down with excitement.

Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window, and
I believe that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone
which I was holding, for the police operator called me down for asking
so many times if all was ready.

"There it is--the signal," cried Craig. "'A fine opera is "I
Pagliacci."' Now listen for the answer."

A moment elapsed, then, "Not without Gennaro," came a gruff voice in
Italian from the dictagraph.

A silence ensued. It was tense.

"Wait, wait," said a voice which I recognized instantly as Gennaro's.
"I cannot read this. What is this, 23-1/2 Prince Street?"

"No, 33-1/2. She has been left in the back yard."

"Jameson," called Craig, "tell them to drive straight to 33-1/2, Prince
Street. They will find the girl in the back yard--quick, before the
Black-Handers have a chance to go back on their word."

I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. "They're off,"
came back the answer, and I hung up the receiver.

"What was that?" Craig was asking of Luigi. "I didn't catch it. What did
they say?"

"That other voice said to Gennaro, 'Sit down while I count this.'"

"Sh! he's talking again."

"If it is a penny less than ten thousand or I find a mark on the bills
I'll call to Enrico, and your daughter will be spirited away again,"
translated Luigi.

"Now, Gennaro is talking," said Craig. "Good--he is gaining time. He is
a trump. I can distinguish that all right. He's asking the gruff-voiced
fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he will. Good.
They must be at Prince Street now--we'll give them a few minutes more,
not too much, for word will be back to Albano's like wildfire, and they
will get Gennaro after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What was that,
Luigi? The money is all right, he says? Now, Vincenzo, out with the
lights!"

A door banged open across the street, and four huge dark figures darted
out in the direction of Albano's.

With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted:
"Gennaro, this is Kennedy! To the street! _Polizia! Polizia!_"

A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently
from the bar, shouted, "Out with the lights, out with the lights!"

Bang! went a pistol, and another.

The dictagraph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as
a cigar-box.

"What's the matter?" I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me.

"They have shot out the lights.