The Man in the Black Mask



(A Complete Mystery Novelette)

By Harold Ward

John Grimes, the peppery little president of the Elkhorn Chemical Company, laid the letter on the table before him, removed his glasses, wiped them carefully, then glared at the other members of the board of directors seated before him.

"That is the latest sample of what I have been getting for the past two weeks, Mr. Larson," he said quietly. "We have postponed action until you arrived because, in my estimation, the threats are so different from those of the ordinary blackmailer that they warrant a more than superficial investigation."

"Twaddle!" interrupted weather-beaten old Slocum, the senior member of the board, with an angry snort.

"The work of a crank," declared Innis, the company attorney, suavely. "It is a waste of time to read his letters."

Grimes ignored the interruptions. Waiting a second for the others, none of whom seemed to care to venture an opinion: "Probably no other company in the world has guarded the interests of its employes [sic] as has this one," he went on. "For that reason we have never had labor troubles of any kind. Seemingly, our workmen are all satisfied and I cannot bring myself to believe that it is one of them. My fellow directors do not agree with me, but I want your opinion."

I chewed my cigar reflectively for a second. "I doubt if my advice will be worth much to you until I have gone deeper into the matter, Mr. Grimes," I responded. "Remember, I arrived less than an hour ago and know absolutely nothing about conditions except what you have told me. As I understand it, you received your first communication from this mysterious blackmailer—what did you say he calls himself?"

"'The Man in the Black Mask,'" answered Grimes.

"His first letter came several days ago, as I understand it, warning you of what to expect. Three days ago you received a second communication demanding the sum of fifty thousand dollars, payment to be made in a manner to be designated later. If you agreed, you were to run up a small, white flag on the flag pole. If not, the factory was to be slightly damaged as a proof that he is able to carry out his threats. Am I right so far?"

The gray-haired president nodded.

"I take it that you have all racked your brains thinking of some one who has been injured—or fancied himself injured—in the past. That you were unsuccessful is self-evident, for you have mentioned no such person. That practically eliminates covering that part of the field again. Not having raised the white flag, your mysterious enemy sends you th# letter you have just read. Have there been any other communications?"

Grimes snorted. "Letters! Communications! My God! I've been bombarded with them. This one came by mail. When I awoke this morning I found one on my dresser. I find them in my coat pockets and pinned to the door of my room. All along the same line, but shorter. All typewritten."

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly. "It looks like collusion on the part of some one in your own home, if you will pardon the insinuation. Have you questioned your servants?"

The little president motioned towards the big man in uniform at the foot of the table.

"Chief Backus has had them both on the carpet," he responded.

The policeman spoke for the first time.

"It beats me," he rumbled. "The cook's been with him ever since Mrs. Grimes died—twelve years ago. The chauffeur and man of all work entered his service five years ago. I took no chances, though, and gave 'em both the third degree. I'd gamble my life on it that neither of them knows a thing about the thing.

"The only other member of the household is Mrs. Casey, Mr. Grime's sister—and she's a semi-invalid. Of course there's Miss Joan, his niece—but one might as well suspect Grimes, himself, as a kid like her. Crank or no crank, Mr. Larson, the man who wrote those letters is a smooth proposition or he couldn't have planted them as he did, right under the noses of everybody. Take my advice and do as I do—suspect everybody."

Having thus delivered himself, he settled back in his chair and puffed with noisy energy at his cigar.

Innis laughed good-humoredly.

"The chief really takes the matter seriously, too," he declared. "He's even stationed men around the factory entrances to keep the crowd back at the noon hour, and he's placed a man at the foot of the ladder leading up to the tower, to keep anyone from getting up there and planting explosives."

"Taking no chances," growled Backus.

"No chance of explosives being already placed in the tower, is there?" I inquired. "I mean a bomb of some kind that could be set off by electricity?"

"I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb."

Slocum snarled like an angry terrior [sic]. In fact, he reminded me for all the world of a white-haired, snapping, little. "I'll tell you it's foolishness to pay any more attention to these communications! All foolishness, I say! Let's get down to business. Grimes has allowed the thing to get on his nerves. He forgets that he, like myself, is getting along towards his dotage. Ten years ago he would have thrown them into the waste basket. I'll not vote to pay the expenses of getting this detective here. Not a cent! Not a single copper! If Grimes wants him, he can have him—and pay him, too."

There was a general nodding of heads around the table. Decidedly the atmosphere into which I had stepped at the request of President Grimes was inclined to be frigid, to say the least—if not openly hostile.

Innis, diplomatic and suave, arose with an apologetic smile to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Mr. Grimes is probably justified in his worry, in that he feels a sense of responsibility, as president and general manager, in protecting the company's interests. On the other hand we, as directors, should vote to give him a clearance if anything happens—and we are all of us confident that nothing will."

President Grimes shrugged his shoulders and turned to me as if to ask my advice.

"I would suggest that you hold off your decision for a few seconds," I answered to his implied question. "If your mysterious blackmailer is as prompt as he claims to be we will have but a short time to wait developments. In just thirty seconds it will be twelve o'clock."

Instantly the gathering was hushed. The smile died on Innis' lips. Slocum looked up, his lips skinned back angrily, then thought better of it and merely stared at Backus, who shifted his big frame uneasily in his chair. Grimes straightened up with a jerk and gazed into vacancy. There was a general scraping of feet and a nervous clearing of throats.

Despite the tension, I could scarcely suppress a smile at the appearance of one of the directors, James Burke, a young man with a pale, sallow face and an habitually apologetic manner. He half arose to his feet, as if almost startled out of his wits, then sat down again hurriedly and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. I noticed that his hand shook like an aspen leaf, and he snickered hysterically. Clearly, his was the clearest case of funk I had ever witnessed.

The factory whistle blew!

''A dull, muffled explosion! Then chaos!''

with a start. For a second I lay quiet, my mind attempting to grope back over what had happened, unable to comprehend. Outside I could hear shouts, the clanging of bells, the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to the office. My head ached dully, but I was otherwise uninjured. The big table, overturned, lay across my legs. Pushing it off, I raised myself to a sitting position. For an instant my brain whirled and everything grew black before me. Then the dizziness and feeling of nausea passed away and I was able to comprehend what was happening around me.

Plaster from the ceiling and walls covered everything; the air was filled with its thin, white dust. The pungent odor of explosives assailed my nostrils.

Chairs were overturned. Books and papers lay scattered about the floor.

Beside me lay Grimes, breathing heavily. Innis and Slocum were huddled together across the room, the latter bleeding from a small cut on the forehead. In one corner Burke, the man I had marked as a coward, was sitting up sobbing crooningly to himself,—the victim of hysteria, evidently. The other members of the board sprawled here and there in various attitudes. Backus raised himself to one elbow and gazed about stupidly.

The door was burst open with a crash and the room filled with rescuers—factory workmen, their black, smudgy faces expressing their wonderment. I pulled myself clear of the table and started mechanically, to look after Grimes and those who seemed most in need of attention.

With the bellow of a maddened bull, Backus drew himself to his feet and, elbowing his way through the throng about the door, throwing men to right and left as he charged, rushed up the damaged stairway leading to the tower above.

A physician emerged from somewhere. But, by the time of his arrival, his services were in little demand. For practically all of those who had been in the room at the time of the explosion were on their feet assuring each other of their safety. Aside from plastering up the cut in old man Slocum's head, there was little for him to do. Even the officer at the foot of the stairway leading to the tower had escaped uninjured, although the tower itself was a wreck.

A girl—even to my dirt filled eyes, a vision of loveliness in a cool, white chiffon—struggled through the crowd of men in the outside hallway and threw her arms, around the aged president.

"Are you hurt? Are you injured, Uncle Grimes?" she demanded, sobbingly.

The little man patted the girl's shoulder.

"Not by a darned sight," he chuckled. "It was worth the bump I got to prove to Slocum that I'm not such a darned old fool as he claims I am. Now dry your eyes and meet Mr. Larson—Captain Larson, my niece Joan—Miss Marne, I should say."

He turned to the assembled directors with a beatific smile on his wrinkled face.

"Gentlemen," he said gravely, although there was a twinkle in his eyes, "I hereby declare this meeting adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, at which time we will continue our discussion of our friend, 'The Man in the Black Mask.' Larson, you will be my guest while in town, of course?"

With a few terse orders to the superintendent as to the repairs in and about the office, he followed his niece and myself to the waiting automobile below, chuckling like a youngster at Slocum's discomfiture.

at the luncheon table and gazed across the wide expanse of cloth at the girl. She was an enigma—a female puzzle—a woman, as could easily be seen, unhampered by society's conventions, unaffected, yet every bit a woman. She was a beauty—yes, a beauty judged by any kind of rule. Yet there was something odd, strange, peculiar, about her—an elusive something that I could not comprehend. She reminded me of a person laboring under a sorrow which she was struggling to keep hidden from the world. She ate little to speak of, seeming preoccupied, and resisting my best efforts to carry on even a casual conversation.

Grimes, on the other hand, was extraordinarily cheerful, caring more, to all appearances, for his victory over Slocum than for the property loss the company had suffered.

Mrs. Casey, the invalid, plainly a neurotic—excitable and prone to hysteria—said little, excusing herself before the end of the meal was reached, pleading a bad case of nerves as a result of the trouble at the factory.

Luncheon over, Grimes, with all the chipperness of a youngster of twenty, declared that he intended motoring back to the factory to look things over. Naturally, I was to accompany him.

Miss Marne aroused herself from her lethargy and insisted on going with us. She excused herself and, before we had completed our cigars, she danced into the room again attired in a natty motoring costume, her abstraction gone and gay as a butterfly, taking the wheel herself. I took the front seat with her while Grimes lolled in the rear.

Workmen had already completed the job of cleaning away the debris in the office. A truck load of gravel and a pile of bricks gave evidence that, despite the threats of the mysterious blackmailer to destroy the entire plant, it was Grimes's intention to rush repairs as rapidly as possible.

As we climbed out of the machine, Backus, who had been standing in the background, his round, red face wearing a puzzled expression, stepped forward and greeted us.

"Find anything new, Chief?" Grimes demanded.

The big man looked about him cautiously, then motioning us to one side, produced from his pocket a small, thin, slightly bent piece of metal.

He handed it to the little president without a word. Grimes looked at it with a puzzled expression, then passed it on to me.

"I'm danged if I know what it is," he admitted. "How about you, Larson?"

I gave the bit of metal a cursory examination then handed it to Joan.

"I think that the Chief has struck oil the first shot," I replied. "In other words, that same piece of metal is a bit of the shell that kicked down your tower. Where did you find it, Chief?"

"In the upper room just over the office," replied the officer. "It wasn't there this morning, for I made a personal inspection and locked the door myself before stationing Mitchell at the foot of the stairs."

"Shell?" jerked Grimes. "Nonsense!"

"Nevertheless," I reiterated, "your tower was blown up with some kind of a shell. You can't get away from the evidence."

Backus wagged his head sagely as he replaced the metal in his pocket. I had already won him for a friend, I could readily see.

"All right, we'll admit it's a shell, then, for the sake of argument," Grimes responded. "That doesn't put us any closer to the solution of the puzzle."

"On the contrary," I interrupted, "it does. It stands to reason, as any one who is acquainted with explosives will tell you, that the shell was of small calibre and filled with but very little high explosive, else the damage would have been greater. It was fired from somewhere, and by somebody, and from some sort of gun. Result: We have but to find where the shell came from and we have your 'Man in the Black Mask' by the heels."

"As well look for a needle in a haystack. My opinion is that some sort of explosive was planted in the tower in spite of the chief's precautions, and detonated by electricity—possibly by wireless. I've heard of such things. Don't you think that more probable than the idea you and Backus have of some wonderful gun and still more wonderful marksman?"

"Not at all. Although my experience at the front taught me that, despite the high point of efficiency reached by the gunners, a direct hit is only scored accidentally—unless the range is almost point blank. I'll venture the assertion that the gun from which that shell was fired is located not over two miles away. In fact, a mile would be a closer guess."

Backus agreed with me. For despite the fact that he was only a small town policeman, he was no fool.

The wizened president grinned sardonically.

"You'll be telling me next that you can point out the place," he laughed.

"I'm almost tempted to say that I can." I looked around me for a second, then inquired. "By the way, where does this creek lead from?"

Backus leaned forward excitedly.

"By ginger!" he ejaculated. "You've hit it. They shot down the creek. They are located in the hills south of town. It's me to investigate."

"On the contrary," I returned, "you'll do nothing of the sort, Chief. You're too well known. I am a stranger here and my face is unfamiliar, probably, even to the leader of the mysterious band. Let me look over the ground first. I am likely to see things that might be hidden from you. It's my business to search for the hidden things."

"But it's my place—"

"Larson's right," interrupted Grimes. "A stranger is much more likely to succeed than a person so well known as yourself."

"But—"

I clapped the big officer on the shoulder. "I know just how you feel, Chief. But I'll promise to make no move until I've informed you—that is if I find anything suspicious. You can make the arrests and get the credit."

"All right and good luck," he answered. "Meanwhile, I'll scout around here and see what else I can pick up. I suppose that you'll start right away?"

"This very minute."

"Just a second," Grimes exclaimed. "For all we know, there may be spies lurking about. Why not let Joan and me drive you back to the house. From there you can skirt the hill in a southwesterly direction and come down the creek instead of going up. Such a move will divert suspicion."

"You're right," I answered, while the chief nodded a grudging assent. "Let us get busy at once—that is if you are through here, Mr. Grimes."

The little president proved himself a man of action by calling to Joan and hastily climbing back into the machine. Ten minutes later we were at home.

"Do you start immediately?" inquired Joan, who, up to this time had taken no part in the conversation, although she had been an interested listener.

"As soon as I have secured my revolver from my grip."

She accompanied me into the house, Grimes preferring to wait on the veranda, stating that he would go with me a short distance to show me the general lay of the land.

As we reached the seclusion of the hallway, Joan turned to me, a look of worry on her sweet face.

"Please don't go," she whispered, lowering her voice purposely to keep her uncle from hearing.

I was astonished both by her tone and the words.

"I don't understand." I returned.

She seemed at a loss for words.

"I—I have a feeling that you will get into trouble," she finally replied, laying her hand on my arm.

I laughed. "I've been doing that all my life. The worst I ever got was a dose of tear gas, overseas. Haven't you got any better reason than that?"

"Only a woman's intuition—a woman's reason," she smiled. "In other words, I don't want you to go—because. That's all I can tell you—because!"

"I'm afraid that it will have to be a better reason than that to keep me from going," I laughed. "Your uncle hired me to run this thing down. I'm drawing a salary from him and the quicker I earn my salt the better."

She shrugged her shoulders prettily, as if dismissing the subject and turned aside into her own apartment.

change my attire for a garb more suited to walking over the rough ground and to look over the service revolver, which had been packed away in my valise, did not occupy five minutes.

Yet, as I stepped out into the hallway, I saw pinned against the panel of my door a typewritten note. It read:

Hastily thrusting the missive into my pocket, I hurried down the stairway, looking in every direction for possible spies.

No one was in sight. Yet it was clear that someone inside the house had written that warning—and that the writer was in league with the man who was threatening the factory—or was "The Man in the Black Mask" himself. Only three people besides myself knew of my contemplated plan of action—Backus, Grimes, and Joan. Backus was eliminated by the fact that he was still at the scene of the explosion. This left but two who were in the secret, Joan and her uncle. Was it possible that one of them was the traitor? The idea startled me. It seemed absurd—yet one finds some strange things when investigating crime.

From the big living room, the door of which was partly open, came the click of a typewriter. I halted momentarily and looked in. Joan was at work at the machine. She looked up and smiled as she saw me. I imagined, however, that there was a slight flush upon her cheeks and that she did not look me squarely in the eyes.

"Just practicing," she responded in reply to my question. "Uncle often lets me write his letters for him here at home."

She invited me to enter. But I excused myself, pleading haste, and joined Grimes outside.

My head was whirling. For the momentary halt had given me time enough to discover that the ribbon on the machine she was using was a peculiar shade of green. The note of warning I had received had been written with a green ribbon.

But that was not all: Lying on the floor beside her—where it had evidently fallen—was half of a sheet of note paper. And the other half, unless my eyes deceived me, was reposing in the pocket of my coat.

Was Joan Marne the mysterious "Man in the Black Mask?" It seemed impossible—far-fetched—unthinkable. Yet there were half a dozen clews leading in her direction. And her actions in attempting to dissuade me from going into the matter any farther damned her. I hated to believe the evidence. Yet it was piling up against her.

avoid needless description, and at the same time give the reader a rough outline of the general lay of the land so that he may better understand the events which follow, a rough map of Elkhorn and vicinity is printed on the next page.



As will be seen by this sketch, practically all of the wealthier residents of Elkhorn, most of whom were directors and stockholders in the chemical company, resided along this country road where the contour of the land gave them better opportunities for spacious grounds and broad lawns than did the little town itself, huddled as it was between the hills. Grimes' home was at the extreme south end of the road which ran from the factory around the hills.

Grimes, as excited as a youngster, left me at the edge of the little forest southwest of his residence after giving concise directions regarding the best method of skirting the hill to the right and reaching the creek. He pleaded to be allowed to accompany me, but his common sense led him to agree with me that he, like Backus, was too well known. And, too, I wanted to be alone—to diagnose the affair in my own mind. Joan appealed to me as no woman had ever appealed before, yet 1 could not drive the idea from me that every step I took was tightening the coils about her. For the first time in my career as a man-hunter my sympathies were all with the criminal.

Under ordinary circumstances the natural thing for me to do would have been to follow the right bank of the creek from the base of the hill. Instead, however, finding my view of the factory obstructed by the small growth of trees between the base of the hill and the creek, and imagining that I could secure a clearer view from the opposite bank, I tested the depth of the water and finding that it appeared shallow, sat down and removed my shoes and stockings. Then, turning up my trousers to the knees, I forded the stream and on the opposite bank put my shoes, etc., on again, taking up my search from that side.

It was approximately two o'clock when I left Grimes at the edge of the forest and nearly two hours later when I found myself in the gully between the two hills just opposite the swamp in the rear of the little president's residence.

Deciding that I had gone far enough in a northeasterly direction and finding nothing of a suspicious nature on the left bank of the creek, I quickly forded the stream again and set off along the right bank, intending to skirt the swamp, returning to the house in time to dress for dinner.

Suddenly, I noticed a suspicious movement in a clump of bushes near the edge of the wooded hill. I stopped short, then dropped on hands and knees, intending to creep forward and investigate.

As I did so, a report came from the brush and a bullet whistled past my head. Had I been a tenth of a second later, my life would probably have paid the penalty.

I am not a coward by any means. But neither am I inclined to be foolhardy. I dislike to take human life, but I was forced to defend myself. I replied to the attack by pumping half a clip of shots into the clump from which the bullet had come, at the same time dodging behind a convenient tree.

I remained for probably ten minutes, keeping a sharp lookout for my antagonist. Then, hearing nothing more, I cautiously skirted the bushes, approaching them from behind.

My mysterious assailant had flown. I found the spot from where he had fired, however, as an empty cartridge testified, while the grass was tramped flat where he had been lying.

Close by, where it had been dropped in his flight, was a handkerchief scented with lavender. In the corner was embroidered the letter "I."

Innis, the diplomatic attorney, who had objected so strenuously, though courteously, to my retention as an investigator, had, I had noticed at the morning's meeting, kept his handkerchief strongly scented with lavender—an odor which is extremely repugnant to me—so repugnant that I had noted it particularly.

was a puzzle. Why should Innis—for I now felt certain that it had been the lawyer who had fired upon me—object so strongly to my presence that he felt it necessary to murder me in order to put me out of the way? Could he be the mysterious masked man? It did not seem probable. And, yet, I had suspected Joan Marne with no more evidence against her—in fact, not as much—as I had against the lawyer. It pleased me to think that the trail was leading in another direction. Anybody but Joan, I felt.

Evidently the note pinned to my door had told the truth. There were "too many people mixed up in the case" to take any chances. The band led by the masked mystery would not stop even at murder in order to carry out their ends.

Clearly, it was up to me to move cautiously. There was something decidedly "rotten in Denmark." Something was going on of which the little president was not informed. The affair, rather than being as simple as I had at first believed, was rapidly assuming complications of gigantic proportions. Every time I turned around I bumped into some new piece of evidence. There was too much of it. Was it being "planted" in order to confuse me? Or, as I was rapidly beginning to believe, were more people—and people of prominence—involved than appeared on the surface?

My brain whirling, I started off in the direction of the house, intending to place my suspicions squarely before Grimes and find out, before going any farther into the case, just what he knew and what he suspected—for I was growing of the opinion that he suspected something strongly against some one when he took sides squarely against his directors, even to the extent of paying all bills himself.

I had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards when a peculiar threshing about in a thicket of coarse swamp grass attracted my attention.

Drawing my revolver as a matter of precaution—for my previous experience had taught me a lesson—I crept forward until I could almost touch the confused tangle with my hand.

A crumpled heap of blue lay face downward. I sprang forward and bent over the man.

It was Backus.

"Chief!" I cried.

A groan answered me. As easily as I could I turned the big policeman over and, tearing open his coat and shirt, found a tiny, black hole through the chest close to the heart from which the crimson was slowly gushing. He was dying. That I could see at half a glance.

"Who shot you?" I demanded.

Backus opened his eyes weakly. He attempted to raise his arm as if to point. The effort caused a paroxysm of coughing. Yet, game to the last, he tried to tell me his story.

"Got—idea," he muttered. "Followed—creek—met 'Man in—Black—Mask'—it was—"

His voice ended in a gurgle and he fell back in my arms—dead.

I turned quickly—my hands moving heavenward—to gaze into the muzzle of a vicious-looking automatic in the hands of a dapper—almost dainty—little man attired in overalls, his face covered entirely by a mask of dark gauze. Through two slits his eyes gleamed dangerously. A large felt hat covered his head; beneath it peeped a fringe of light-brown hair. Plainly the entire makeup was a disguise.

Before I had time to make more than a cursory survey, however, the masked man spoke again.

"There is a revolver in your right hip pocket. I saw you put it there when you bent over Backus. Turn your back to me, keep your left hand in the air and remove the gun with your right. Move lively."

I did as ordered.

"Now throw the gun into the creek. Quick!"

With a light splash the weapon struck the water a dozen paces away.

"Now turn to your left and go ahead—and keep your hands up!"

A walk of possibly a hundred yards brought us to the edge of the swamp. In response to my captor's curt command I again swung to the left, and, a moment later, found myself staring into the mouth of a cave, the opening being, however, but little larger than an ordinary door. I passed through the gloomy entrance into the darkened interior, my captor following close behind. There was a sharp click and a huge stone slid almost noiselessly across the opening, closing it completely.

It was as neat a piece of camouflage as I have ever gazed upon—and I viewed the work of the best artists in the world, overseas. In fact, so cleverly was the hillside disguised that one might pass within a dozen feet of the opening and, unless he knew the secret, never observe it. Even portholes were cut in the rock, blocked by heavy pieces of stone cut to fit, and removable from the inside, yet so covered as to be indistinguishable to the passerby. I am confident that, had occasion demanded, the fortress—for a fortress was really what it was—would have withstood any ordinary assault except the fire of heavy guns.



Another click, and the cavern was a blaze of light from a dozen or more electric bulbs suspended from the ceiling. The floor was of clean, white sand, while the walls, as my later observation showed, were of the peculiar sandstone out of which the cave was hewed.

A dark-faced man, asleep on an army cot in a distant corner, leaped to his feet, rubbing his eyes. From around a projection in one of the walls stepped a rough-looking fellow armed with a modern rifle. Recognizing the man in the mask, he stopped short and allowed the weapon to slide slowly through his fingers until the butt rested on the floor, gazing at me quizzically.

"This the chap who was doing the snooping around, guv'nor?" he inquired.

"One of them," snapped the masked man. "The other is—lying outside in the gully."

"Did you kill him?"

The leader snarled like an angry dog. "It's none of your business! You ought to know by this time, Snell, that when people interfere with me, they get into trouble. Get me?"

"'S'all right. 'S'all right, guv'nor. You're boss. Only when you took us on you said there would be no killing in the job."

With a shrug of his shoulders, he stepped back a pace and sat down in one of the camp-chairs which were scattered about the cavern.

The masked man replaced his weapon in his pocket and turned to me with an almost feminine gesture towards one of the chairs at the nearby table.

"Captain Larson," he said easily, "sit down and let's talk matters over. Will you have a cigar?"

He passed a box of perfectos from a nearby table. I selected one to my liking, the masked man declining, however, as I returned the box to him.

"Hang it, Captain!" he exclaimed. "It does me good to see you take matters so nicely. You and I are going to get along famously. It would be a pleasure to work with a man like you—but of course, as you realize, that is an impossibility. You are worth money to me—all kinds of it. Grimes and his bunch ought to be willing to put up at least ten thousand ransom for you. Meanwhile, will you give me your parole—your liberty inside the cave with certain restrictions—or won't you?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"What's the alternative?" I asked.

"Your ankle chained to the wall."

"But how do you know that I'll keep my parole?"

Another chuckle from behind the mask. "I know you by reputation. You are a man of your word. Give it to me and I know you'll keep it. Honestly, I hate to think of chaining you up like a wild beast—but you understand it's necessary—under certain conditions. What's your decision?"

"I accept. I'll give you my word to make no attempt to escape. I reserve the right, however, to change my decision at any time by notifying you. May I ask questions?"

"As many as you like and about what you like. I won't promise to answer them all, though!"

"Who are you?"

An almost silvery laugh came from behind the mask. "Who I am cuts no figure," he responded. "What I am is different. I am a man with a mission. That mission is to extract money from the rich."

"I. W. W. or Bolsheviki?"

"The Man in the Black Mask" chuckled again. "Neither. I have gathered this little band about me to carry out my ideals. After all necessary expenses are paid, the remainder of the money which I extort from the rich will be divided among, the poor. Later, I will move on to some new field of endeavor. There you have the story in a nutshell. You will probably call me insane. I am not. I am an idealist."

"But this cave?"

"Merely a part of the workings of an old stone quarry. I discovered it quite by accident. It is large and roomy and has been made thoroughly comfortable for my men and myself. I light it by tapping one of the wires leading from the power plant. The power company is rich and will never miss the electricity I use. We depend on it for cooking, also. The smoke from a fire might betray us, you know!"

"I surmise that you used some sort of silencer when you fired upon the tower?"

"Merely an enlargement of the Maxim attached to a one pounder. I got the gun here by express, in parts, as I did all of my other equipment. We are prepared to withstand almost any ordinary attack, for we have several machine guns and a large quantity of ammunition. Food we have in plenty. There is a spring of fresh water bubbling out of the ground at the other end of the cave.

"My men are all experts. Although I must confess that Pedro, my gunner—he was trained in the Italian army and is an artist in his line—miscalculated slightly and hit the tower a trifle too low. Really, it was inexcusable, for he had the range down to inches."

He arose and stretched himself. "I must leave you now, Captain. I trust there is no necessity for reminding you again of your parole?"

"May I ask one more question?"

"Certainly."

"You spoke of holding me for ransom. Suppose we—that is, my friends and myself—decide to pay immediately? Will I then be released or held here?"

"You will be kept here, until our plans are matured whether you pay now or later."

"And in case we refuse?"

There was no hesitation on the part of the man as he replied in a voice of icy coldness:

"Let us not talk of unpleasant things. You will be killed—murdered in cold blood—as a warning that it is not wise to fight 'The Man in the Black Mask!'"

He turned upon his heel and disappeared around a corner of the wall.

"The Man in the Black Mask" left me, I sat down and took an inventory of the affair as it stood up to date. As a first-class detective I had proven myself a success—with a vengeance. Speaking from the standpoint of a military strategist I had attained my objective. But the devil of it was that I couldn't let loose of it, now that I had it.

I had succeeded in running the mysterious blackmailer to his lair and he had proved to be a boomerang, for the probabilities were extremely strong that I would remain there for considerable time after he had departed. For there was little likelihood that the board of directors would put up any large ransom to get me out of the hole into which I had succeeded in burying myself. I might succeed in raising the amount myself were I at liberty, but in my present circumstances things looked hopeless.

Was I wrong in having given my parole, and thus preventing myself from attempting to escape? Of course, I could always retract it, but there was a cold manner about the masked leader which led me to believe that he would not hesitate a second in carrying out his threat to chain me to the wall the minute I did so. And, chained to the wall, I would be worse off than I now was. On the other hand, I might break my word, of course—but even detectives respect their honor, and I have always found that, in the long run, it pays to be square, even with, criminals.

I was aroused from my reverie by the re-entrance of the object of my thoughts. He held aside the curtain which covered the entrance to the rear of the cave through which he had gone shortly before, and gazed at me for a second, his eyes burning brightly through the holes in his mask.

"Did I, or did I not, warn you not to come past this spot?" he asked.

I shook my head in the negative.

"Then let me do so now. This blanket marks the entrance to the exit of the cave proper. It is what was formerly one of the tunnels leading off from the quarry. Scattered here and there, along its length are deep—almost bottomless—water-filled pits into which you might stumble in the darkness. A fall into one of them would mean your death. Aside from that, I do not wish to have you prying about. There are things I do not care to have you see. You understand?"

I was about to make reply, but evidently taking my silence as consent, with another curt nod, he turned on his heel and again disappeared down the passageway.

As he turned, I heard a faint tinkle, and a small object fell to the floor of the cave, unobserved. I waited until I could no longer hear his footfalls on the sandy floor, then I sprang to my feet and picked it up.

It was a hairpin!

There was no longer any doubt in my mind as to the identity of "The Man in the Black Mask." The hairpin was conclusive evidence that it was Joan Marne. I hated to believe it, but the facts were indisputable.

I have never considered myself a woman-hater nor a susceptible ladies' man. I have known them of all races and breeds, but never had one impressed me almost as one of their own number, her position—to think that she had some good reason for her strange conduct—only to have the face of the dying Backus flash before my eyes. She had killed him—shot him in cold blood—and gloated over it afterwards. No, try as I would I could not find a single circumstance in her favor.

I was loath to admit it, but I was falling in love. I, a man-hunter, was in love with a murderess! Cursing myself, the hairpin, the infernal mixup—yes, even Joan—I hunted up my jailors and spent the remainder of the afternoon in their company, trying to forget.

was served in a little niche off from the main cave. There were six men in the party, not counting myself, one serving as cook, "The Man in the Black Mask" not making his appearance. On only one or two occasions had he ever dined with his men, they informed me, although he insisted that they be served with the best.

During his absence, the members of his party were not at all reluctant in discussing him or his affairs, treating me, almost, as one of their own number. None of them, it appeared, had ever viewed his face. He had gathered them almost from the ends of the earth, picking one up here, another there—always working through a proxy—each selected because of his particular fitness for the job.

Pedro, for instance, had studied gunnery for years. Johnson was a machine gunner. Travis and Snell were both experts with the rifle. McGinnis was Pedro's assistant and a gunner of extraordinary ability himself, while Jenkins, the negro chef, was known, so he informed me, from one end of the country to the other as the best cook in the American Expeditionary Forces.

All were men from the lower walks of life—crooks, probably, thugs, gunmen—yet, strange as it may seem, proud of their records as soldiers. They had made good in the army, then, discipline relaxed, they had again fallen into their evil ways. The pay was good, the food was excellent and, to a certain extent, they were satisfied—especially with the prospect of a fight in sight—but still they grumbled.

They had arrived only a few weeks before, coming to Elkhorn in the guise of laborers. They had been met at the station by an unknown man, disguised, they believed, who had directed them where to go to find the entrance to the cave. Here they met "The Man in the Black Mask" and received their instructions which consisted simply in obeying orders and remaining inside of the cave day and night. To date they had absolutely nothing to do except eat and sleep and take turns on guard, with the exception of firing the one shell which had wrecked the tower.

Already, however, the work was proving irksome and, like all active men cooped up for a considerable period of time, they growled considerably, a fact which I believed, when the time was ripe, I could turn to good account, for I was far from being ready to tamely abide by the mysterious leader's mandate that I must either buy my liberty or calmly submit to being butchered as a warning to others. There was nothing in my parole which prohibited my stirring up an agitation; I decided to take the bull by the horns and create an internal strife as soon as opportunity offered itself. By starting a mutiny I might escape with a whole skin.

Shortly after supper, Travis, who was better educated than the rest, and who appeared to be the natural leader during the absence of the masked chieftain, took me on a tour of inspection of their retreat.

The cave proper was a huge affair, hewn out of the solid sandstone, possibly five hundred feet in length by half as wide. The main cavern was brilliantly lighted. Opening off from it were innumerable tunnels and pockets where the light was a dim twilight, shading off into blackest darkness—shadowy, dismal—an altogether fitting refuge for a modern buccaneer. One of the latter was illuminated and used as a barracks, another as a kitchen, and a third, larger than the others, as a storehouse. Judging from the numerous boxes piled in the interior, the masked leader evidently expected his occupancy to be a long one.

Where their mysterious chieftain kept himself none of them knew. It was their belief, however, that he had more men stationed in some of the other tunnels and that he was planning a gigantic coup of some kind—possibly a revolution—sooner or later, and, for this reason, prohibited their entering the other outlets to avoid having the various parties meet and compare notes. He appeared only at intervals, coming without warning and often disappearing for a day or two at a time. They were paid, however, not to ask questions and asked none, although they were perfectly willing to answer anything that I might ask and were willing to speculate as much as myself as to the identity of their mysterious leader.

Our trip of inspection over, Travis and I returned to the others, when suddenly the curtain which marked the entrance to the tunnel used by the masked man parted and he appeared before us. He nodded curtly to me and asked me to step aside for a second.

"Larson," he said jerkily—almost nervously I thought—"they have discovered Backus' body and are raising the devil. Things are getting more complicated all the time. What are we going to do?"

"Indeed," I smiled. "You hardly thought that as big a thing as the murder of the chief of police would pass unnoticed, did you? You should have realized that before you killed him!"

He nodded his head grimly.

"It's awful—awful!" he muttered. Then he stopped suddenly.

"I forgot," he murmured. "You are in no position to give advice, nor I to ask it. I must work out my own salvation—mine and—"

He was about to turn away, hesitated, then again addressed me.

"Larson," he said, "you can believe me or not—probably you won't—but I did not kill Backus, nor was I present when he met his death. Would to God I had been, and I might have prevented it."

His agitation; as well as his words, puzzled me. I noticed that his hand was shaking as he reached out mechanically and selected a cigar from the box which stood on the table. Striking a match, he applied the flame to the end. As he did so, I made a discovery which almost brought me to my feet with a jerk.

By the light of the match I noticed a small scar in the palm of his hand.

That morning I had noticed a similar scar on the palm of John Grimes, president of the Elkhorn Chemical Company!

"The Man in the Black Mask" was not Joan Marne, but her uncle! John Grimes, the man who had hired me, was the traitor who had betrayed his colleagues—the murderer of Henry Backus!

But was he?

A short time before he had declined a cigar with the statement that he did not smoke. Now he was smoking. And what about the hairpin I had found? The case had me baffled. It was growing more complex every minute. Who was "The Man in the Black Mask?"

an uneventful night with my guards, Travis, who, as I have said, seemed to be in charge, taking me at my word and paying no attention to me except to assign me to a bunk.

A guard, however, was posted, not on my account, but, as my jailor informed me, at the orders of "The Man in the Black Mask," who had insisted that a sentinel be maintained at all hours of the day and night to ward against a possible surprise. This routine had been maintained ever since they had occupied the cave.

I slept little during the early part of the night, however. There was constantly revolving through my mind the question of who the mysterious leader was—if he was a man. There was enough evidence against Innis, Grimes and Joan to have convicted any one of them before an average jury. That was the trouble—there was too much evidence.

The more I studied over the situation, the more I was convinced that there was a flaw in my reasoning somewhere. One of the three was guilty. But which?

Finally, I dropped off into a troubled sleep, the last thing I was conscious of being a vague remembrance of an argument between McGinnis and Snell over the game of whist in which they were engaged.

I awakened with a start. Travis was shaking me. As I opened my eyes, he studied my face for a second, then turned away.

"It's a cinch that you ain't faking," he remarked.

"Faking? What do you mean?" I asked.

"Sleep," he replied laconically. "McGinnis disappeared while he was on guard and the old man's going to be raising merry hell before long. Thought maybe you had a hand in it—might have taken advantage of my decency to you and done for him during the night."

"I'll swear that I haven't left my bunk since I went to bed," I exclaimed.

I was about to continue my explanations when I was interrupted by a shout from the other end of the cavern. Travis hurried away on the run. Slipping into my trousers and shoes, I followed as speedily as I could.

As I turned the corner and entered the main cavern, I met Jenkins. The big negro's face was ashen. He was trembling like a man with the ague.

"They found him!" he exclaimed. "Lordy! Lordy! He's awful! The big boss am certainly g'wine to raise the debbil!"

"Where did they find him?" I asked.

"In the main cavern, deader'n a herring—all chopped to pieces!" And still wailing, he hurried back to the pots and pans of his kitchen.

As I approached the little group under the electric light, "The Man in the Black Mask" looked up at me.

"Bad work, here, Larson, bad work!" he exclaimed. "I am safe in presuming that you had no hand in it, am I not?"

"Do I look or act like a murderer?" I demanded, angrily. "If you think I'm up to such tricks, why don't you lock me up?"

He was about to reply when Travis leaped into the gap. "I'll vouch for Larson, governor," he answered. "He was sleeping like a baby when I woke him up this morning."

The masked man turned upon Snell. "What's this I hear about bad blood between you and McGinnis last night?" he snapped.

"'S' true, gov'nor, 's'true," answered the gunman. "We made it up, though, and parted good friends. God Almighty! I wouldn't croak a pal, even if I did have a chewin' match with him."

"Thata right," interposed Pedro. "I watcha da scrap. They forgeta their troubles an quita friends. McGinnis, he sleepa wit' me. Getta up and go ona guard when Travis wakea him. Travis, he cornea t' bed. All th' while Snell, he sleepa sound."

I stooped over and examined the dead man. It was as Jenkins had said. He had been literally hacked to pieces. Even his hands and face had been cut and slashed in a hundred places. His murder was not the work of an ordinary man, but a fiend—a maniac.

The masked leader scratched his cheek perplexedly. "It's a hell of a mess, Larson—a hell of a mess! Oh, if I only dared take you into my confidence! If I only dared!"

As he made the gesture, my glance involuntarily strayed to his hand. On the palm was the peculiar scar I had noticed the night before. There was no longer any doubt in my mind. The masked chieftain of the blackmailing crew was John Grimes.

Joan and the attorney were exonerated.

order to give the reader a more complete understanding of the strange events with which I had to deal, allow me to digress for an instant and quote from my diary, which was written at the time, and in which I jotted down each item as it occurred in order to refresh my memory in case I ever managed to escape and the matter ever came to trial:

"'The Man in the Black Mask' becomes a more and more perplexing character to me every hour," I wrote. "I am certain that he is Grimes. And I am growing of the opinion, the longer I observe him, that the weazened president of the Elkhorn Chemical Company is a veritable Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!

"I cannot understand him. For instance, this morning when I first observed him standing beside the body of McGinnis, he appeared nervous and overwrought. His walk was that of an old man. While I was kneeling down examining the body, he disappeared into one of the dark, gloomy tunnels, muttering to himself.

"Whether he is a drug addict or not is a question. I only know that when he reappeared some fifteen or twenty minutes later he was a new man in actions and appearance. His step was elastic and his whole manner again that of the natural leader. His eyes sparkled like coals of fire through the slits in his mask. And, strange to relate, he appeared to have forgotten the entire incident.

"Stepping up to where we were standing about the body, he looked down at the battered remnant of what had been McGinnis and demanded gruffly of Travis.

"'Well, what the hell's happened now?'

"Travis looked at him queerly, then, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, informed him that there had been nothing of interest transpired since he left.

"'Since I left?' he snarled. 'Hell's bells! I haven't been here before! Explain yourself. Don't stand there and try to make a monkey out of me.'

"Naturally Travis, as well as the rest of us, was somewhat perplexed. For a second he attempted to argue with his leader, but met with another angry rebuff. Seeing that he was getting nowhere, he finally shut up like a clam, refusing to say another word in spite of the other's abuse. I could see, too, that the others were growing angry at the masked leader's churlishness towards their comrade, for Travis was popular with all. Finally, however, in response to his chief's demand, he went over the entire matter again.

"When Travis had finished his tale, the masked man ordered the mutilated body prepared for burial, giving his loud-voiced commands in so callous a manner that even the case-hardened renegades under his command—thugs and dregs of humanity though they are—were shocked.

"'We'll "plant" him outside after dark tonight,' he ended. 'He was no good, anyway.'

"Then, giving a number of sharp orders to his piratical crew, he asked me to walk a short distance down the cave with him.

"'Have you got any theories as to who might have killed him?' he demanded. 'You're a detective and chanced to be on the ground, as it were, at the time of the killing. Show me that you're worth your salt. Deliver the murderer to me and I'll reduce your ransom a thousand. I'd like to see one of you high-priced detectives at work!'

"I shook my head, and with a sneering remark regarding my ability, he turned the subject by informing me that the body of Backus had been taken away and, 'hell was to pay.'

"'It'll teach them that I'm not the sort of man to be played with,' he chuckled. 'Tomorrow I'll give them another surprise when Pedro knocks a second chunk off the factory with his one pounder. Perhaps by that time they will awake to the fact that I mean business. If they don't kick in, I'll knock the devil out of things the next time.

"I debated with myself for a second, then, taking the bull by the horns, I turned upon him suddenly.

"'Why this masquerading, Mr. Grimes?' I asked. 'What was your idea in getting me here on this case, only to capture me and keep me a prisoner? I am a poor man and you know it. I cannot pay the ransom you demand. And why are you robbing your colleagues and yourself?'

"I got no further, for he interrupted me by bursting into laughter. 'Grimes—Grimes!'  he chortled. 'You think that I am old man Grimes! By the Almighty! That's good.'

"And still laughing to himself, he disappeared behind the curtain.

"But that is not all. The affair is growing more puzzling every minute. I am more convinced than ever that he is insane—or a drug fiend. For hardly had he disappeared, before he returned, his entire manner changed, his body shaking nervously. Once more he was the feeble old man—or the hysterical woman. Without a word, he strode across the cave to the bruised and mutilated body of McGinnis and stood for a second, looking down at it, his shoulders hunched, his entire attitude that of great sorrow and dejection. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

"As he disappeared behind the curtain, I will swear that I heard him sobbing. Yes, crying like a woman. And, what is more, I am certain that I heard him murmur as he went down the passageway:

"'Murder! Murder! A second murder! First Backus and now this poor, misguided creature! Great God in Heaven! Will it never end?'

"Can this be the man who, not ten minutes before, brutally jested as he looked upon the cold, dead clay that had done his bidding? It is beyond me."

after writing the above, I talked the matter over with Travis. He concurred with me fully that something was strangely amiss with the man. He, however, did not agree with me that the masked leader was a drug addict, being more of the opinion that he was insane. He stated that he, as well as the others, had noticed other eccentricities on the part of their chief, but never so marked as on the occasion just referred to.

The day passed uneventfully, my guards whiling the time away playing cards, smoking and sleeping. There was nothing else for them to do and, like myself, the time hung heavily on their hands. Meanwhile, I seized upon this as a good time to spread my seeds of discord, using the masked man's peculiarities as a basis on which to work. They said little, but I could see that the seed was not sown on unfertile ground, for never is a man so ripe for dissention [sic] and mutiny as when his mind is unoccupied. In this, the masked mystery showed the one big mistake in his leadership—he did not give his men enough work. It was his Achilles heel—my sole salvation if I was to save my own skin—and I seized upon it.

"The Man in the Black Mask" failed to show himself until shortly after dusk when, just as we had completed our supper, he suddenly made his appearance and brusquely ordered Johnson and Snell to dig a shallow grave on the hillside.

They were about to comply when he turned upon Jenkins, who was whetting a carving knife, preparatory to cutting some bacon for breakfast.

"Jenkins," he snapped, "what did you knife 'Mac' for? No lying. Tell me the truth!"

The big negro dropped his work suddenly, his face taking on a grayish tinge. The perspiration came out on his forehead in great beads. He shook like a leaf, the cigarette he was smoking dropping from his thick lips.

"Fo' de Lord, sah, I didn't do it," he responded.

The leader's eyes glistened through the slits in his mask as he took a step closer to the colored man. He reminded me of a snake about to strike. I could see the men's faces grow tense, yet so strong was his command over them that not a word was spoken.

"You lie, damn you!" he snarled at the negro. "I've been doing a little investigating. I've found the place where he was killed—your tracks are there in the sand. I know that they are yours, for I've compared them with measurements.

"Let me tell you something, you skunk," he went on, shaking his finger under the black's nose. "You attempted to sneak up the passageway last night in an effort to find where I went to. You disobeyed orders in so doing. You wanted to turn state's evidence if occasion ever demanded. McGinnis saw you and followed. He was an honest man—even if he was a crook. He overtook you and accused you of trying to spy on me. You turned on him and, in the fight which followed, you went after him with your razor. When you had him down you finished him with your knife. He was unarmed and stood no show. It's all written there in the sand as plainly as if I'd seen you do it."

Before he could continue, the big black was upon him, knife upraised, bellowing like a maniac. The masked man's gun was out in an instant, spitting lead in a stream, but not soon enough to stop the negro's mad rush.

The knife plunged half a dozen times despite the fact that the frenzied black was mortally wounded. We, who had dodged out of range of the bullets, leaped forward as the two men fell to the ground together—but too late.

Bleeding from half a dozen wounds, the masked man dragged himself to his feet and, before we could interfere, he placed his gun against the head of his late antagonist and pulled the trigger, splattering out the negro's brains.

Then he hurled the weapon aside and, with a ghastly attempt at raillery, murmured:

"He got me. Damn him! He got me. The play's over. The curtain's about to drop. Larson, you win after all!"

With a convulsive shudder, he fell across the body of the man he had killed and who had, in turn, killed him.

another surprise. For, with a shrill, piercing scream, the masked man's double appeared from around the corner of a projecting rock and, throwing his arms about the neck of the dead man, sobbed like a little child. We were petrified with astonishment.

And, at the same instant, from the tunnel behind the curtain, emerged a similar form. He dashed into the group. Then, as he saw his two doubles, he stepped back, too astonished for the instant for utterance.

"My God! Is she dead?" he whispered, huskily.

He jerked the mask from his face and disclosed the wrinkled visage of—President John Grimes.

"Quick, men!" he snapped. "For her sake—for the sake of Joan—I'll save you. Scatter down the tunnels. Hide yourselves somewhere—anywhere! They're coming—the officers! Some one has betrayed you. The cave is surrounded!"

Before he could continue, there came a glad scream from the masked man who was bending over the dead leader, and Joan Marne, her mask falling from her face, threw her arms about her uncle's neck, sobbing with happiness.

"Hands up! All of you!"

From every direction armed men poured into the cave, surrounding us, menacing us with their guns, taking us all prisoners. And, at their head was the man who had given the terse command—Innis, the company attorney— the man I had suspected of being the "Man in the Black Mask" himself.

He stepped over to me and seized me by the hand.

"Congratulations, Larson," he said. "Burke got your letter, but we had already paid over the money. However, we'll probably be able to recover it, for I see that our masked mystery is dead, and it's probably hidden about the cave somewhere. How in the world did you smuggle the note out, and why didn't you send it to Grimes or me instead of a white-livered calf like Burke? The mere fact that you sent the warning to him scared him half out of his wits. It's a wonder he gave it to me at all—the sneaking, little coward!"

"Burke—letter?" I muttered dazedly. "Why I sent no letter to Burke or anyone else. I've been held a prisoner here ever since yesterday afternoon. I've had no opportunity to send a letter to any one."

Both Grimes and the attorney crowded up to me. "But he said you did," Grimes chattered excitedly. "Bless my soul, if it hasn't got me puzzled."

"You and me both," answered Innis. "But, at any rate, our masked blackmailer has been laid low. Let's unmask him and see what he looks like."

Stepping over to the dead man, he jerked the mask from his face and disclosed the features, now cold in death—of Jimmy Burke, the coward!

night, with the assistance of Innis, who was acting as state's attorney during the absence of his partner, I succeeded in clearing up the mystery. Joan and Grimes accompanied us to Burke's residence, where, among the papers hidden away in his desk, we found the diary which not only showed the part he had played, but implicated the cook at the Grimes home, as well as his various accomplices at the cave.

That Burke was insane, there is no doubt in my mind, although Innis disagrees with me. According to the story set forth in his diary, he conceived the idea of blackmailing the chemical company, of which he was a director, fully a year before he commenced the operations which resulted in his death.

In many ways the man was an anomaly. With the physique of a woman, he possessed the heart of a lion and the ambition of a Napoleon. Raised a pampered and petted child of wealthy parents, never allowed to mingle with other children of his age, he saturated himself with literature of the blood and thunder type, enjoying in his older years that which he was deprived of during his youth.

While wandering through the hills back of his residence, he chanced upon the opening to the tunnel which led into the cave. Covered by weeds and underbrush, it had long since been forgotten even by the older residents of the place.

Following the tunnel, he finally emerged into the cave. His explorations showed him that it had not been entered for years.

Leading from the cavern, like the spokes of a wheel, were unnumerable other tunnels, crossing and recrossing each other, making a perfect labyrinth, for the original workers in the stone quarry—some half a century before—had followed only the peculiar vein-like formation through the sandstone instead of blasting out the entire hole as would be done in these modern times of high-priced labor.

In every particular he had, in his discussion with me, told me the truth. He did not need the money and actually, according to his diary, expected to rob his colleagues and himself, only to turn the money over to the poor. His principal idea, according to the story he left behind, was to satisfy his longing for excitement. He had laid his plans carefully, even to the extent of bribing poor Mrs. McGrady, Grimes' motherly old cook, into bombarding her employer with the notes he had written.

His piratical crew of gangsters he had recruited, as Travis had told me, through a crooked employment agency and had assembled them just as they had said. He had secured his weapons from a New York concern and shipped them by express as automobile parts. The enlargement of the silencer for the one pounder was his own idea.

He was, in every particular, an odd character, filled with good and evil and love of romance; he was in many respects a boy who would not grow up.

Yet, what to my mind shows his mental condition, was his betrayal of his confederates. For, following the finding of Backus' body, the board of directors had capitulated despite the protests of Grimes, who suddenly became panic-stricken on Joan's account, as I will explain later, and had hoisted the white flag and, acting under instructions telephoned from what was afterwards discovered to have been a tapped wire near his residence, had left the package of money on a stump close to the tunnel entrance.

The money in his possession, he had deliberately telephoned to Innis and Grimes—using his own name—giving up to them the secret of the hidden entrance and telling them that I had written him a hasty note with the instructions.

Evidently, he had not been able to resist the temptation, however, of visiting his hidden cavern for the last time, trusting on his ability to get away before the raid. That he was an actor of extraordinary power was demonstrated by his ability to assume the two characters—the role of coward before his fellow board members and the gruff, sharp-toned leader in front of his men.

The money, in the original package in which he had received it, we found tucked away in the library safe.

That, following his unsuccessful attempt to murder me, he had deliberately planned to implicate Innis by "planting" the lavender-scented, initialed handkerchief, was described in detail in the little book which he had so faithfully kept. He had hated Innis for years, he confessed, because of a boyish quarrel. He felt that Innis had wronged him and, looking at the world from the warped standpoint he had assumed, had never forgiven.

As a result of my testimony, his confederates were given prison terms, I being able to prove conclusively that they were accessories both before and after the fact of both the murder of the chief of police and the scheme to blackmail the factory.

And thus passed into history one of the strangest criminal characters I have ever met in my long career as a criminal investigator—Jimmy Burke, "The Man in the' Black Mask" 

in the parlor of the Grimes home, Joan and Grimes confessed to Innis and myself the parts they had played in the strange affair.

Grimes had accidentally discovered the entrance to the tunnel shortly after leaving me on the afternoon of my capture. Entering it, he found, a short distance from its mouth, the cache where Burke kept his various disguises. Just as he was about to leave to announce his discovery, he heard footsteps and, hiding behind a fallen rock, saw Joan enter, and, donning one of the outfits, strike boldly towards the cavern.

Too astonished for utterance, Grimes hastened away, laboring under the belief that Joan was, herself, "The Man in the Black Mask." She had always been a romantic young woman and the old man feared that she had, at last, given way to her inclination. Later, watching his opportunity, he had made several visits to the cavern.

As for Joan's part in the affair—it was purely accidental. Like all women, she imagined that she possessed detective ability and, because of Grimes' odd actions, due to worry, she had formed the conclusion that he was in financial straits and was, himself, the mysterious blackmailer.

As a child, she had played in the old tunnel. She remembered it now and shrewdly deduced it as the entrance to the hiding-place of "The Man in the Black Mask," following Backus' discovery of the shell fragment and my remark about the shot being fired down the creek. She had attempted to dissuade me from entering into the case because of her fear that I would unmask her uncle. This led her, also, to imitate the notes which had by means of the bribed cook been sent to Grimes, and to write and pin the counterfeit on my door.

There is nothing more to write. She and Grimes, working at cross purposes, suspecting each other, created the mixup which puzzled me so greatly in the cave. Oddly enough, they never chanced to meet nor to encounter Burke because of the numerous tunnels through which they entered, after leaving the main one.

work was finished. My fee had been paid. I was ready to go back, and yet I lingered at the invitation of John Grimes. For something stronger than the desire for a vacation held me in Elkhorn.

Yet, after a week had passed, I felt that I was no closer to my heart's desire than I had been the first day I met her. I felt, too, that I owed it to myself and my work to get back.

I announced my decision to Joan one evening as we stood under the moon close to the vine-covered arbor. She looked up at me, her great eyes wistfully pathetic, her soft hand resting on my arm, and whispered, as she had whispered on that eventful day when first we met:

"Don't go—please!"

I smiled as I demanded her reason for asking me to remain. It was the same—a woman's reason, always—the one little word:

"Because."

I felt the indefinable warmth and fragrance from her. I saw the faint blush that swept over her face. Then my arms were around her—and the reader must guess the rest.

My wife swears that she forced me to propose.

{dhr{}} I am president and general manager of the Elkhorn Chemical Company now. President Grimes resigned six months ago. His work, he says, kept him from giving proper care and attention to a certain red-headed youngster whom we have named Jimmy Burke Larson.

For we owe our happiness to the man who brought us together—"The Man in the Black Mask."