Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1921-12-23
BY FRANK L. PACKARD
(AUTHOR or "THE MIRACLE MAN")
Co. Copyright, 1871, BIZ Public Ledger Company

There were not enough Barjans for that
though the world were peopled win
Barjans. The thought had brought
chill of dread for moment, that was
all. He had paid the price he was NOT
likely TO forget what that price hnd
tcen and he would never yield UP what
that price had bought. True, he had no
plan for this last play of his Worked out
in detail, but he would find way
because he must. He was probably ex-
aggerating what the police would, or
could do, anyhow! At first when he
had come into the penitentiary.. they
had tried to trap, sometimes to wheedle
him into disclosing where the money
was, though they had long since given
up those tactics and left him to him.
self. But suppose the police did watch
him now when he got out. lie could
afford to wat--to wait long while
until the police got tired, perhaps, or
perhaps came TO the conclusion that,
after all, they had got the wrong man.
They would not forget that. though he
had refused to say anything at the
trial, he had not been so mute in HE
attitude toward Runty Mott and Baldy
Vickers, who had 'sent him up; and
Barjan would not forget, either. that
in the hospital that day. with scarcely
strength TO speak. lie had threatened to
get even with the gansstcr and the
Runt. There was u psychological fac
tor in this. IF he, Dave Henderson.
made no effort to get the money, showed
no sign that he had any knowledge Of
its whereabouts, might not the police In
time come to the far from illogical con-
clusion that they might better have
watched-fve years ago-the men who
had so glibly acted as witnesses for the
State, the men who had. admittedly,
themselves attempted to steal the mon
cy? It wasn't unreasonable, was 1t?
And he could afford to wait. The $4,000
from Square John Kelly would keep
him going for quite n while He waa
fool to let this thing madden his brain
with its constant torturing doubts. 1t
was their move-not his.
From far along the iron gallery again
boot heel rang with n dull, metallic
sound. 1t was the guard, probably,
coming to rap old Tony Lomazzi over
the knuckles. Dave Henderson stopped
his restless pacing, and stood still in the
center Of the cell to listen. No, the
old bomb thrower wasn't talking any
longer; there wasn't any sound at all
cACepI tndL UOOC- Hcel ringing OH Tue
iron flooring. The sound came nearer,
and Dave Henderson frowned in puz-
zled way. The guard was not alone.
in any case.
He could distinguish the footsteps of
two men now. 1t wasn't usual at this
hour for any one TO be out there with
the guard. What was in the wind? The
warden, perhaps, making an unexpected
round, Or
His hands grippcd suddenly hard and
tight-but he did not move. There came
flashing over him once more the scene
in that hospital ward of five years ago.
The cell door had opened and closed. A
man had entered. The guards footsteps
died away outside. The man spoke:
Hello, Dave! !"
1t was Barjan, Lieutenant Joe Bar
jan, of the Frisco plain clothes squad.
1t was the scene of five years ago. That
was exactly what Barjan had said then /:
'1IellO, Dave - And he had answered /:
Hello, Joe!' But he did not answer
now.
This is little irregular, Dave"
said Barjan pleasantly; "but I wanted
to have quiet little chat with you, you
know, befOre'-he stepped forward and
clapped his hand on Dave Henderson ;