dry marks just where he'd shed this
identical piece of his trousseau. We'd left it, with a few momentoes
just as valuable, when we made that quick move away from that punky old
palace after our little monkey shine with the brigands.

"You don't mean--?" says I. But there wa'n't no use wasting breath on
that question. He was blushin'. We fiddled some on its having come from
old Vincenzo, or maybe from Blue Beak, the Count that rented us the
place; but the minute we tied that cuff up with the castle we knew that
the one who sent it meant to ring up a hurry call on us for help, and
that it wasn't anybody but the Lady Brigandess herself, the one that
put us next and kept the Boss from being sewed up in a blanket.

"That's a Hey Rube for me," says I. "How about-cher?"

But the Boss was kicking off his gym. shoes and divin' through his
shirt. In five minutes by the watch we were dressed for slootin'.

"I know a Dago roundsman--" says I.

"No police in this," says the Boss.

"Guess you're right," says I. "Too much lime-light and too little
headwork. We'll cut the cops out. Where to first?"

"I'm going to call on the Italian consul," says the Boss. "He's a friend
of mine."

So we opened the sloot business with a ride in one of those heavy weight
'lectric hansoms, telling the throttle pusher to shove her wide open.
Maybe we broke the speed ord'nance some, but we caught Mr. Consul on the
fly, just as he was punchin' the time card. He wore a rich set of Peter
Cooper whiskers, but barring them he was a well finished old gent, with
a bow that was an address of welcome all by itself. The way that he
shoved out leather chairs you'd thought he was makin' a present of 'em
to us.

But the Boss hadn't any time to waste on flourishes. We got right down
to cases. He wanted to know about where the Tuscans usually headed for
when they left Ellis Island, what sort of gangs they had in New York and
what kind of Black Hand deviltry they were most given to. He asked a
hundred questions and never answered one. Then he shook hands with Mr.
Consul and we chased out.

"It looks like the Malabistos," says the Boss. "They have a kind of
headquarters over a basement restaurant. Perhaps they've shut her up
there. We'll take a look at the place anyway."

A lot of good it did us, too. The spaghetti works was in full blast,
with a lot of husky lowbrows goin' in and out, smokin' cheroots half as
long as your arm, and acting as if the referee had