We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy for an explanation.

“Imagine that you are sitting at a table in Albano’s back room,” was all he said.  “This is what you would be hearing.  This is my ’electric ear’—­in other words the dictograph, used, I am told, by the Secret Service of the United States.  Wait, in a moment you will hear Gennaro come in.  Luigi and Vincenzo, translate what you hear.  My knowledge of Italian is pretty rusty.”

“Can they hear us?” whispered Luigi in an awe-struck whisper.

Craig laughed.  “No, not yet.  But I have only to touch this other switch, and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival the famous writing on Belshazzar’s wall—­only it would be a voice from the wall instead of writing.”

“They seem to be waiting for someone,” said Vincenzo.  “I heard somebody say:  ‘He will be here in a few minutes.  Now get out.’”

The babel of voices seemed to calm down as men withdrew from the room.  Only one or two were left.

“One of them says the child is all right.  She has been left in the back yard,” translated Luigi.

“What yard?  Did he say?” asked Kennedy.

“No; they just speak of it as the ‘yard,’” replied Luigi.

“Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call up headquarters.  Ask them if the automobile is ready, with the men in it.”

I rang up, and after a moment the police central answered that everything was right.

“Then tell central to hold the line clear—­we mustn’t lose a moment.  Jameson, you stay in the booth.  Vincenzo, you pretend to be working around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention, for they have men watching the street very carefully.  What is it, Luigi?”

“Gennaro is coming.  I just heard one of them say, ’Here he comes.’”

Even from the booth I could hear the dictograph repeating the conversation in the dingy, little back room of Albano’s, down the street.

“He’s ordering a bottle of red wine,” murmured Luigi, dancing up and down with excitement.

Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window, and I believe that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone which I was holding, for the police operator called me down for asking so many times if all was ready.

“There it is—­the signal,” cried Craig. “’A fine opera is “I Pagliacci."’ Now listen for the answer.”

A moment elapsed, then, “Not without Gennaro,” came a gruff voice in Italian from the dictograph.

A silence ensued.  It was tense.

“Wait, wait,” said a voice which I recognised instantly as Gennaro’s.  “I cannot read this.  What is this, 23 Prince Street?”

“No. 33.  She has been left in the backyard,” answered the voice.

“Jameson,” called Craig, “tell them to drive straight to 33 Prince Street.  They will find the girl in the back yard—­quick, before the Black-Handers have a chance to go back on their word.”