“I am not sneering at your egotism,” said the Black Star, apparently without emotion. “I am sneering at the futility of your plans. I warned you, Roger Verbeck. I told you that chickens come home to roost. So you’ll send my men and women to jail, will you? You’ll break up my organization? You strike me a deathblow like that—and you’ll strike yourself one at the same time.”
“I’ve heard your pointless talk before,” Verbeck said.
“But this is not pointless talk, Roger Verbeck. It is very much to the point. I told you that I had an organization that gathered information, didn’t I? I said it was separate and distinct from the band that committed the crimes. You have made the grave mistake, I fear, of mixing the two bands together—and the consequences will not be to your liking.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes—indeed! How do you suppose I heard of your boast at that reception a few nights ago? How do you suppose I know so much about people’s private affairs? I’ll tell you, Roger Verbeck—I know because men and women of your acquaintance belong to my organization. You don’t believe that, eh? You will—soon.”
“I scarcely can imagine any of my friends turning crook.”
“Not voluntarily, perhaps. Not because they need money, either—not always.”
“Explain,” Verbeck said.
“I’ve told you I have a partner who knows me well—he and I work together. Some of the organization know him, but not one knows me, nor has seen my face or heard my voice. If you are skeptical, I’ll outline the plan in a few words. In Chicago, for instance, we caught a certain youngster of this city when he was in trouble. He was extricated from his scrape, and the price of it was that he join my organization. We held something over his head. Deathly afraid, he carried out my orders; he feared to refuse. Through him we brought into the organization the girl to whom he was betrothed—threatening to send her sweetheart to prison unless she joined the band. You see? A sort of endless-chain affair.”
“I don’t believe it!” Verbeck exclaimed.