“Mr. Kennedy,” he said, “I am going to meet them to-night.  They may kill me.  See, I have provided myself with a pistol—­I shall fight, too, if necessary for my little Adelina.  But if it is only money they want, they shall have it.”

“One thing I want to say,” began Kennedy.

“No, no, no!” cried the tenor.  “I will go—­you shall not stop me.”

“I don’t wish to stop you,” Craig reassured him.  “But one thing—­do exactly as I tell you, and I swear not a hair of the child’s head will be injured and we “will get the blackmailers, too.”

“How?” eagerly asked Gennaro.  “What do you want me to do?”

“All I want you to do is to go to Albano’s at the appointed time.  Sit down in the back room.  Get into conversation with them, and, above all, Signor, as soon as you get the copy of the Bolletino turn to the third page, pretend not to be able to read the address.  Ask the man to read it.  Then repeat it after him.  Pretend to be overjoyed.  Offer to set up wine for the whole crowd.  Just a few minutes, that is all I ask, and I will guarantee that you will be the happiest man in New York to-morrow.”

Gennaro’s eyes filled with tears as he grasped Kennedy’s hand.  “That is better than having the whole police force back of me,” he said.  “I shall never forget, never forget.”

As we went out Kennedy remarked:  “You can’t blame them for keeping their troubles to themselves.  Here we send a police officer over to Italy to look up the records of some of the worst suspects.  He loses his life.  Another takes his place.  Then after he gets back he is set to work on the mere clerical routine of translating them.  One of his associates is reduced in rank.  And so what does it come to?  Hundreds of records have become useless because the three years within which the criminals could be deported have elapsed with nothing done.  Intelligent, isn’t it?  I believe it has been established that all but about fifty of seven hundred known Italian suspects are still at large, mostly in this city.  And the rest of the Italian population is guarded from them by a squad of police in number scarcely one-thirtieth of the number of known criminals.  No, it’s our fault if the Black Hand thrives.”

We had been standing on the corner of Broadway, waiting for a car.

“Now, Walter, don’t forget.  Meet me at the Bleecker Street station of the subway at eleven-thirty.  I’m off to the university.  I have some very important experiments with phosphorescent salts that I want to finish to-day.”

“What has that to do with the case?” I asked mystified.

“Nothing,” replied Craig.  “I didn’t say it had.  At eleven-thirty, don’t forget.  By George, though, that Paoli must be a clever one—­think of his knowing about ricin.  I only heard of it myself recently.  Well, here’s my car.  Good-bye.”

Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, leaving me to kill eight nervous hours of my weekly day of rest from the Star.