She puckered her pretty face for a moment, then raised her fair blue eyes interrogatively. "They seem contradictory, don't they? The handkerchief would suggest marriage; unless it's a souvenir—"
"No. He used it too strenuously, I'm afraid, for any sentiment to be attached to it; his only emotion seemed to be disgust at its size or lack of size. His wife's, of course. She's alive, and with him, or her handkerchiefs wouldn't be where he'd pick one up in a hurry; probably mixed in with his when the laundry came home."
"It might be his sister's," suggested the girl.
"Why didn't she sew his buttons on for him, then? Oh, it's simple enough. But your tip was what really helped me most with McGraw—that's his name—after all. He wants me to help him solve the Macdougal Street mystery."
In a few minutes Astro went over the history of the affair, and laid the last threatening letter on the table. Valeska inspected it carefully.
"The pieces are all cut from the advertising pages of The Era," she said finally.
"Good! Except these two, which, you see, instead of being cut, are torn along the edge. Not much of a clue, but worth remembering."
"What do you know about the Black Hand?" Valeska asked.
"As much as any one, and that is—nothing. Even Petrosini, the greatest of metropolitan Italian sleuths, said that there was no such thing. Warburton, on Immigration, has some very interesting chapters concerning the bloodthirsty Sicilian and his criminal organization, all of which have been corroborated in the recent
