'You have told everything,' said the Red Envoy quietly.
'Why did I do it?' questioned Berger pleadingly. 'Tell me why. I must be insane!'
'Some one has worked upon your mind,' replied the Red Envoy. 'You have betrayed yourself. More
than that: you have betrayed our cause.'
Stanley Berger became suddenly rigid; his eyes stared ahead. He clenched his fists.
'You have been released,' said the Red Envoy, in even tones. 'That is customary with those who have
done their work for the cause. But you know the terms of that release. Silence. Absolute silence.'
Berger nodded.
'You know what happens to those who betray the cause.' The Red Envoy's voice came like the sound of
doom. 'They are our worst enemies. We may let other enemies wait; but not those who have betrayed
us. We strike them quickly.'
Again Berger nodded.
'I feared this,' said the Red Envoy solemnly. 'I feared that you would unwittingly betray the cause. I
came to talk with you—to help you leave the country.
'I still offer you that opportunity. But you must first undo this work. Bring out paper, and another
envelope. Are there stamps here?'
Berger nodded as he opened the table drawer and produced the required envelopes. The masked man
extinguished the ceiling light. The room was illuminated only by the table lamp.
'Write this note,' directed the Red Envoy. 'Start it with 'Dear Sir,' as you began the letter to Harry
Vincent.'
Berger wrote the first words; then followed the masked man's dictation.
'The suicide of Jonathan Graham has left me miserable and unhappy. He was my friend and benefactor.
My grief is overwhelming me.
'I do not feel that I can go on. I can work for no other man. The shock has left me helpless. Standing
powerless, and watching the man I admired leap to his death, is something that I can never forget.
'When you receive this letter, I shall be gone.'
Stanley Berger awaited further instructions.
'Sign the letter,' said the Red Envoy. 'Write two more like it. Sign all of them.'
The young man obeyed, while the man in the crimson mask walked slowly back and forth across the
room.
When the task was completed, the Red Envoy stopped beside the table.
'Now address three envelopes,' he said. 'One to Harry Vincent exactly like the envelope I opened.
Address the others to any two persons whom you know. One of them—both if you wish—should be
connected with Jonathan Graham's office.'
Stanley Berger addressed the envelopes. The Red Envoy applied the stamps carefully; then folded the
letters and put them in the envelopes. He pocketed the three messages.
'Stanley Berger,' said the Red Envoy, in a quiet, solemn voice, 'I have offered you help. You may leave
to-morrow for South America.
'Instructions will be given you by telephone at exactly seven to-morrow morning. But remember'—the
lips moved slowly beneath the crimson mask—'you would have betrayed our cause. You cannot control
your future.
'While you live, you may again fail to preserve silence. Death is the punishment for those who betray. We
do not accept excuses.'
The Red Envoy thrust out an arm. In his gloved hand he held a small box. He opened it, and revealed
three pills within. He laid the box upon the table and stepped away.
Stanley Berger's eyes grew large with horror. He stared at the box and its contents, and through his
tortured brain flashed thoughts of doom.
Close by, a living menace, stood the Red Envoy, coldly watching the effect of his action. Then, satisfied
that Berger understood, the masked man silently left the room.
Stanley Berger did not hear him go. Realization had dulled his senses.
His mind reverted to the letters that he had written.
'When you receive this letter, I shall be gone -'
Gone! He had not stated his destination. The words that the Red Envoy had dictated had held more than
one meaning.
Gone! Berger knew that he must go—somewhere where he could never tell his true story. He thought of
the confession that he had written; the letter which the Red Envoy had intercepted.
Berger's hand trembled as he reached for the little box.
The young man mumbled incoherent words; then suddenly his hand became steady as he lifted the box
and poured the pills into his other hand.
When the distant clock struck twelve, all was silent in the apartment. The lamp still shone upon the table,
and its rays, gleaming to the floor, revealed the dead body of Stanley Berger.
CHAPTER IX. HOW VINCENT ESCAPED
HARRY VINCENT waited in darkness after the girl had gone. A multitude of thoughts overwhelmed his
throbbing brain.
Who was the girl? Why had she saved him?
The first question was unanswerable. Harry felt that he could explain the second. He was sure that the girl
had reciprocated the interest which he had felt for her. She had left him, alone, in a place that was
virtually a prison; but he was positive that she had some plan for his escape.
A speck of light suddenly showed through the panel in front of him. Harry placed his eye to the spot.
Through a tiny hole in the revolving wall, he could see the large room of the Pink Rat, yet he was quite
invisible in his compartment.
The lights had been turned on in the den, and the whole scene lay before him. The sudden attack had
caused chaos.
The patrons of the Pink Rat were desperate crooks. The brief battle in the darkness had caused some to
look for safety, while others had sought to participate in the fracas.
One man was sitting on a bench, rubbing the side of his face. He was the one whom Harry had punched
in the dark.
Volovick was standing in the center of the room, uninjured. Evidently he had managed to ward off the
bench which Harry had hurled upon him.
Broken bottles, and fragments of shattered glasses strewed the place. Two policemen were there. They
had been attracted by the shots. But they seemed to be making a very halfhearted investigation.
A ruddy-faced, shrewd-nosed man was explaining matters to them. Harry decided that the fellow must
be the proprietor of the Pink Rat. If so, the place was well-named. The man looked something like a pink
rat himself.
Harry could not hear the discussion, but evidently the officers were satisfied that no one had been injured.
This upstairs den was protected through political influence. Nothing short of actual open murder could
have brought on a raid.
Murder had been attempted, it was true. Harry shuddered as he realized that he had been the intended
victim. But it had been planned as a quick, quiet murder, with no noise.
