“I was sent over to follow that man,” pointing to Clark. “Do you think my disappearance will not be noticed if I don’t turn up safe and sound? Well, you are wrong. By noon to-morrow you will all be in custody; your precious plans for murdering the Grand Duke will then be nipped in the bud. Thus, instead of carrying out the orders of the Camorra you will be preparing to swing for my death.”
“Your arguments are all very fine, my friend,” returned the leader composedly, “provided everything happens as you say. But no one will know of your disappearance. It is an easy matter to secure a specimen of your handwriting, forge a letter from New York to your employers saying you were called there suddenly. One of the Brotherhood will impersonate you on a voyage to Europe. We never fail in our plans. Months will elapse before your disappearance will be noticed. You will never be traced.”
“Sounds well,” commented Dick. “You forget I have a very substantial body which is apt to betray your best laid schemes.”
“It will not be found.”
“Pooh! Murder will out!”
“Not in this instance.” The leader rose and stepped over into a corner and picked up a satchel, which he opened. He took out a hypodermic syringe and a small black leather box such as surgeons carry. “We have plenty of disguises with us,” he continued. “You will be dressed in one of them. Your body will be found, but it will never be recognized as yours. In this little vial,” taking it out of the leather case, “there is a deadly poison. Under its influence your body becomes bloated and your features unrecognizable. It will be necessary to bury you at once, as decomposition follows fast. Therefore, no lengthy examination can be made.”
A terrible fear was upon Dick, brave fellow that he was. He could have faced death by dagger or revolver without flinching, but this creeping horror shook his nerve. Despairingly he glanced about the room; there was no help there. His eyes traveled back to the leader, and, fascinated, he watched him fit on the hypodermic needle and fill the syringe. His back and forehead were bathed in a cold perspiration, and his throat was parched and dry. He thought of Peggy, his dear, dear love, and involuntarily a groan escaped him.
“Tut!” said the Italian. “Just a pin prick. A few twists of your limbs and all will be over.”
At his signal two of the men tore off Dick’s left cuff and bared his arm. As the hand holding the needle hovered above Dick’s wrist, a shot rang out, and the leader crumpled up and fell forward over him, the syringe flying across the room.
“Throw up your hands!” commanded a stern voice from the broken skylight. The amazed men looked up into the barrels of four revolvers, while Dick fainted away.