The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute
as a cigar-box.
"What's the matter?" I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me.
"They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed.
Come on, Jameson; Vincenzo, stay back, if you don't want to appear in
this."
A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go. It was the
faithful Luigi.
In front of Albano's an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being
fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement
windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd
we caught a glimpse of Gennaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his
shoulder, struggling with a policeman while Luigi vainly was trying to
interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was
urging the first officer on. "That's the man," he was crying. "That's
the kidnapper. I caught him."
In a moment Kennedy was behind him. "Paoli, you lie. You are the
kidnapper. Seize him--he has the money on him. That other is Gennaro
himself."
The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli.
The others were beating at the door, which was being frantically
barricaded inside.
Just then a taxicab came swinging up the street. Three men jumped out
and added their strength to those who were battering down Albano's
barricade.
Gennaro, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. Over his shoulder I
could see a tangled mass of dark brown curls, and a childish voice
lisped: "Why didn't you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I
waited in the yard you would come for me.
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