to write, and thus they conversed, each writing on his blackboard and erasing after the other had read.
“Number Six,” the man wrote.
“Countersign?”
“Florida.”
“Report,” wrote the Black Star.
“Carried out your instructions, but was caught by Verbeck and his valet. Escaped when they went to call police.”
It seemed that the Black Star grew taller and straighter as he looked at the other man, and Verbeck and Muggs could see his eyes glittering through the black mask. They expected him to roar a rebuke, a denunciation, but he did not. He faced the blackboard again and wrote rapidly:
“You are a blunderer. We have no use for the man who fails.”
“I did not fail,” the other wrote on the board quickly. “I put a black star on his bed and scattered others in library. I was putting letter on desk when they caught me.”
“Did you come straight here?”
“No. I shook them off first. I got away before they raised an uproar. Came on owl car, got off several blocks back, and cut down the hill.”
The Black Star motioned for him to erase this last, and then walked slowly to the table. There was a pile of letters on one end of it, and the Black Star picked up one and read it, shook his head, and put the letter in the pocket of his robe. He pressed against the end of the table, and a drawer shot open. Verbeck and Muggs could see that the drawer was half filled with money and jewels.
The Black Star took out some money and threw it on the table. He closed the drawer and walked back to his blackboard, and picked up the chalk to write again:
“You will not be safe here for some time. Verbeck or his man might recognize you. Take that money and catch the first train for Chicago. Return and report one month from to-night at midnight.”
The other man read and bowed his head. There was no hesitancy in his manner; he acted like a man who had received orders that he knew he had to carry out. He went forward and picked up the money, and, with it clutched in one hand, he backed to the door and lifted the other hand in salute to the Black Star. The Black Star nodded, and the other backed through the door and closed it.
Muggs hurried across the room to the window to watch, while Verbeck remained gazing through the crack in the door at the Black Star, who sat down in the armchair and began inspecting the letters on the table. The minutes passed. Muggs returned and reported that the other man had put the robe and mask in the box, and had slipped away through the trees. Still the Black Star sat at the table, and that for which Verbeck had been waiting did not come to pass—the master criminal did not remove the mask from his face.
Another adventure appealed to Verbeck now. He decided to face the Black Star in his den. He confided his intention to Muggs in whispers and gave his orders, and, disregarding Muggs’ mouthings concerning his “hunch,” slipped across the room to the window and let himself out.
He found the robe in the box and quickly put it on, then adjusted the black mask. Beneath the robe, his hand clutched the butt of his automatic. Searching the edge of the casement, he found a push button and touched it with his finger. Inside, a bell tinkled.
A few seconds passed, and then there was a sharp click and the door flew open. Verbeck entered and closed the door after him. Before him was a long corridor, musty, the air in it rank, dust on walls and ceiling. It appeared that the entire house had not been renovated, only the one room.
Verbeck slipped along the corridor to where a streak of light entered it, indicating a door. Holding the pistol ready beneath his robe, he opened the door and stepped into the room, and stood beside the blackboard as the other man had done. The Black Star was not there.
The seconds seemed hours as he waited, trying to keep his eyes away from the door behind which he knew Muggs was watching him, his ears strained to catch the first sound of the master criminal’s approach. Then the other door opened, and the Black Star appeared and walked to his station on the other side of the room. He nodded his head, and Verbeck picked up chalk and eraser and turned to the blackboard.
He was playing a dangerous game, and did not know how soon he would be detected. He felt small fear, for Muggs was waiting to help him, and he had heard nothing, seen nothing to indicate that the Black Star had allies in the house.
“Number Four,” Verbeck wrote on the board.
“Countersign?”
“Florida,” wrote Verbeck.
He turned to find the Black Star’s eyes glittering straight into his. The flaming jet on the hood seemed to be dancing in derision. Verbeck wondered whether he had made a mistake, and he soon found out, for the Black Star turned to the blackboard and wrote rapidly:
“Number Four is a woman, and Florida is not her countersign.”
And then he faced Verbeck again.
The crisis had arrived sooner than Verbeck had expected. The Black Star knew him for an intruder, and knew also that he must have observed a great deal to be able to don robe and mask and start the blackboard conversation. The master criminal could be expected to act with dispatch.
Before the Black Star could make a move Verbeck’s robe parted and his left hand emerged, holding the pistol ready for instant action. With his other hand he waved toward the armchair, and then he spoke:
“Sit down! And put your hands flat on the table!”
His eyes still glittering into Verbeck’s, the criminal obeyed. Standing at the end of the table, Verbeck confronted him, scarcely knowing what step to take next. The man before him did not speak, but those glittering eyes—burning, malevolent, ominous—seemed to cry out with surprise, hatred, and threats.
“So you are the Black Star?” Verbeck said. “Quite a comedy you play here, eh? Masks hide faces and blackboards take the place of spoken words. A very clever crook—you. But I said a clever man could find you, and I say it again. This is the best proof of it, isn’t it? You challenged me—and I have come. So your man thought he had escaped, did he? If ever you see him again, tell him that his bonds were left loose purposely, so that he’d escape and could be shadowed here. Allow me, sir—Mr. Roger Verbeck, at your service!”
Verbeck raised a hand and tore off his mask, and bowed low in irony, meanwhile watching his victim, for he did not make the mistake of underestimating the cleverness of the man before him, and he was alert for tricks. He saw the Black Star’s hands contract and his arms stiffen, and imagined the master crook calling down curses on the head of the man who had led enemies to his stronghold.
Then the Black Star spoke—in a low, penetrating voice, almost a monotone, obviously disguising his real tones.
“I suppose you think you are very clever?” he said.
“I don’t advertise my cleverness like some persons, and then fail to live up to my estimation of myself,” Verbeck replied.
“You have done something no outsider has done before—you have seen the Black Star in his workshop. That is, indeed, a rare privilege. And, of course, you’ll pay for it in the end.”
“You think so?”
