From Now On

by Frank L. Packard

His eyes fell on Teresa. He might come back to San Francisco in a few months. With ordinary caution it ought to be quite safe then. Dave Henderson would have been dead quite long enough then to be utterly forgotten. They would not be talking on every street corner about him as they were to-night, and——

Nicolo Capriano was nodding his head approvingly over the letter.

“Yes, yes!” he said. “Excellent! With this, my young friend, you will be a far more important personage in New York than you imagine. Old Nicolo's arm still reaches far.” He stared for a moment musingly at Dave Henderson through half closed eyes. “You have money, and this letter. I do not think there is anything else that old Nicolo can do for you—eh?—except to give you a little advice. You will leave here shortly, and from that moment you must be very careful. Anywhere near San Francisco you might be recognized. Travel only by night at first—make of yourself a tramp and use the freight trains, and hide by day. After two or three days, which should have taken you a good many miles from here, you will be able to travel more comfortably. But still do not use the through express trains—the men on the dining and sleeping cars have all started from here, too, you must remember. You understand? Go slowly. Be very careful. You are not really safe until you are east of Chicago. I do not think there is anything else, unless—eh?—you are armed, my young friend?”

Dave Henderson shook his head.

“So!” ejaculated Nicolo Capriano, and pursed his lips. “And it would not be safe for you to buy a weapon to-night—eh?—and it might very well be that to-night you would need it badly. Well, it is easily remedied.” He turned to his daughter. “Teresa, my little one, I think we might let our young friend have that revolver upstairs in the bottom of the old box—and still not remain defenseless ourselves—eh? Yes, yes! Run and get it, Teresa.”

She rose from her seat obediently, and turned toward the door—but her father stopped her with a quick impulsive gesture.

“Wait!” he said. “Give me the pen before you go, and I will sign this letter. Dago George must be sure that it came from Nicolo Capriano—eh?”

She dipped the pen in the ink, and handed it to him. Nicolo Capriano propped the letter on his knees, as he motioned her away on her errand. His pen moved laboriously across the paper. He looked up then, and beckoned Dave Henderson to lean over the bed.

“See, my young friend,” he smiled—and pointed to his cramped writing. “Old Nicolo's fingers are old and stiff, and it is a long while since Dago George has seen that signature—but, though I am certain he would know it again, I have made assurance doubly sure. See, I have signed: 'Con Amore, Nicolo Capriano.' You do not know Italian—eh? Well, it is a simple phrase, a very common phrase. It means—'with love.' But to Dago George it means something else. It was a secret signal in the old days. A letter signed in that way by any one of us meant—'trust to the death!' You understand, my young friend?” He smiled again, and patted Dave Henderson's arm. “Give me die envelope there on the table.”

He was inserting the letter in the envelope, as Teresa entered the room again. He sealed the envelope, reached out to her for the revolver which she carried, broke the revolver, nodded as he satisfied himself that it was loaded—and handed both envelope and weapon to Dave Henderson. He spread out his hands then, and lifted his shoulders in a whimsical gesture of finality.