Kowen groaned and opened his eyes. One of his deputies was just regaining consciousness. The sheriff tried to get to his feet.
"What—what——" he began.
"They're all gone—jail door's open," the deputy gasped.
"It——I know! Vapor bombs!" Kowen cried. "More Black Star work! Quick—look——"
Kowen had managed to get to his feet now, and was rushing into the corridor of the jail. More deputies were regaining consciousness. The sheriff pushed past them and ran down the corridor. They heard him cry out.
"Gone—gone!" he shrieked. "The Black Star has escaped! It was all a trick—that woman, the gambling joint—a trick to get all those men in here so they could do their work——"
"Here's a note in the cell!" a deputy cried.
The sheriff took it and ran back to the office. One of the deputies already was telephoning police headquarters and relating the story. The Black Star had been rescued! The supercriminal who had been tried and convicted, who was to start for the State prison on the following day, had made his escape!
On the brow of each unconscious man left behind by the band there had been pasted a tiny black star—the criminal's mark. There was a row of them on the blotter-sheet. They were on the walls, on the casements.
The reporters rushed for telephones. Here was news that would startle the city in the morning. Was the town in for another reign of crime? Would the notorious Black Star merely make good his escape, or did he have plans perfected? Was his band reorganized? Would he take vengeance for his arrest and incarceration?
The note found in the cell supplied the answer. Sheriff Kowen read it quickly:
To Whom It May Concern:
Did you think for an instant that the Black Star would go to prison to serve twenty years? It was a very clever rescue, was it not? And for the months I have been held in jail, for the strain and worry of my trial, I am going to make the city pay. My organization is more perfect than before. My plans have been well made. The city shall pay—pay—pay! And tell that fool of a Roger Verbeck, who was instrumental in catching me before, that he will be helpless this time. I defy him even to find the location of my headquarters.
All the telephones were busy now. The pungent odor that had come from the vapor bombs had blown out of the room. Word was being flashed over the city that the Black Star had been rescued by his band, and that he had promised a wave of crime to pay for his incarceration.
Nobody doubted that such would be the case. The city knew well that the Black Star always made good his boasts. Nobody doubted that his organization was greater than it had been before, and that clever plans had been made.
The Black Star, they had reason to suppose, would not wait very long before striking, for that was not his nature. The city faced the great question:
Where would the Black Star strike first?
CHAPTER III
THE NEW HEADQUARTERS
Roger Verbeck was the last of his family, a man who moved in the best social circles, who had wealth and good looks and friends, and an athletic body.
It had been Roger Verbeck who had put the Black Star behind prison bars. When the supercriminal first began his work in the city, the police seemed to be unable to do anything against him. Verbeck had made a boast at a reception one night that he could capture the Black Star himself. That boast had led to many adventures.
One of the Black Star's band happened to overhear the boast, for the men and women working for the Black Star were to be found in all walks of life, and there was nothing strange in the fact that one of them happened to be a guest at an exclusive social affair. At one stage of the game even Verbeck himself had been suspected of being a lieutenant of the master criminal.
The Black Star had challenged Verbeck to make good his boast, and there had ensued a duel of wits. Whereas the master rogue had an organization at his command, Verbeck had nobody except Muggs.
Muggs was a peculiar individual. Years before, Muggs had stood on a bridge over the Seine, in Paris, ready to fling himself into the water and end an existence that, in a fit of despondency, he had decided was not worth carrying out to its logical conclusion.
Roger Verbeck had grasped him by the arm in time to save him, and had convinced Muggs that life was worth the living. So Muggs became attached to Roger Verbeck. He was known as Verbeck's valet, but he was a comrade-in-arms in reality. He shared Verbeck's adventures, and often turned failure into success. He was ready to fight for Verbeck at any moment.
Muggs had worked with Verbeck against the Black Star, and when the master criminal finally was captured and incarcerated, Muggs had turned valet again. But Muggs was a man who demanded action, and time hung heavy on his hands. For Roger Verbeck was thinking of getting married, and he had small time for adventuring.
Muggs was a small man, but one of great strength. There was nothing handsome about him. Some called him repulsive, but not in Roger Verbeck's hearing.
Muggs had been a criminal and knew the ways of criminals. He had been of great value to Verbeck on numerous occasions, and once had saved his life. Between them they possessed nearly all human qualifications, and they made an excellent team.
On the night of the rescue of the Black Star, Roger Verbeck had called upon his fiancée. He returned to his rooms shortly after the hour of twelve, and immediately went to bed, Muggs retiring a few minutes later. There was to be a golf tournament the following day, and Verbeck was a contestant.
Both men were asleep almost immediately. Most of the tenants in the big apartment house had retired. In the office on the ground floor a sleepy clerk was attempting to keep his eyes open and read a magazine. The night telephone operator had gone to a restaurant a couple of blocks away for a midnight cup of coffee, and the sleepy clerk was watching the switchboard.
There entered a gentleman from the street—a man whose face was muffled in his coat collar. He was well-dressed, very much the gentleman, and the clerk got up and hurried to the desk. Somebody with an important business message for one of the tenants, the clerk supposed.
"Something I can do for you, sir?" the clerk asked.
"Yes—go to sleep!" came the reply.
The visitor drew a vapor gun and discharged it in the clerk's face. The latter gasped, and sank to the floor. The one who had used the gun stepped to the door and gave a signal. Three more men sprang from a closed car standing at the curb, and hurried into the lobby of the house.
"Telephone operator be back in a few minutes," the first man said. "One of you remain here and get him. Answer any calls on the switchboard, so things will look natural."
One remained; the other three ran quickly up the stairs, ignoring the elevator, which was in the basement, with a sleepy
