"Barracola's," replied the detective.
In an instant the young Italian had grasped Collins by the arm, and, pulling him toward him, whispered fiercely, "You confounded fool! Don't you know that name is forbidden? You must be an outsider."
Collins professed ignorance of what was meant, and the youth, evidently fearing he had said too much, then tried to turn the matter off. One of the loungers in the place now walked forward and engaged the detective in conversation, trying to discover whether he was a member of any one of the various legitimate societies formed by Italian workmen. Collins, however, returned nothing but stupid answers, and the man turned away disgustedly, saying, half to himself, "He's only some fool!"
"IN AN INSTANT THE YOUNG ITALIAN HAD GRASPED COLLINS BY THE ARM."
Having finished his drink, the officer left the place. No thought of the "Black Hand" had entered his mind in all this, but he seemed to scent something wrong, and the detective instinct in him was aroused. He was curious to know what the Boston saloon-keeper's business with so prominent and respected a man as Antonio Barracola, the Italian banker, could be; and so, his business in New York finished, Collins returned to Boston. His chief there, on receipt of the New York telegram, had placed a watch on the saloon-keeper's movements from the moment he had arrived back in town. The man, whose name was Guido Conto, had, after leaving the railway station, gone direct to his place of business, and his movements ever since had been quite in keeping with his usual demeanour. Nothing whatever of a suspicious nature had been noted.
Three days later Collins was sent to New York again, this time by the chief of detectives, to identify a man arrested by the police of that city, and who was wanted in Boston for forgery. On being searched the forger was found to have in his possession a pass-book showing a deposit at Barracola's bank. The Boston detective, still hoping to unravel the mystery which he was convinced lay behind the banker's acquaintance with low-class saloon-keepers and other doubtful characters, called at this institution in the guise of a friend of the arrested man and asked to see the banker himself. After explaining his business he was shown into the private office. Here, at a flat-topped desk so placed that the light from the window must fall on the face of a visitor, while leaving his own in shadow, sat a short, stout man with a heavy black moustache, a thick bull-neck, deep black eyes, and a head of close-cropped black hair, combed straight back from the forehead.
"What do you want?" asked the banker, sharply. Collins replied that his friend Casati was under arrest, that the latter had entrusted him with the keeping of his bank-book, and that he (Collins) did not know exactly how to act. He did not want the police to get possession of the book, he added.