Silence followed the announcement of the Black Star—silence for a
moment, during which Muggs watched his master and waited for the sign
that he was to choke the man on the divan into insensibility for
daring to say such a thing. But the sign was not given.
Suddenly Roger Verbeck felt sick at heart. The Black Star’s tone, his
bearing, the expression in his face told that he spoke the truth. And
Verbeck knew enough to confirm it. Faustina had been acting in a
peculiar manner. And that second woman who had called on him in the
Black Star’s headquarters—how timid she had appeared, how afraid! She
had reeled when she read her orders. She had demanded to know where
Verbeck got the ring he was wearing. And that very afternoon, when he
met her at her home—her words had been mysterious, her actions out of
the ordinary.
“So you see how it is,” the Black Star was saying. “Do you want to
save her, save her brother also? Then release me, and I’ll help—for I
must save those friends of mine. I’m as much in the dark regarding
them as you, for I’ve never seen any of their faces, remember. You
realize what will happen if they are caught, don’t you? There could be
no escape from the penitentiary for any of them. And there are things
to be found in my headquarters—notes in Faustina Wendell’s
handwriting, for instance, notes giving information——”
He stopped at the look that came into Verbeck’s face.
“And you think I’ll let you go now?” Verbeck demanded. “Why, I’ll
fight you more than ever now! You’ve made a cat’s-paw of that boy;
you’ve dragged the sweetest and most innocent girl in the world into
your filthy scheme.”
“The prosecuting attorney won’t consider her innocent when he reads
those notes.”
“You’d have me let you go—then you’d try to drag _me_ into the mess to
save my intended wife! And, through me, others—and so on! It’s fight
you and beat you now, or surrender to you like a coward, and let you
go ahead with your nefarious plans. I’ll take the chance, Mr. Black
Star!”
Verbeck looked at his watch; it was a quarter of eleven. He whirled to
face Muggs.
“Guard this crook!” he cried. “Guard him well. Shoot him if he tries
to escape!”
“What are you going to do, boss?”
“I’m going to play the game out to the end. I’m going to the ball and
save Faustina Wendell and her brother—and I’m going to see that the
police get the others, and then this man here. That’s all I have to
do—get Faustina and Howard away in time. This crook’s clever scheme
has another angle—nobody can swear the Wendells are mixed up in this.
That’s what I have to do—separate the crooks from the innocent
victims. Watch that man!”
Muggs screeched at him. The Black Star tried to tell him something.
But Roger Verbeck had dashed from the house and toward his machine. He
was almost sobbing, and fear gripped at his heart. The chickens had
come home to roost! No wonder Faustina had acted so peculiarly, small
wonder she had shown anxiety! And she was in danger. He had ordered
her to steal—perhaps her love and fear for her brother would lead her
to do so. She might be caught in the act—Faustina Wendell, proud
daughter of one of the pioneer families, caught stealing jewels!
And his ring—she had recognized that! Great Heaven! Did she think he
was the Black Star? Did she imagine he had played on her love to make
her a member of a band of thieves? What might she not suspect, when
she had seen that ring?
She would remember that he had led a sort of wild life in the ends of
the earth, never showing a tendency to settle down until he had fallen
in love with her. She might pile up the little things until she had a
mound of evidence—women do such things. She might doubt his manhood,
really believe he was the master crook, brutal enough to endanger the
girl he professed to love and her brother. Had Howard Wendell noticed
that ring, too? Had Howard been the midnight prowler waiting on the
boulevard to see what time Verbeck reached home?
He was in the car, out of the yard, rushing like the wind down the
street, not caring whether the machine skidded perilously through the
snow. It was almost eleven o’clock; he had ample time, more than an
hour. It would be a simple thing, after all, merely to get Faustina
and Howard to one side and see that neither wore a red ribbon, let the
police capture the others, and then explain.
Then another thought came to him—those notes the Black Star had said
were in the house where he made his headquarters! The captured men
would talk, mention that house, and the police would search. Faustina
might be endangered in that way. He didn’t dare take the chance of
leaving those notes until after he went to the ball. He’d have to
search for them, find, and destroy them.
There was more than an hour—he had ample time. He drove the machine at
a furious pace, disregarding police, who shrieked at him, barely
missing trolley cars, dodging pedestrians at crossings. Out along the
long boulevard it was easier going, for there the wind had swept the
pavement clear of snow, and there was not so much traffic. He left the
paved street and cut down the hill toward the old house where the
Black Star had established his headquarters. He did not have time to
take precautions; he trusted to the good fortune that always had stood
at his side in emergencies. He turned the machine to the curb a block
away from the house, sprang out, and rushed across vacant lots toward
his goal.
Through the dusty hall he rushed, reaching in his coat pocket for
matches. He found a candle in the furnished room and lighted it. Then
breathlessly he began his search.
Nothing was in the drawer at the end of the table except what he had
seen before. There was no furniture in the room in which letters might
be concealed. He inspected the couch, but found nothing. He ripped the
seat and back from the armchair, but his search was not rewarded. In
the kitchen he opened drawers and bins, but found nothing except dust
and cobwebs. He rushed back to the Black Star’s room again.
His foot found the trigger of the trapdoor, and he opened it and crept
to the edge of the pit to hold the candle and peer down. There was
nothing but the smooth cement walls and flooring. He ripped away rugs,
searched the floor, finally stood, panting, beside the table in
despair.
“He lied!” he gasped. “He must have lied—and I have been losing time!”
He looked at his watch again—it was one minute after eleven o’clock.
It would take him only fifteen minutes to reach the big hall where the
Charity Ball was being held if he drove swiftly, and so he had time
for further search, but it seemed of no use.
Staggering against the side of the table, he threw out his hand to
grip the edge—and a drawer shot out!
He forgot the place and danger, and gave a cry of joy. Accident had
accomplished what search had failed to reveal. The drawer was half
filled with papers. He inspected them quickly—yes, there were several
notes in Faustina’s handwriting, and a forged check for three thousand
dollars in the bolder scrawl that belonged to Howard Wendell. The
Black Star evidently had had that check close at hand to show the boy
now and then in case he thought of quitting the organization.
There were other letters, too, the handwriting of which Verbeck seemed
to recognize, but could not quite place—letters written by other
victims of the Black Star, he supposed.
He carried them to the grate, set them afire, fed them to the flames
one at a time. He ran back to the table and pressed the edge of it all
the way around, and found one other drawer. There was nothing in it,
however, and he felt that he had secured and destroyed all the
dangerous papers there. The fire in the grate died down. Verbeck
stirred the ashes to make certain nothing remained that would give a
clew. Then he blew out the candle and started through the dusty hall
to the door.
As he reached it he stopped in alarm. Creeping toward the house from
the hedge were two men. Far to the right were two more. To the left
were two more. He heard a sibilant whisper from near the wall a short
distance away. Light from the nearest street lamp flashed against a
policeman’s shield.
The police were surrounding the house!