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By Stephen Norman.

Every country in the world which possesses a detective department has men in its service who specialize in the capture of criminals who themselves are specialists in different lines. For instance, one officer may be peculiarly efficient in running down "stone-getters," or jewel thieves, another is clever at ferreting out "wanted" burglars, while yet another division give their attention to Anarchists and alien criminals. In America, owing to the great number of foreigners who make that country their place of residence, temporary or otherwise, the detective staff is largely composed of men who have made themselves familiar with the particular branch of work colloquially known us "Dago piping" (watching Italians). This service has lately been considerably augmented, owing to the great strength and powerful connections of the "Black Hand" Society. Murder after murder has been committed by members of this sinister fraternity, and hundreds of well-to-do Italians have been threatened, most of them paying tribute, as they feared the consequences in the event of failure to obey the mandates of the dreaded "Mano Nera." The detective and police departments could make absolutely no headway against this far-reaching organization, even the large rewards offered by public bodies, the Government, and private persons having no effect. It was impossible to obtain the services of an informer, and the machinery of the law was practically at a standstill. True, now and again some suspect was arrested, but sufficient evidence could never be obtained to secure a conviction. Two detectives named Sechetti and Maltino were dismissed the force, not because they were suspected of being members of the "Black Hand," but because it was believed they possessed certain knowledge which fear prevented them from making known at police head-quarters. Sure enough, after their dismissal, both men returned to their native Italy, where, it was learned, they appeared to be possessed of considerable money, presumedly given them by somebody or other for "keeping quiet."

On the staff of the Boston, U.S.A., detective department was a young Englishman named Walter Collins. Fair, sturdy of build, and brave as the proverbial lion, Collins, a man some thirty-two years of age, had gone to America with his parents when quite a boy. After a public-school education he obtained a position as stenographer in the Seventh Division Police Court, and later entered the force as a patrolman. His intelligence and the clever capture of "Kid Skelly," a famous burglar, gained him promotion, and in 1903 Collins became a full-fledged detective officer. Again his ability was made manifest, for in 1905 he captured Roth and Murray, the men who robbed Mrs. Van Rensselaer, a prominent American lady, of twenty thousand dollars' worth of jewels, the gems being recovered in London. Collins was now made a sergeant, which is, in the American police, a very superior position.

When the doings of the "Black Hand" first began to attract public attention, Collins interested himself in the matter in a quiet way, apart from his duties. He read everything available about other Italian secret societies, such as the Mafia and the Camorra, visited the Italian quarter of the city, and familiarized himself with the ways of the "Dagoes," as members of the Latin races are called in America. Meanwhile murder after murder was committed, blackmail was levied on all sides, and a virtual reign of terror was established among respectable Italians, no one knowing where the terrible scourge would strike next. Then, one morning after roll-call, Sergeant Collins presented himself before Inspector Ross, his chief, and said, "Inspector, I should like to be placed on detail duty in the Italian quarter."

Inspector Ross, however, informed him that this was impracticable. Collins was fair, and not a bit like an Italian; moreover, he could neither speak nor understand the language. The officer saluted and went about his usual business of guarding the banks.

That evening the door-bell rang at the private house of the detective-inspector and a beetle-browed, ill-clad Italian presented himself and asked to see Mr. Ross on important business. Mr. Ross saw the man, who, after some conversation in broken English, said, "I'm Sergeant Collins, sir!" He had dyed his hair and moustache, and convinced the inspector that he had for months been studying Italian and was quite proficient in the language. Ross, a very keen man, had quite failed to recognise his subordinate, and the next day Collins was given the job he had asked for, where he soon rendered useful service. Dozens of "wanted" Italian malefactors—coiners, pickpockets, and thieves—were run to earth, Collins himself never appearing in the matter, the arrests being made by other detectives. Nothing could be gleaned, however, about the subject that most interested him—the dreaded "Black Hand." The Italians mentioned the name of this terrible society in whispers, when they mentioned it at all, for one's very neighbour might be a member, and under such circumstances it was best to say nothing. From every city in the Union there came news of terrible murders—all after attempts had first been made to blackmail the victims. Reward after reward was offered, but not the faintest clue reached the police, and meanwhile public excitement grew intense.

One day Sergeant Collins—who, still in pursuit of information, had taken a situation with a firm of fruit shippers where many Italians were employed—was sent to New York to arrange there for a consignment of bananas. He was given a draft on an Italian private bank, to be drawn on only in case the deal went through. Arriving in New York, he mingled as usual with Italians, and wrote his letters to his firm from the offices of the bank on which his draft was drawn. A day or two afterwards he was seated at a small writing-desk in the bank, reading an Italian newspaper, when there entered a man whom Collins thought he knew. Glancing up guardedly, he recognised the visitor as an Italian who kept a small public-house in Boston, a rendezvous for shady characters. He saw that the man was immediately ushered into the private office of the banker, and this struck him as peculiar. Here was a man who could not possibly have a large banking account, yet he was treated with the greatest deference.

The saloon-keeper was in private consultation with the banker for over an hour, and on his departure Collins followed him. The man made straight for the railway station, where he was met by another Italian. There was an exchange of envelopes; then the first man booked a ticket for Boston.

Collins promptly wrote out a telegram and sent it to police head-quarters, and when the train left he followed the second man, who had been earnestly talking meanwhile to the first suspect. Collins was now taken up-town to One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, to what is known as "Little Italy," a locality entirely given over to Italians. Just near the famous "Gas House" the followed man stopped and looked carefully about him. He saw Collins, but took him to be only another Italian like himself. Reassured, he crossed the street and entered a saloon known as the "Slaughter-House," because of the many "knifings" which had taken place there. Collins walked right into the place and called for a drink. His man was nowhere to be seen, but the detective noticed that several men who had been seated at different tables slowly walked to the rear of the place and ascended a stairway leading above.

After a minute or two he turned to the bar-tender. "Have you seen So-and-so"—mentioning some imaginary person—"about to-day?" he inquired. The man replied that he did not know the man referred to.

"That's strange," continued Collins. "He told me down at the bank to meet him here."

"What bank?" queried the bar-tender.

"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!"

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.

"Give me the pass-book," said Barracola, curtly.

"I have not brought it with me," replied Collins.

"Oh," said Barracola, "well, in that case, you don't require my advice. I should have looked after my customer's interest, but you had better take the book to Casati himself or give it to this gentleman."

Barracola now wrote something on a piece of paper, which he folded and gave to Collins, who was then shown out. In the street the officer looked at the paper, and, to his intense astonishment, read the following: "Detective-Sergeant Collins, either at police head-quarters here or in Boston."

The detective could hardly believe his eyes at seeing his own name written in a large, clear hand. Did Barracola know him? he wondered, and had he taken this roundabout way of letting him see that his purpose was understood?

Collins hesitated for a moment, thinking hard; then he went direct to head-quarters, where he had a hurried talk with Inspector O'Brien. The latter promptly called Mr. Barracola up on the telephone, and told him that a pass-book had just been delivered up to him by an Italian who said he had been directed there by Mr. Barracola.

"Yes; that's quite right," replied Barracola. "I did send someone."

The inspector asked a question: "But why direct the man to Sergeant Collins?" he queried.

"I read in the morning papers of Casati's arrest," answered Barracola, "and that Officer Collins was coming here to extradite him."

The explanation was reasonable enough, and there was nothing for Collins to do but accept it. Thinking quietly over the matter, however, the detective came to the conclusion that Mr. Antonio Barracola, the eminently respectable Italian banker, was a remarkably shrewd man, and he became more than ever determined to discover what lay behind his ordinary business. That there was something behind it he felt confident, but for some time his investigations were without result.

On January 4th of this year a man called at the Boston detective office and asked to see the chief inspector. On being shown into Mr. Ross's room the caller took from his pocket a half-sheet of common note-paper, on which were written the following words:—

"You have plenty; you have been prosperous. Five thousand dollars is nothing to you. That sum, enclosed in an envelope, in bills, directed to Mr. Gargani, will reach those who can shield you from much trouble. The money will be called for at the General Post Office by an innocent messenger. Don't be foolish.—Mano Nera."

"I am Luigi Pelloti, manufacturer of paper bags," said the caller to Inspector Ross, "and that reached me by post this morning."

The inspector learned that Mr. Pelloti was in affluent circumstances, a much-respected merchant, and a very charitable man. Pelloti said he knew perfectly well that the "Black Hand" would carry out any threat they made, but he was determined not to be blackmailed, and would fight to a finish. A "dummy" parcel was accordingly made up and sent to the post-office addressed to "Mr. Gargani." Four of the inspector's best officers were stationed there to see the matter through. The packet was not called for until another day had passed; then, just at the busy hour, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, a youth of sixteen or seventeen asked a mail clerk for "a letter addressed to Mr. Gargani." It was given him, and the boy was then followed. He entered a tram-car and rode to the railway station, where he waited until half-past one, boarding at that hour the New York train. The four detectives did likewise. American railway coaches differ from those on British lines, being in one large compartment, with all the seats facing the engine, a passage-way running down the centre of each coach. The Italian youth seated himself well forward in the smoking-car, the officers keeping well away from one another. No one approached the bearer of the letter, who sat quietly smoking a cigarette, and the train was within a mile of Harlem Station and was just beginning to slacken speed, when the youth looked up, opened the window in a flash, and threw the "dummy" letter, enclosed in a leather wallet, far from him. Three of the detectives immediately ran out to the car platform and jumped from the train, which was now slowing up. The third, Officer Whalen, grabbed the boy and handcuffed him.

The three who had jumped from the moving train looked hurriedly about, but there was no sign of the package thrown from the train and no one was to be seen but the crossing-keeper, who had a shanty just by the side of the up-rails. Two of the officers searched for the wallet, while the third—Sergeant Collins himself—interviewed the railway man. The latter had seen nothing and nobody, however, and could in no way assist the detectives. The officers communicated with the nearest police-station, and in a very short time a dozen men were searching the vicinity, but—as usual where the "Black Hand" is concerned—they discovered nothing.

Meanwhile Officer Whalen took his prisoner to the chief inspector, or captain (as this officer is called in America), and here the youth was severely questioned. He said he had been hired by two men to carry out certain instructions, for which he had been paid twenty-five dollars. The men he had met at the "Gas House," in One Hundred and Sixtieth Street. They had called him by name, and he supposed they must know him.

This explanation did not satisfy the police, and the young Italian was therefore put through the "Third Degree," a rather strenuous method used for forcing confessions from reluctant prisoners. His testimony could not be shaken, however, and he was therefore arraigned before a magistrate at Jefferson Market Police Court, charged as a suspect. A remand was asked for and granted to enable the police to make a thorough investigation.

That same night, despite the fact that he was supposed to be under the protection of the police, the unfortunate Luigi Pelloti was struck to the heart with a stiletto on the doorstep of his own house! The "Black Hand" had punished him in its usual way for his temerity in going to the authorities! The same thorough search was made as in other cases, but once again the methods of the murderers baffled the authorities.

The young Italian was arraigned a second time and a further remand asked for, which was again granted, but this time the lad's father, one Amato, applied for bail. This being refused, the man left the station, followed by a detective officer. He went direct to the office of Antonio Barracola, where he remained for a few minutes only; then he rode up-town on the Elevated Railway to the "Slaughter House" saloon. The detective who was watching him telephoned to head-quarters, and Captain O'Brien communicated with Sergeant Collins. The latter was still busy investigating things at Harlem, but he now came hurrying in, and, meeting the officer who was at One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, the two waited until Amato came out of the saloon; they then arrested him on suspicion, and took him to the station. Here he was searched, and a stiletto, a loaded revolver, and a letter—unsigned and bearing an address—instructing him to carry out the details for which his son was now under arrest, were found on him.

At last the police had something to work upon. The old man was locked up, but took matters very coolly, disdainfully refusing to say a word. The police then walked him past the cell in which his son was locked up, watching him closely meanwhile. The boy saw his father, but neither one uttered a syllable. In the office upstairs the officers now held a consultation. Sergeant Collins produced the piece of paper on which the banker, Barracola, had written his (Collins's) name, the threatening letter demanding money from Pelloti, and the letter of instructions found on Amato, senior. They were not in the same handwriting, but they were all on the same kind of paper—a very cheap note-paper, such as might be sold by any and every stationer. Why should Barracola, whose letter-heads and stationery were of the best quality, as befitted a highly-successful bank, have such paper in his possession? the detective asked himself, and he made up his mind to find out. He was convinced that Barracola was very smart, and that there was something "fishy" about him, but that alone did not point to his being in league with the infamous "Black Hand."

In the career of all successful detectives the element of luck is a great factor, and Sergeant Collins now virtually "fell" across a most useful piece of intelligence, for the "inevitable woman" cropped up. Young Amato was locked up in the Tombs Prison, and was allowed to receive visitors, who, in turn, were watched. Among the boy's callers was a girl, an employé at Allen's cigarette factory in West Street. This girl was about fifteen years of age, very well developed, and unusually pretty, even for an Italian. She had been to see Amato, had taken him some fruit and cigarettes, and had given him a ten-dollar bill. This bill Amato changed in paying for food, purchasing his meals from the prison caterer. Sergeant Collins was just entering the prison one day when the caterer stopped at the inside gate or grille and, after collecting a number of plates and other dishes, remarked to the keeper in charge there: "That young Dago certainly has good friends; he's given me another ten spot (ten-dollar bill)." Collins at once spoke to the man and obtained the bill from him in exchange for another. Now it is quite impossible to trace American money in the same way as an English bank-note, but the detective had other ideas just then. Next day the Italian girl called again, and on her departure she was spoken to by an elderly Italian, who asked if his daughter was still inside visiting Amato.

"What has your daughter to do with Amato?" asked the girl, quickly.

"That is what I am trying to find out," replied the Italian. "She has visited him regularly, and yesterday she came home with a ten-dollar bill in her possession which he gave her."

The girl turned scarlet. "It's a lie!" she cried, passionately. The Italian expressed surprise at her anger, but showed her the bill, saying further that he had reason to suspect Amato of an attempt to run away with his daughter.

On hearing this the deluded girl worked herself into a perfect frenzy of rage, asking her questioner who and what he was. The latter, however, acted in a mysterious manner, giving the girl to understand that he was "one of them," but would countenance no nonsense where his daughter was concerned. The girl, saying that she would find out the truth of the matter on the morrow, left him, her face working with jealous rage. The next day she again called at the prison, but was told at the gates that Amato did not wish to see her. Moreover, he had already had as many visitors as the prison regulations allowed for one day. Fuming with anger, the girl departed, being again met by the strange Italian at the gates.

"He won't see me," she burst out, eager to confide her troubles to a compatriot. "Me, who have done so much for him—me, who gave all the money I could to keep old Barracola from putting his father away in the last trouble! Just wait till he gets out! I'll find someone to avenge me, or I'll avenge myself!"

The listener now tried to pacify her, knowing that this was just what would make her talk the more, and when he left her on her doorstep in First Avenue, he felt he had now "something to go on with." The old Italian, needless to say, was Sergeant Collins.

Antonio Barracola lived in an old-fashioned three-storeyed brick house in Greenwich Street. The house next door on the right was occupied by his brother Giacomo, who was proprietor of an express and luggage transportation business. The house on the left, curiously enough, was tenanted by a policeman, who was himself a naturalized Italian. This man was guardedly questioned, and informed the detectives that Barracola had no visitors whatever at his house, and that he never came home on Monday nights, when he was supposed to stay with an elder sister in Jersey City.

The next Monday Mr. Barracola, on leaving his bank at four o'clock in the afternoon, was shadowed by two officers, one dressed as a working man and the other as an Italian longshoreman. These two saw that directly Barracola left his office a stalwart fellow of exceptionally powerful build followed close behind him, keeping one hand in a side coat-pocket. The stranger was evidently intended as a sort of rear-guard, for he kept his eyes roving in all directions, making the work of the detectives most difficult. One of the latter accordingly hurried by a short cut to the Jersey City Ferry, catching a boat across before Barracola, and thus attracting less attention.

Meanwhile the banker and his two followers arrived in Jersey City. Barracola stopped at a saloon near the station, but soon emerged, smoking a cigar. He walked westward for some five minutes; then, turning sharply at a corner, was lost to view by the time his followers reached the place. The big Italian was the first to reach the intersecting street, where he swung round and scanned both sides of the road narrowly, but the officers, prepared for some such manœuvre, had taken due precautions. One entered the doorway of a shop; the other walked straight on. Just at the corner where the banker had turned there stood a one-storey wooden building, occupied by an Italian barber. Barracola's rear-guard, evidently satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, presently entered this shop, and Sergeant Collins now coming up saw that although the man had gone in there was no sign of him inside; there were two chairs there, but no customers.

The officer walked away, returning on the other side of the street, keeping close to the buildings. Soon he saw another visitor enter the shop, then a second; and within an hour nine well-dressed men had disappeared through the doorway. Sergeant Collins now sent one of his own men in to have his hair cut. This officer discovered that there were no doors leading out of the place other than that leading into the street, and the barber seemed in a hurry to get rid of him, cutting his hair "in less than no time."

The building next door to the barber's shop was a stone-fronted bay window residence, neatly curtained, and looking like the home of some tradesman. The officers made a détour to the rear to examine the premises, but saw nothing suspicious—simply a couple of ordinary backyards. By this time it was about 6.30, and quite dark. The detectives remained at their post all night, and not until eight o'clock next morning did the first of the men who had entered the barber's shop emerge. Then, at intervals of perhaps ten minutes, the others came out, the last to do so being Barracola, his burly guard having preceded him. This time the banker did not walk, but rode in a tram-car to the ferry, which he crossed. Thence he went to Smith and McNeill's restaurant and had breakfast, going from there to the bank. Sergeant Collins and his men reported to head-quarters and then went home for a well-earned sleep.

Up to this time, although his movements were strange and his friends peculiar, absolutely nothing had been discovered against Barracola, and it was possible that he might be a harmless member of some perfectly innocent secret society. The meeting at the barber's, although suspicious, was by no means (so far as the police knew) a criminal one. But Sergeant Collins had a very strong card up his sleeve, and he prepared to play it at once.

At three o'clock that afternoon, having shaved off his moustache, he called at Barracola's bank, and, stating that his business was of great importance, was shown into the private room. Barracola looked at him keenly. "Well?" he said, interrogatively.

Collins acted as though very nervous and embarrassed; then, apparently plucking up courage, he informed the banker that he had called in the latter's interests to inform him that a girl on whom he (Collins) was "rather sweet" had been talking a great deal about young Amato and Barracola. The girl, Collins continued, had, unbeknown to him, been fond of Amato. The latter, however, had cast her off, and in a fit of jealousy she had appealed to him to avenge her.

The banker leaned back in his chair, looking Collins straight in the eyes.

"See here," he said, angrily, "what's your game? You have not fooled me for a moment, and unless you explain your object in treating me as though you were in search of something, I shall appeal to your superiors, when, believe me, my influence will break you!"

Evidently, reflected the surprised detective, this man Barracola knew more than his prayers. He kept cool, however, and answered, "Well, sir, we thought that you, knowing most of the Italian colony, would be able to help us, although you might not care to do so directly."

"Then why not come to me in a proper manner?" demanded the banker. "I don't know what you're after and I don't care! Good morning."

"I am sorry to have troubled you," said Collins, politely, and took his leave.

Once outside, the officer went direct to the Tombs Prison, where he saw the younger Amato. "I'm going to turn you loose to-morrow," he told the lad, "providing you tell me why Mr. Barracola is so anxious to have you sent to the State Prison. Isn't there some woman in it?"

After some talk in this vein the young fellow finally agreed to tell what he knew, and although this was very little it was of great importance. The man who had engaged him to call for the letter, he said, was the proprietor of the saloon at One Hundred and Sixtieth Street. This man was the "up-town" agent for Antonio Barracola, whose name, however, it was forbidden to mention in the place. Once before he had gone to fetch a letter under similar circumstances, and, missing a train, returned a day late. Believing he had been trying to decamp with the money, he was taken into the cellar of the saloon by the proprietor and some of his associates, and would have been knifed there and then had not one of the men remarked that the father of the boy was valuable to the Capitano—the "Capitano" being Antonio Barracola, the banker. Even then it was decided to make away with him, fearing so young a lad might talk; but Amato, learning the fate in store for him, sent his sweetheart to the "Capitano" to intercede for him. That was the substance of the lad's story, and, after hearing it, Sergeant Collins laid all the facts before his chief in Boston, who in turn communicated with the New York authorities.

While they suspected that Barracola was mixed up with some crooked work, the New York police doubted whether there was enough evidence to warrant any action against him, either a search or arrest, for Barracola was a very influential man, and influence means much in America. Collins, determined not to let the matter rest, now tried for the second time the tack he was working on when he called on Barracola, when he purposely acted like a novice so as to lead the banker to believe him a fool. He secured the release (in custody) of young Amato, whom he walked past the cell in which the boy's father was. Here he repeated his fairy-tale about Barracola's attempt to "railroad" the younger man to prison. The boy, fully believing Collins's story, told his father likewise, and the old man, convinced in turn, promptly turned informer. His deposition was taken, and on this information the police decided to act.

On the following Monday, when it had been ascertained that Barracola was safely within the Jersey City barber's shop, Sergeant Collins walked into the place, and before the astonished proprietor could utter a sound a revolver was placed close to his temple. Another detective now entered, handcuffed the man, and led him outside as though he was walking out with a friend. The barber was taken to the police-station, and there forced to describe the location of the secret door through which his "customers" so readily disappeared. It was deemed wise to do this at the station, in case the man should touch some secret button giving warning to the conspirators.

Meanwhile the place had been surrounded, and Sergeant Collins, accompanied by Officers O'Brien, O'Malley, Whalen, Curtis, Snow, and Hendricks, entered the barber's shop. Going to the place designated, they found the secret door leading into the house adjoining, and quietly passed through, closing the door after them. Silently the men walked down the hall, but not quite silently enough, for, sitting by the balustrade of the stairway leading into the basement, was the big Italian before mentioned. He called out sharply before one of the officers could stifle him. There was a scurrying sound below, and the detectives rushed down to find the place empty, the rear door open, and a pitched battle taking place in the yard between their brother officers and a dozen Italians. The night being dark, it was a difficult matter to distinguish friend from foe, but the police closed in resolutely, leaving no loophole for escape, and soon seized their men. Windows were opened on all sides, and the neighbourhood was soon in a state of great excitement. Lights were brought, and the captured men taken back into the house which they had left so hurriedly. Here a doctor was hastily summoned, for several of the police had been badly knifed, and one or two of the prisoners had also received some punishment, the officers' clubs having been very busy among them.

Antonio Barracola and ten others now faced the detectives, who, at the point of revolvers, searched them as well as the house. The correspondence, papers, and systematically-arranged reports from various parts of the country which were discovered afforded conclusive proof that the captured men were none other than the officers or moving spirits of the dread "Black Hand." Every possible attempt was made to keep the thing quiet until further arrests could be made, but this proved futile, the affair creating an absolute furore.

Sergeant Collins and Officer Whalen took charge of Antonio Barracola, who protested that he simply acted as banker for the others, whom he knew only in a business way.

The prisoners were taken to head-quarters and Barracola's private house was searched. Nothing was found there of an incriminating nature, but a secret door was discovered leading into his brother's house, and here complete sets of books dealing with the entire affairs of the "Black Hand" were found, all the handwriting being the same as that of the first note given to Detective Collins by Barracola. The books were marked "Italian Practical Aid Society."

Arraigned before Magistrate Kernochan, the men were all held for trial, in company with twenty-seven others arrested in all parts of the country. Barracola was found to be a man of great wealth, owning whole blocks of houses in the lower tenement district. The newspapers devoted pages to the capture of the ringleaders, and thousands of angry people attempted to get into the court-room every time the men were brought up for a hearing.

Not until now, however, has the story been told of how Sergeant Collins, little by little, worked his case up from nothing at all. Sergeant Collins himself gave the writer the details of this chronicle in London, while on his way to Italy, there to make certain inquiries about Barracola, it being believed that the former Italian banker was also a moving spirit in the malevolent organization known as the Mafia.

Imprisonment for life is the least punishment the majority of the "Black Hand" captains may expect. "If a dozen of them don't go to the electric chair I shall be much mistaken," said Sergeant Collins. The detective will receive some fifty thousand dollars in rewards for his work in ferreting out the heads of an organization which existed solely for the purposes of blackmail and murder, and which threatened to become a perpetual and ever-growing menace to society.