is is the reminder so that Gennaro and his father-in-law will not
forget," I gasped.

"Yes," added Craig, pulling us away, "and Cesare himself is wounded,
too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing to pay. Perhaps
not. It's a queer case--they usually set the bombs off at night when
no one is around. There must be more back of this than merely to scare
Gennaro. It looks to me as if they were after Casare, too, first by
poison, then by dynamite."

We shouldered our way out through the crowd and went on until we came to
Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Down we went past the little shops,
dodging the children, and making way for women with huge bundles of
sweatshop clothing accurately balanced on their heads or hugged up under
their capacious capes. Here was just one little colony of the hundreds
of thousands of Italians--a population larger than the Italian
population of Rome--of whose life the rest of New York knew and cared
nothing.

At last we came to Albano's little wine-shop, a dark, evil, malodorous
place on the street level of a five-story, alleged "new-law" tenement.
Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part of
a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour, men out
of employment and an inoffensive-looking lot, though of course they eyed
us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed fellow who
had a sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such a fellow spreading
terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing both temples with
his thumbs and drawing his long bony fore-finger under his throat--the
so-called Black Hand sign that has shut up many a witness in the middle
of his testimony even in open court.

We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was empty, and
sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous California "red
ink" we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place. In
the middle of the ceiling was a single gas-burner with a big reflector
over, it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal oblong window,
barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom. The tables were
dirty and the chairs rickety. The walls were bare and unfinished, with
beams innocent of decoration. Altogether it was as unprepossessing a
place as I had ever seen.

Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go,
complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had
made up his