margaret's song drowned
all further sound of disturbance.
She wu not trying to ahow off her ter of the room waa a' low diesalns ... . .... ^
voice, or how to balance herself du-1 table, on which lay an assortment ofpriceleaa gift (blessing or curse, uc-
CHAPTER V.
And so replacing Stella Gordon,
Margaret Armour appeared at the
great gay opening night of the “Dear
Girl.” She-was to experience a thrill
ing triumph.
After a week’s rehearsal, Margaret
had been made Stella Gordon's first
understudy, much to the ill-concealed
disgust of Mimi Van Alster, who had
to be contented (only zhe wasn’t) with
an eight-line small part, and to the
general envy of the chorus, some of
whom had trodden the boards in baby
shoes. She had talent, natural talent;
trust Oscar Hawkman for seeing that
with half an eye; and she had that
^w
faculty, whl.h MMbtoil t»«-r to ».Uk up
t»u»lness. whether acting or dancing,
while others were deciding or memor
izing which was the left foot and
which their right. She worked hard,
too. And she was modest, without be
ing self-effacing; Independent, with
out being assertive; resourceful, with
out being impracticable.
She had won her way with the au
dience fro the first, but the great
moment of triumph came when to her
own music and own words, she sang
her own song. “Fanny LUtle. Sunny
LUtle Ho—ney Girl!”
Before she had reached the third
verse the gallery gods were giving her
back the chorus to the full strength
of their lungs.
The night was a swift procession of
triumphs. The like had never been
surpassed at the Spa.
Jacob Carpmael had sat dumb after
his queer outbreak when he had called
out huskily. Involuntarily, "Margaret.”
Falconer stared at the old man once
or twice. He was curious about that
strange calling of a woman’s name.
When the curtain went down on the
first act he immediately Invited Carp
mael to come to the cafe for some re
freshments. As they drank their high
balls, he said:
"Some relation?” he asked, and he
observed that the old man was still
shaken.
“Who?”
"The young lady.”
“You mean”—
“The ‘Dear Girl*—yes.”
“She Is”—there was a long pause—
“she Is no relation of Jack Carpmael.”
“But you looked as If you recognized
her. Did you?”
But Carpmael was busy lighting a
cigar.
'I’m only asking.” said Falconer,
“because I am wondering who she is.
She is very wonderful.”
“You’re a Journalist. It’s your busi
ness to ask questions, man." said the
old fellow a little testily. "Why don’t
you ask at the stage door?”
“Exactly what l*m going to do,” said
Lucian. “If you’ll be good enough to
excuse me for a few minutes.”
Carpmael nodded.
John, at the stage door, readily told
the young critic that the new star’s
name was “Margaret Armour.” Fal
coner quickly scribbled a note and
asked John kindly to deliver It before
the curtain went up for Ihe next act.
The “Dear Girt” was a great success.
Oscar Hawkman looked thoroughly
satisfied when he bowed his acknowl
edgments; the cheering was enough to
satisfy even an actor, which beast Is
one degree hungrier than a manager.
But his share of applause was noth
ing to the frantic outburst that greet
ed the young goddess who had played
The Dear Girl, when she came on a tri
fle timidly, hand in hand with the
beaming George. He patted her on
the arm and pointed to her as much
as to say ’This is the mascot of the
show.”
Then suddenly some one called
“Name!” and from all corners of the
crammed house volleyed “Name! name!
name!”
Dead silence thereafter.
“Ladies and gentlemen." said Hawk-
man. “I have profound pleasure in re
turning thanks to you for the ovation
you have given to our new star. Miss
Margaret Armour.”
In the wings Mimi Van Alster was
gnashing her teeth. “New star.” she
muttered. “Well, if stars don’t fall. I’m
no prophet. De-ar, you should be
pleased,” and* the bantamlike little Ju
das kissed Margaret effusively as she
stumbled off. her eyes full of happy
tears.
Before the cheering was over. Jacob
Carpmael was away, thrusting sav
agely thru the crowd. Lucian Falcon
er, never giving him another thought,
made his way to the stage door.
He had not long to wait; the debu
tante was not so be-larded and be-rad
dled that she had to spend a half hour
getting back to nature.
“Miss Armour,” cried John, and Lu
cian pushed forward, hat In hand.
“May I say. Miss Armour.” said he,
"that I was a true prophet? My name
Is Falconer. You had a note from me
between the acts.”
She put out her ungloved band im
pulsively.
“I can not stop now.” she said. "Yes,
you shall have your interview, if only
for the kind wishes you expressed in
your note. I don’t believe I should
have been able to have gone thru the
second act If It had not been for your
couple of lines. They were very kind
to me behind; but it was good to hear
how the house was taking me. Yes.
you can Interview me on Monday, if
you like. Come to West One hundred
and ninth street. Good night—and
thanks!”
She was gone, hastening to tell her
friend Stella how she had rared on that
“night of nights.”
Lucian Falconer jumped Into a cab
to go to his rooms in West Seventy-
sixth street, there to write his criticism
and dispatch it to his office later by
messenger. But be could not think
about the play. He could only think
of “Margaret.” He found himself re
peating her name. He found that his
hand still tingled from her touch. He
found himself murmuring of the hand
she had given him. “What a dear little
hand.” and then he said suddenly:
“It’s all over with you. Falconer.
This Is the third time, and I think this
Is the deepest wound young Master Cu
pid has made yet.”
As his cab swung down Columbus-
ave. he might have seen a stoutish
gentleman with a gray beard, attired
In evening clothes, coming out of a
ttank. Tl>«* UtoutlMti. wrll-dmMd mun
tiiul come from u room ubove the hunk
iloor of which appeared th«* in
scription, “Jacob Carpmael, stock
broker.”
- In the stock broker’s rooms there was
quite such another little apartment
with mirrors and pencils and paints as
was to be found at the bachelor apart
ments of Arthur Sacheverel, In Madi
son avenue. The stoutish gentleman,
having found a cab at Seventy-second-
st., ordered himself driven to the Wal
dorf-Astoria, where he was known as
Mr. Lancelot Armour, the wealthy
South American planter.
CHAPTER VI.
The Leader of the Black Hand.
The Honorable George Bassendyne
was the fourth son of the Earl of Pet-
worth. He had been more trouble to
his father than all the rest of the fam
ily put together. Expelled from Har
row, sent down from Oxford, given
the option of resigning his commis
sion in the Guards, “stellenbosch'd”
when he served with the Yeomanry In
South Africa, the Honorable George
was what Is vulgarly called a “bad
egg.” And It was greatly to his fam
ily’s relief that he chose to make his
residence for a time in New York. He
was not a drunkard; he was not a
gambler, he was not anything In ex
tremes; but he was that curious
thing, an un-moral man. which
Is quite a different thing from an Im
moral one. There was mystery about
him too; mystery In his appearance,
he was swarthy and black-haired as a
Spaniard aping a Mephlstopheles, and
had an eye that was always veiled;
mystery In his life, for he always
seemed well supplied with money, al-
tho’ as was well known, his progeni
tor kept him down to £250, paid
“You fornotl" »»- rx. UU.M-.t. "K«*r- l *ur«* tt»nl t value your f..r R Wrnr.>. You
K'»y- Y .? u your summons?** kit, l don't deny unvoting Why tdtould
Yes. 11? We are alone lot.* then* at,- n>
“Then i UiMKt on knowinir why you 1 witne^e* ves. I took Mrs. Schuyler's
l ho «'»••• l » ni; emeralds. Why not? She hud no need
1 tell* you 1 forgot. It Is true.” for them, and 1 had. Simple rule «»f
Zucchi smiled grimly.
"The business had to be postponed.
But we meet again tonight—that Is.
at 3 this morning—yes, this morning—
what are you staring at? So you had
better get your supper over quickly
and be at Cavaguarie’s on time. Till
then—au re voir.”
Til be there,” said Bassendyne In a
quarterly. He lived In handsome
chambers in Fifth avenue, the rental
alone of which ate up this allowance
of $1,250 a year.
He was seen everywhere—at Del-
monico’s. at Sherry’s, at Churchill's,
the Metropole, the races, the polo
matches—In a word, at all places
where gilded youth seek to rub off the
gilt.
Of course, he was at the first night
of "The Dear Girl.” Among the galaxy
beauties with which the great
Hawkman dazzled the public he recog
nized Miss Miml Van Alster, whom he
had met in New York the previous
winter. After the show was over he
was among the crowd at the stage
door, and when that sprightly lady
appeared hastened to greet her with the
assurance of an old friend. But Miss
Van Alster was In a deaf and blind
humor, and was going to pass him by.
you must remember me/'
went on. “George Bassendyne—’Lord’
George, you know.”
At that she stopped.
"Well—now—so It is—wicked George
Bassendyne! Howdy?”
“Well, and hungry. And you? ” They
’shook.”
"Ditto, ditto! an’ mad."
"You always were the last."
"Not that sort—real mad. Can’t you
get me something to eat? A broiled
burrd an* a cold bottle?"
Hansom!” cried the Honorable
George. “Let me take you to the Grill
Room Club? So you’re mad?”
“Like a peacock. Oh. I’ll tell you fast
enough; If I don’t out with It I’ll go
crack somewhere. Saw that thing that
played Stella Gordon’s part tonight?
Honest, now, George, did you ever see
a bigger packet of bad pins for the
money? Why, she don’t know enough
to come in out of the rain. Talk to me
about talent—there’s more talent in one
of my old shoes than in all her Fourth
of July illumination of the head. Oh.
she’s a wangler—wangled herself into
Stella Gordon’s friendship, wangled
Hawkman with a song she said she
wrote herself, wangles Toddy, wangles
Melton, wangles Athlone. wangles
everybody but yours cutely. ’N’here’s
me. me. that played the ‘Dinky Gurrul'
last fall, made Stella’s second under
study. while this kid that don't know
gin from ginger is boosted Into the
front place all because her father was
a thief. She makes me tired, sure.”
“You don’t mean to say she’s a
daughters of John Joseph Armour?”
"Well. I have been hinting at It.
some. Bad egg, bad chicken—so she
needn't crow."
You are In a temper, Mimi,” said
the Honorable George.
Me?” she retorted, scornfully. “Not
me! I could do a little gentle murder
ing. though. If I got half a chance.
This your Kennel?”
It was his kennel—the Grill Room
Club.
There was a medley gathering of
actors, artists, authors. Journalists—all
the representatives of later-day Bohe
mia, with a sprinkling of men about
town of George’s type. Besides Miml
van Alster there were only two other
women In the place—young Mrs. Gil-
terbllt and her cousin, the American
duchess of Kincardine, high priest
esses of the Smart Set. who were "see
ing life” under the tutelage of Harry
Ducre. the “beauty mac."
A waiter stopped and whispered
something In George Bassendyne’s ear.
Bassendyne looked over his shoulder
quickly. He saw a curly-haired and
tall, swarthy-faced man staring at him.
"Er—excuse me.” he said to Mimi.
“1*11 be right back."
The man never ceased staring, and
when Bassendyne was directly In front
of him said:
“Hello. Zucchi!” Zucchi still stared
straight into the other man's eyes.
“There was a meeting last night and
you were not there. Why?”
"Good heavens!” Bassendyne drew a
deep breath. "I forgot all about it.”
▲ glare lit Zucchi’s eyes.
low voice.
George Bassendyne had a very
wholesome fear of his friend Zucchi.
They had met first at one of those
secret gaming places of which there
are so many in New York, skillfully
contrived hiding holes that escape the
eyes of the police since they are In
stalled In the very heart of the aristo
cratic quarters and have the outward
appearance of ultra respectability. How
he and Zucchi had become friends he
could not tell; they were antithetical
—perhaps it was for that reason they
were attracted to each other.
Gaetano Zucchi was of Italian-Swlss
extraction. He was a graduate of Bo
logna University, and could quote you
lengths of the Aeneld and Iliad. ’lie
had come to New* York to Pontresina
In one of the annual migrations of
waiters, but he had long given up the
apron and napkin for less servile and
more remunerative employment. He
had become an adept in crime.
had so far thrived on blackmail and
thievery. He was now the chief of the
Black Hand in New York.
Every one who reads newspapers has
heard of the Black Hand, that ghastly
International fraternity of murderers,
thieves, kidnapers, which has wielded
such power of late years, terrorizing
rich society. Intimidating, blackmailing,
bleeding It, until the poor millionaire
scarce called his soul his own. Who
does not remember the kidnaping of
Rockerbllt's 12-year-old son, who was
held to ransom for a million dollars?
And In England there was the murder
of Lord Debcnham. because, us was
proved by letters found In his escri
toire, he refused to pay them $100,000.
In England and America there have
been countless mysterious deaths
where a card bearing a black hand In
rough silhouette was found on the
body.
Of the American branch of the Black
Hand. Gaetano Zucchi was the direct
ing brain. He had got the Honora
ble George Bassendyne In his toils and
be used him mercilessly. Bassendyne
w’us of supreme utility, because, ul-
tho he was no white sheep, he still
had his friends In society and could
collect Information without arousing
any suspicion.
Up to now that had been hls chief
duty.
But Zucchi had seen signs of rest
lessness and wanted to bind Bassen
dyne closer to the organisation,
that end he had devised a little plot
that Bassendyne had frustrated for the
moment by straying away from the ap
pointed meeting on Friday night.
With the wonder of what evil task
Zucchi was devising for him revolving
in his mind. Bassendyne hod paid little
attention to the chatter of Miml Van
Alster as they sat at their table in
the Grill Room flub.
“You are not listening to me. Geor-
gle,” said that young person .petulant -
iy.
“I assure you that I am.
“What was 1 saying then?
"You were—you were saying that
Miss Armour was—that she was”—
“Out it. Georgle. not a bit like It.
Your mind’s wandering. In love.”
“With you In front of me. how dare
deny it?”
He was a handsome fellow, and when
he had taken a little champagne he
could be quite fascinating. He was
now. and Miml was a little frightened
to feel that she was falling in love
with him. That Is. as near love as she
could get. for to really fall In love one
must have a heurt and Miml was
really all for Miml. But she could de
lude herself. Sp she did that.
“Don’t say that.” she sald^ softly.
“You know you don’t mean It.”
“Why shouldn’t IT’ he said careless
ly. “You are as pretty a girl as a man
could wish to see. and—perhaps I’m
thinking of settling down to domestic
ity and church twice on Sundays.
How would you like to be the Honora
ble Mrs. George?”
“Me? Oh. that wouldn't tempt me
much, although I’ve a suspicion I could
make as good a wife as any of those
bread and butter English girls of
yours. And Georgle. you know"—
“What do I know T*
8he hesitated.
“Things.” she said, vaguely.
“I daresay you do," he agreed. "But
what things? What are you so myste
rious about?”
“Nothing—well, perhaps something
that should make us good friends.
He leaned over the table and took her
hand.
“You’ll fell me.” he teased.
“I know.” she answered slowly. ”1
know all about Mrs. Schuyler’s emer
aids. Let go—you are hurting me—
L’ll scream in a minute.”
He did let go. He sat back In hls
chair glaring at her. Ills eyes had
little fascination in them now. They
had more of order. She shrank away
from him. her face pale beneath the
paint she had not troubled to re
move.
“Go on.” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I’m not blaming you. Georgle/* she
said, the tears still In her eyes from
the treatment.
He laughed savagely.
I "1 am obliged to you," be said.
. _ Simple rule
life? Well. I’m a simple mun—and.
pretty little Miml, you’re a simple foot.
To have somebody’s secret Is a very
useful thing; to give away your knowl
edge Is foolish.”
Miss van Alster’s eyes hardened to
pinpoints. She was no simple fool. She
laughed stridently and put out her
glass for more wine.
“George Bassendyne.” said she. "I
don’t give away nothin*. I know enough
to get you sent back to London, and
to provide you with free lodgings In
Reading Jail for the next ten years.”
"You know all that?” said the Hon
orable George, sneeringly. "Tell me.”
"Oh. no. I don’t; once bit—In the
wrist.” she looked down at that fragile
member, “and any simple foOl* *d be
shy. But I’ll make a bargain with
you.”
“Will you. now? That’s kind!”
A hand fell on Rassendyne’s shoul
der. a black-gloved hand.
"Pardon me for Interrupting.” said
Zucchi. "but you won’t forget our ap
pointment.” and he nodded at the
clock. It lacked a quarter to 3.
“Oh. you go to—on! It’s you. Zucchi.
Let me present you to Miss Miml van
Alster—Signor Gaetano Zucchi.”
’Howdy?” said the young lady In
her customary pert manner, und the
head of the Black Hand bowed curtly
and turned hls back, walking away.
“Your friend’s polite, anyway.”
I can’t help that. Now, look here,
Miml. I’ve got to go. I’ll put you into
a hansom and”—
You sit dow’n, Georgle Bassendyne.
I U»*u (InluL «... r.l (I.. '
1 can’t, Miml.
must
and lets finish our friendly conversa
tion.”
I tell yo
go.”
“811 down.”
"Now. don’t make more of a fool of
yourself thun you can help. I’ll see
you tomorrow, or the next day. any
time you wish, but I must go now."
"Ah.” said Mis* Van Alster. signifi
cantly. "Business V
“Well, yes—business.”
“Um.” she murmured, nodding her
head and getting up. "You’ll get
caught one of these days—sure. Help
me with my cloak.”
Nothing was said until the Honora
ble Georgle had handed her Into the
hansom, and then It was she who
spoke, to give him her address.
“I’U call tomorrow about 5/* he said
“Good night.”
“Ny-nlght." she said.
He got into an electric hansom him
self und was taken rapidly down
town. He dismissed the cab atvflvdb.k
town. He dismissed the cab at Grand-
st. and the Bowery and walked west
and then Into Mott-st.
He stopped before the window of a
little Ice cream shop and. bending
down, tapped thrice on the wooden
shutter over the cellar. On© rap In
answer was replied to by three more
raps from him. The shutter swung
inwards. The Honorable Georgle en
tered backwards, putting up the wood
en doors as he descended, and then
slipping the heavy bolt that held them
secure.
The doors closed softly.
There was the scratch of a match.
A candle was lighted, throwing Its
flickering flames into the grim faces
of the half dozen men who made up
the organization committee of the In
famous Black Hand. There was Zuc
chi. spick and span; there was Bas
sendyne. brushing the dust of the steps
from his knees; there was a little fat
man with a King Humbert mous
tache; there was a pule artist’s mod
el. who sat for pictures of St. John
the Evangelist and Knights of the
Round Table; there wo* a teacher of
music, a gray-haired man. who might
have been a diplomat, and. lustly,
there was an unshaven organ grinder,
looking like a cross between Fru Dia-
volo and a Palermo boatman.
“To business.” said Zucchi curtly,
taking his seat on an upturned Ice tub.
When Gaetano said business, it
meant business and was business.
We met on Friday night.” he said,
"and one of us was absent. It was you,
Bassendyne. What excuse have you to
gtve the comrades?”
Hls voice was soft and encouraging.
The young man pulled himself to
gether and looked around the little clr.
Every face was hard; even the
rosy-cheeked old restaumnteur was
grim; the model fingered hls tangling,
black, oily locks and smiled.
"It’s a silly excuse I know,” said
Bassendyne. "but I can’t help that. The
simple fact Is that I forgot all about IL
I told you so, Zucchi—just forgot”
The organ-grinder’s hand went to his
belt suggestively. *
"To forget is human; to forgive Is
divine," said Zucchi with a laugh thut
was a good deal of a snarl. "Well, the
Black Hand Is not human—It doesn’t
forget. And it isn’t divine—It doesn’t
forgive.”
"Well, then.” said Bassendyne. al
most wearily, “come to the point. I
know death Is the penalty of the of
fence. Get over with It: I don’t core
u rap. Only do It quickly.”
He arose and calmly faced the des
perate, evil band.
CHAPTER VII.
The Man of Masks and the Black
Hand.
When George Bassendyne. facing the
evil little Black Hand band, said that
he knew full well the penalty for dis
obeying any of the mandates of the
mysterious society was death, and
asked only that they get the nasty Job
over with quickly, it was not a pose