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wliiTSjnT H«* «tm no* rMilly
fmoilofw Hut I ho man had a contempt f rmnaml. amounttnc (■> nvrr fiOO.OOa.
for drath. Il« whn quite cool when he I And by various dudirfa he had done
aaiil, "LH it be quirk;** and if he did j romfMUiie* with which lie wan
My that It was because physical pain **d u.m promoter or dinv
was distasteful • and unnecessary, he
thought. In connection with his paying
the awful penalty of the Black Hand.
The organ grinder slipped a knife
out of his belt and dabbed his thumb
gently on the blade.
-Put that away, Ambrosio,* said Zuc-
chi. "The time Is not yet. No, Bas-
sendyne, there's other work for you
first. It all depends on how you do
that work whether or not the Black
Hand spares you.
"Listen to me. comrades.
"There's a million going begging In
New York. To lay hands on that mil
lion Is a task worthy of us. Baasen-
dime’s going to help us to It. If he gets
It for us. we'll forget and forgive; If
he doesn't"
"What a-for you no keel *eem now?
said the model. "Me, 1 would a-been
daid eef I not a-been ere Friday.
"So you would, Giorgio," retorted
Zucchi, "so you would. But, then,
you're not so useful. I have my eye on
twenty who could take your place to
morrow. Don't glare at me like that!
You think because you're the padrone’s
nephew, you can dictate to me!"
"I report-a to my uncle you break-a
the laws."
"Your uncle Is far away In Naples,
Giorgio." said Zucchi. calmly. "Report
away. Ixrng before he gets your let
ter, your bones will be puzzling the
police."
"You are talking to me?"
"Ye* I'm talking to you, and I bid
you hold your tongue. Do you hear?"
"You hold-a yours," said Giorgio, his
pale angelic face distorted with pas
sion. the Ups drawn tight over the
teeth, and the mild melancholy eyes
stirred into shooting flames, flung him
self furiously on Zucchi. knife In hand;
no one could say where the knife came
from, so quickly had It appeared.
Zucchi never moved. The blade
flashed bluely in the scanty light, and
struck swift as lightning at his heart.
There was a metallic ring, a snap, and
the steel fell to the earthen floor, brok
en off short at the handle. Giorgio
gasped and began to tremble.
"You have spoiled a coat for me."
said Zucchi coldly, "and you have
proved that we can still make good
shirts of mail in MHano. I shall break
no more laws, Giorgio. You have
struck at the provincial head, at the
direct representative of the padrone,
and you must pay. Kh?"
He looked round the circle as he
spoke. Every head nodded.
"Go and confess," he went on, look
ing at his watch, "and be hack here in
half an hour.”
Giorgio looked round the circle, too.
Bosaendyne. who had some little knowl
edge-of history, thought of a Roman
amphitheatre and a gladiator turning
up unavailing eyea toward "the mon
arch and hts mlniona and his dames.
The look the gladiator saw, the hard
unrelenting stare that meant death—
that saw Giorgio now.
With a shiver that was more hate
than fear, Giorgio turned on hia heel
and walked slowly to one corner of the
cellar, where a flight of damp and dirty
stone steps led Into the house above.
Up these stairs he disappeared.
"About this million." said Zucchi
coldly, no trace of passlcn in his voice
, or agitation. "Some months ago a than
named Armour disappeared. He was
supposed to have committed suicide.
At any rate, on the night of his de
parture he had purchased cyanide of
potassium at a drug store. But Ar
mour's body was never found; he had
left the house, and if he had taken the
poison he could not have gone very far
without dropping dead. A cabman
said that he had taken up that night a
fare very like Armour and driven him
to the Adrea's pier at the North river.
I have seen that cabman, and have no
doubt that the man was Armour. Well,
if he had taken the poison, he would
have been dead long before he got to
the end of the pier.
"It Is a funny case, and I thought I
would have a look Into it. I have suc
ceeded where all the police of New
York—the dear police!—have failed;
and we will share his million."
Zucchi's dream of a million within
the grasp of the Black Hand stirred
the company present to alertness. But
the music teacher was skeptical.
"If you are sure Armour has it," he
mumured.
•'Well, now," said Zucchi. "that's
what I'm not sure of. But & little
logic is helpful. It was proved at the
inquiry that during the last year he
had drawn from, his bank sums
amounting to J300.000. He had cashed
at his own other banks' clients' checks.
t-60,000 more. He did not pay away
penny more than he could help,
staving off creditors with small sums
and with bills. Now, if a man does
that and then disappears, it is with a
purpose; with & fortune like a million a
man doesn't commit suicide—he's stick
ing to the cash, I said to myself. Where
is he then? I communicated with the
comrades In different countries—the
Padrone himself ransacked Italy—and
from the reports I became confident
that Armour was in America; had
never left, in fact. Now. ir any of us
wanted to hide, what ~art of America
would we choose? New York, of
course.
"John Joseph Armour chose New
York. He la In New York now. He
has an office in Columbus-ave., under
the name of Jacob Carpmael, and he
pretends to be a mortgage broker,
does no business, of course, but. hav
ing once been In tbe whirl of 'change,
be must be near It; and, having once
gambled, he must go on gambling. His
agents are a firm that assist me in my
own little operations.
"Where does he live? This is more
than I can tel! you. He disappears
from his office as if by magic. I have
lain in wait for him over and over
again, and every time he has escaped
me.
"Now. this is where you come in.
Bassendyne."
"You were entertaining an actress at
the Grill Room Club tonight. From
the conversation I overheard you hav
ing with her she knows and hates this
Armour’s daughter. But she knows
her. Thru your friend, Bassendyne.
you must make the acquaintance of
Miss Armour; and thru the daughter
we shall find the father."
'I have read the case, too,” said the
restouranteur, "and I remember that
the daughter gave up all she had to
pay what she could of her father's
debts. Ia It at all likely that she know*s
where he to?"
"She may. Even if she does not. we
shall get at him thru her. I know all
about hia former life—Ambrosio work
ed the servants for me—and I believe
he will reveal himself if Miss Armour
in in danger. Let him know that she
is in our hsmds, and he'll come out of
his den. That's one way; but 1 don't
want to do any kidnaping until other
and quieter means have failed. There
fore, Bassendyne, your friend. Miss
Van Alster—•"
A step sounded on the stairs; It was
Giorgio returning. Zucchi looked at
l.is watch and nodded.
Giorgio stopped at the bottom of tbe
steps.
"You are ready?*' said Zucchi.
"I am ready," was the answer.
Giorgio was again St. John the
Evangelist. His face was free from all
trace of hate or passion; hia eyes were
mild and melancholy; and the mouth
that but a little while before was twist
ed and bitter as a savage beast’s was
once again calm and without shadow
of trouble. He was pale, but looked
happy. Strange!
You have confessed ?"
kllchwi. He wan an old man of nearly
seventy, who had once been editor of
u revolutionary* paper in Turin. He
arose and let them out after first mak
ing sure that the coast was clear, giv
ing them a hoarse "Bona sera!”
They walked allently to Canal-st. and
then to Onlrr-st., the (treat thorough-
tares being lonely In this hour of the
morning. Rain was falling. The blaclc-
of night still hung thickly. Be
hind an old building that had once
been a fashionable hotel but was now
a factory and was In utter darkness.
Bassendyne stopped. Giorgio had fol
lowed him lamblike. He stopped, too.
famous Black Hand. Hhere was Zuc-
Glorglo stopped meekly before Baa-
sendync In the lonely street—Bassen
dyne, who had been appointed by the
Black Hand to assassinate the muti
nous member.
The Honorable George shuddered at
the task ahead.
"Don't you want to live?” he ques>
tioned, bruskly.
“No,” came the toneless answer. •
“Why?"
"Because—because I know Zucchi—
and my uncle.**
'The padrone?"
"Yes."
"But If you escaped to Italy—or to
China—or"—
"If you not do It—I go backa Zuc
chi."
"I don’t care for the job. Why not
do It yourself?"
"I have confess. I not hurt my
soul."
•-.Nulc-ld, would destroy your chance
of heaven—eh?"
You are making me wait" was all
Giorgio said.
There was silence for a moment
while Bassendyne looked at his com
panion keenly. But Giorgio never
flinched. He regarded himself as dead,
and the dead never flinch.
Bassendyne stabbed twice. Giorgio
uttered an Involuntary sob and slipped
to the pavement. Bassendyne pinned
to the dead man's breast a card, some
four Inches square, on which was
printed In solid black a band with dis
tended Angers.
Ten minutes afterwards a newspaper
delivery wagon driver discovered Gior
gio, still warm.
"The cards." said Zucchi.
The organ grinder thrust a hand Into
hia breast and produced a greasy pack
that had done much service. Giorgio
took them from him and proceeded to
deal them to each man In turn, one at
a time. As each man received hia card
he turned it up and regarded the face
of It.
Three rounds of cards had been dealt
when Bassendyne spoke.
“To me," he said, as he handed back
to Giorgio the two of spades.
The organ grinder gathered In all
the cards and thrust tbe pack again
into his bresst.
Giorgio fumbled at his neck and
plucked at a thin gold chain, which
snapped. At one end of It was a tiny
medal that had been blessed by the
pope. This he handed to the music
teacher.
"For Usa." he said.
The old man nodded.
"When you are ready," said Giorgio
to Bassendyne.
"I haven't any"— began Bassen
dyne.
"There's mine," said Zucchi, putting
a long: keen knife Into hts ha
“And don't forget your orders about
Mias Armour."
Then they all turned their backs on
Giorgio as he moved toward the stairs
and began to mount slowly. Bassen
dyne followed him.
Cnvagnarl. tbe proprietor of the Ice
CHAPTER VIII,
Uncle and Niece.
A pair of wonderful blue eyes, the
pressure of a small, warm hand, a few
commonplaces uttered by a low, rich
voice—such Is the food of love: Lu
cian Falconer found It Insufficient. He
spent his Sunday looking forward hun
grily to Monday's banquet, and It was
with quickened step that, when the
appointed hour came on Monday, he
got out of a cab In front of Marga
refs apartments. In West One Hun
dred and Xlntb-st.
He told himself as he was being
taken up In the elevator, that the
thing was impassible: and In the same
breath he made up hia mind to do all
he could to lay the foundation of a
better acquaintanceship with Marga
ret Armour on the somewhat sandy
substratum of a casual Interview.
"When my mind ia set on things I
generally get it." he whispered, com
fortingly.
Mrs. Brinch, the yoang girl's house
keeper—a lady who had graced the
boards somewhere about the frivolous
sixties, and who never let you forget It
—had received orders earlier in the
day to admit Falconer when he came;
thus, before he had time to take
breath, he was ushered Into the little
sitting room.
Stella Gordon reclined on the sofa,
her injured limb supported by pillows;
Margaret sat by the table, holding a
letter In her hand, her pale face
flushed with a tinge of color that was
realty due to the message she had just
received, and not, as Lucian dreamed,
hoped, somewhat prematurely (imper
tinently Indeed), to hia advent.
Margaret rose, gave him her hand
frankly, and presented him to Stella.
"Can you do your Interviewing with
a useless third party In the room?"
said Stella, pointing to her sprained
ankle. "Because I'm afraid you'll have
to put up with me.”
He paid the necessary compliment
and condoled with her on the annoying
accident.
"Oh. don't worry about It." said Miss
Gordon. "Indeed. I'm rather glad it
happened—it .gave Margaret her
chance."
“That ia a very self-denying thing to
say." returned Lucian. 'There are not
many stare who would be so"—
"Oh! but I mean it," Interrupted
Stella. “Margaret's my friend. And
from the stage point of view, my rep
utation won't suffer, while she has
gained a name and a future."
Jamt what we were talking about when
you came In. Mr, nUconer. I*m not
about It. Mow. do let me speak.
Stella. We can set an unbiased opin
ion from Mr. Falconer."
Stella looked surprised.
"He ia a practical man of the world,
being a journalist; he has no interest
In giving an opinion that ia not truth
ful; and. best of all, he ti a stranger."
Falconer wondered what was com
ing. This was certainly a curious be
ginning for an interview. He had to
say something, however, for Margaret
was questioning him with her eyes.
"Being a journalist," he laughed. “I
have, of course, an opinion on every
possible subject, tied up in a neat bun
dle and pigeon-holed, and ail ready for
delivery to the compositor. Pray re
assure me that it is not a question of a
frock, for I must confess frocks are my
weak point."
"No.” said Margaret. “It’s not frocks.
It's something much more important,
perhaps—my future. Listen to this
letter."
"But—•” stammered Falconer.
“Please." said Margaret. “I'm a very
determined young woman, and you
can't be so discourteous as not to ar
bitrate between Stella and me.”
Stella looked as if she thought her
friend had taken leave of her senses.
"My Dear Niece—I have at last ar
rived in New York, and taken tempo
rary rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria. I
have been to Riverside Drive and
learned from the caretaker that you
have removed to West One Hundred and
Xinth-st, and taken up house with a
lady named Gordon, who, it seems, is
an actress. 1 also discovered that you
yourself have the Intention of taking
up the stage as a profession. It is quite
impossible—as your guardian. I shall
not allow It for a moment. Personally.
I have nothing to say against the stage,
but I know your father's views on the
matter, and they were very decided. I
believe you never knew your mother.
She was an actress, and she tfied on
the stage. From that moment your
father had a horror of actors and ac
tresses and all concerned with them
and their trade. Your father's wish In
the matter should be your law; it Is
mine, certainly—and I shall try all I
can to dissuade you from your rash
purpose. A quiet country life Is the
best thing for you after the sad time
you have gone thru, as I hope to per
suade you when 1 call upon you to
morrow. Your affectionate uncle.
LANCELOT ARMOUR.
"Now," went on Margaret, "here's
the case in a nutshell. I am an or
phan. with no relation but this un
cle from Nowhere, who springs up like
a jack-in-the-box to order me about.
1 owe him nothing, least of all obe
dience. But if he con prove to me that
this is true about my mother, and my
father's feelings against the stage-
well. then"— She made a little gesture
of resignation.
“You would give up your career?*
said Falconer. -
“I think so," she said.
"But all your own Inclinations—they
would lead you to continue?"
"But surely." she cried. "First of
all. I must earn my living. Secondly—
It's presumption, perhaps, to speak so
confidently after one night's success—I
can earn my living that way better
than any other. And. thirdly, there's
more than mere money in it, Mr. Fal
coner—I tasted triumph on Saturday
night, and I want to taste it again.
But my father’s wish should come
first."
"While I." put in Stella from the
sofa, "say that father’s wishes or jio
father's wishes, she should go on. It's
her own life she has to live. It's her
own life to do with as she pleases. I
discovered you. Margaret, and I want
you to justify me. even If you should
oust me in the end."
Margaret shook her head violently,
blew her friend a kiss, and turned to
Falconer. ^
"Quick, your opinion. Mr. Falconer."
she cried. “What am I to do?"
"Really." said Lucian. "It's a very
serious matter. But since you tell me
you are alone in the world"—
"Quite."
"I agree with Miss Gordon. That’s
my flrst impression. All the same. I
should think you would be wise to"—
Mrs. Brinch opened the door and
announced "Mr. Armour."
In a second Margaret was another
person. She rose stiffly to greet the
newcomer, the man we saw getting
into a hansom at Columbus-ave. and
Seventy-second-st. Saturday night.
Mlddle-heighted and gray bearded, his
skin was bronzed as if by a stronger
sun than New York’s; and his freck
led hands were those of a man who had
spent much time in the open, and, very
likely, in agricultural pursuits. His
thick hair came rather low down on
the forehead, and his eyes were al
most hidden under bushy brows.
Lucian Falconer stood by the win
dow. feeling: himself out of place, and
only waiting a favorable moment to
make his escape.
The continuation of this thrilling
story will be found in the issue oC The
Georgian and January 7.
The Atlanta Georgian
AND NEWS
j YSTERY STORY~"OF NEYORK ~QFZ" j
THE MM OF A
HUNDRED MASKS
BY HAZEN LYNCH
CHAPTER I.
Disappearance of a Millionaire.
J OHN JOSEPH ARMOUR, million
aire. had disappeared. If. some
great creature had reached a mon
ster hand out of the clouds and snatch
ed him off the earth his disappearance
could not have been more absolute,
more bafflingly mysterious.
His huge banking and brokerage of
fices in Wall-st. were crowded by fran
tic men and women, brought there by
the cry that the newsboys shouted
across the city, repeating the big head
lines:
"Armour Missing!" And others. "Ar
mour a Suicide!" And again. “Armour
Murdered!"
Out of his confidential clerks the po
lice finally wrung statements showing
that, tho his interests in countless en
terprises had collapsed and thousands
had gone to utter ruin who had en
trusted their property to his hands,
there was still the huge sum of $1,000.-
000 unaccounted for—$1,000,000 that.
Investigation showed, thru the course
of several months Armour had gather
ed in cash!
Or had some skillful villains lured
the worried financier to some secret
place and were holding him there in
captivity, knowing well that his ab
sence would cause his exposure and de
manding that he yield at least half of
the million in his possession to save
diiraself from being turned over to the
police?
John Joseph Armour had left his
mansion on Riverside Drive at half
past 11 o’clock on the night of March
20, 1>0—. He had telephoned for a cab,
and had been driven to the pier from
which one of the big ocean liners was
to leave the next day.
Passengers on these big ships often
occupy their cabins on the night before
sailing and have themselves and their
effects well settled before the big racers
start on their way across the Atlantic.
This, of course, indicated Armour’s
flight for Europe. But there were other
facts that contradicted this assump
tion.
He bad engaged no passage.
The cabman remembered clearly that
his passenger had carried no baggage.
When the ship arrived in Queens
town no person remotely resembling the
financier was found to be aboard.
No baggage marked in bis name, nor,
presuming that he used a false name,
was there any unclaimed baggage
whatever aboard the steamship.
The cabman remembered that he had
been ordered by Mr. Armour, whom he
knew well enough by sight—as who
clong Broadway in the brilliant restau
rants and at the theater first nights
did not?—to stop at a drug store on the
way to the steamship pier.
The druggist was found. He admit
ted that he hod sold Mr. Armour a
quantity of a deadly poison—cyanide
of potassium.
"It was not right—it wasn’t lawful.'
said the druggist, "but then I knew Mr.
Armour—I knew him for a wealthy
man with everything in the world to
live for. and when he told me that he
wanted the poison to put an aged dog—
an old family pet—out of Its misery,
why I let him have it without question.
duce death most quickly, and I recom
mended that drug. If there had been
any nervousness or anything at all
Strange in his manner. I wouldn’t have
sold it to him, of course; but there was
not. He seemed a little troubled, as a
man might be who had been driven to
the determination that a faithful old
dog would have to be put out of its
misery."
Dragnets were worked; divers
searched the bottom of the North river
near the steamship pier, where the
financier had last been seen. No clew
was found.
Doubt, misery, distress were all too
honestly expressed in the handsome
girl's face and speech during his long
interview with her. Frankly she had
given him to read the sealed letter that
her father had left for her on the table
of hia library* It was a remarkable
communication. The hand writing was
firm and steady. The detective read:
My Beloved Marguerite—In my busi
ness life I have written many, many
thousands of letters, not one of which
has caused me so- much trouble as the
thought of beginning this one. I have
never been in the habit of making ex
planations with the pen because the
written word lasts and the spoken word
does not. It Is because I wish my pres
ent explanation to last that I use the
pen.
Before you read what I have to say.
t me beg of you to ask yourself a few
questions. A3k yourself if I have been
a good father to you. Ask yourself if I
have not loved you well. Ask yourself
if I have failed in any way to be what
& good and affectionate father ought
to be.
I am not afraid of the answer. Mar
guerite. if you give it now when you
have read only thus far; you will say
that I have been kind and indulgent,
thoughtful and affectionate, living only
for you—since you are all that I have
in the world. And you will be right.
Marguerite.
But—
At the moment when you are reading
this, you have no more a father.
Tomorrow, or the next day, or the
next, the newspapers and my enemies
and your friends will tell you that I
am a rogue and a thief a swindler and
a defaulter. The newspapers and my
enemies and your friends wilt be right;
I am all that they can say. and more.
And you. my daughter, who have been
my constant care for twenty years, my
one thought ever since your mother
died when you were but one year old—
you, ray dear Marguerite, will hold me
worse than will the world generally;
for you, with your strict principles and
quixotic notions, will remember first
the high place I held in your heart—
He asked me which poison would pro-and so you will make my fall the great.
er; I shall be lower In your esteem than
the meanest beggar in the street.
Well, that is only part of my punish
ment.
I am not going to give you a cata
logue of my thefts, my rogueries; you
will know them soon enough. I merely
tell you that I am not going to await
human punishment. "Why not?" say
you. "Why not be brave, and, if you
have done wrong, ‘face the music* ?”
Because, beloved Margaret. I could not
bear to see your eyes filled with tears,
your cheeks pale with sorrow, your
head bowed with shame. 1 am a
coward—yes; but think, if you can.
that deliberate cowardice may after all
be a little-recognised form of heroism.
Well, I am a coward, then; for I am
going out—out of your life, out of the
world's life, out of the only atmosphere
that is tolerable, out of your love for
ever.
I punish myself. There to nothing
else to do. Men would punish me by
sending me to prison for such and such
years; I condemn myself to the eternal
prison of being without your love.
What greater penalty can 1 Inflict on
myself? None, none. • • •
Three years ago, as you will remem
ber. I made over to yon. by deed of gift,
this house and all that it contains, to
gether with an annuity of $2,000. Sell
the house with its contents; the re
suiting sum. together with your an
nulty. should set you beyond the need
of working for a living, should make
you comfortable for the rest of your
life.
You are not quite alone in the world.
I am writing now to my brother and
your uncle, of whom I have never
spoken to you—Lancelot Armour—who
has been settled in Buenos Ayres for
over thirty years. Once a year he has
written to me and I have written to
him. In his last letter he announced
his intention of visiting New York this
spring. I have asked him to look after
you. and to help you with advice and
care. He will do so. for he is long past
bis wild youth, and he had ever a good
heart.
My dear child, there is nothing
more for me to say. I have confessed
my sin. I go to my punishment.
If you can ever think of me kindly,
dp so; and if you can not. blot me out
from your memory, or look on me only
as one who once formed part of a pleas
ant dream—then, of a bad dream—but
who Is now passed out of your life for.
ever.
Margaret, my beloved daughter, fax©,
wen. farewell. Your affectionate father,
JOHN JOSEPH ARMOUR.
The chief studied the letter for some
minutes. He looked up suddenly:
"From this, you feel sure that your
father must be dead. Miss Armour?"
I do not know.” the girl answered
brokenly. "In the letter he says: ‘I go
to my punishment.’ That may mean
death or exile."
“Or blackmailers may have forced
him to leave this letter for you.” said
the detective grimly. "May I ask if you
were at home the night your father dis
appeared?"
I was not. My. chaperone and escort
and I got back from the opera about 1
o'clock in the morning—we had stop
ped for a Uttle supper at Sherry’s. My
father was not home then, but this
did not worry me. for I thought he ‘
might also have gone to the theater
and to supper afterwards. We had
dined together, and he was
spirits at dinner."
"Then you have
have become of him
"No. But," said the girl with
lift of her graceful head that command
ed the detective's admiration. "I do
know this—that this house and all its
contents shall be sold at auction, and
that if possible every penny of the prin
cipal of the annuity my father gave mo
shall be lumped together and tume ’
over to his creditors. I
dishonest money."
Pity moved tbe official.
"My dear girl,** he said,
sacrifice is hardly necessary. The
house and its furnishings—yes. But I
hardly think your father's creditors—
wildly enraged as they are against him
—would demand so great a sacrifice
of you. The annuity, if I were you, I
would keep. The law can. not touch
it."
"Nor could I touch a penny of it.”
said Miss Armour. "Other honest girls .
earn their living—girls who have never
had the educational advantages I have
had. I will earn mine. It will be a new
life, to bo sure. And yet sometimes I
have envied these very girto their fine
independence."
As he walked down the broad steps
of the mansion, the chief murmured u
1 himself.
John Joseph Armour, Mil
lionaire Wall-st. broker, disap
pears mysteriously after looting
clients of $1,COO,000, and his
heroic daughter, facing task of
making her way unaided, seeks
place on the stage.
\