endeavoring to get my story across, but the combined influence of two skeptic minds in the room continually breaks the subtle accord of her mind with my mind.
My mind? Why, of course I have a mind. In fact, mind is all I am. I am merely a continuation of thoughts, attributes, desires and emotions that for many years were born in my once material brain and permeated my material being.
I am but a personality detached from a material body and all earthly matter; an invisible, wandering tramp—a ghost! For such was the transformation at death.
My difficulty since death has been my inability, or, rather, my unwillingness, to depart from reality, even though reality has forsaken me. As a material being, I was an intense materialist. I literally swam in the gratification of earthly desires, whims and pleasures.
I am loath to depart from these things I loved, therefore I am being punished and I am my own punisher. For such is the law of life and death. My old friends on earth know me not, see me not, hear me not. Though I mingle with them, play with them, laugh and cry with them, they do not reciprocate. I am a lonely, homeless, friendless ghost.
This is hell!
My flesh and blood being was a criminal.
I know not how long I have been a ghost, because I know nothing of the passage of time. In my present state I will never grow old. I live in the ever present, accursed now. I am tireless; I never sleep; I simply wander about my old earthly haunts and wish, wish, wish! Also I regret. I long for a material smile, a flesh-and-blood handclasp. I am denied these things.
Yet, in my present state, I have been seen by mortals. Terry Dolson saw me one night at the old swimming pool on our farm where he and I as small boys spent many happy hours. Terry was my chum in our boyhood days. He was my chum still when we attended college. He was my pal when we renounced society and turned to a life of crime.
Daniel Griswold, the prison guard, saw me one night as I stood before the closed door of my old cell at the penitentiary.
Herman Damstead—poor old Herman!—saw me at the gang's old rendezvous at Mother Maldrene's place.
Marie saw me seated on the divan in her apartment. I loved Marie. Perhaps if I had not loved her I would not now be a ghost. She was one of the most beautiful and accomplished members of America's criminal aristocracy.
I love Marie still. Curse my weakness! Why cannot I forsake reality as others do when they die? There is something better than this—somewhere.
Yes, as a ghost I have been seen by flesh-and-blood beings. These are not pleasant recollections, however; to see those of the flesh, whose friendship and love was my joy on earth, cringing in abject terror before me, a nameless fear showing in their eyes, their faces contorted with a horrible expression akin to mania. Indeed, they are not pleasant recollections.
The medium's voice is more distinct now, though those two skeptics continue to sneer. I remain directly in front of one of the men. I will continue to peer into his eyes and perhaps he will see me before the seance is closed.
There is another ghost in the room. Yes, I know this ghost.
BUT to my story: Upon our graduation from college we, Terry and I, pooled our interests and established a newspaper. We selected as our field one of the most politically and morally corrupt cities in America. It was our aim to whitewash this city of sin. Our paper failed miserably in less than a year, leaving us almost penniless.
Our next venture was as dealers in real estate. Business was poor; it grew worse. We arrived at our office one morning to find a writ of attachment posted in a conspicuous place near the door. We were broke!
What next? Never for an instant did we consider parting and trying our luck in different fields. It seemed to have been tacitly agreed that we should remain pals, partners and friends, whether fortune smiled or adversity crushed.
Ours was a friendship—aye, love!—in which the test of time had failed to find a flaw. Twenty years we had been chums, sympathetic and understanding. We remained so until—until . . . But that will be told later.
Broke and discouraged, Terry and I returned to our modest bachelor quarters: I well remember the day; how I e endeavored to make light of our difficulties; how Terry sat hunched in a chair reading the "help wanted" column in the morning paper.
Suddenly he tossed the paper aside and rose with an exclamation of disgust.
"Hal, listen to me," he said, standing over me as I lay on the davenport. "I can name not less than one hundred wealthy men in this city who amassed their fortunes through systematic, 'legalized' robbery. The police system of this city as well as many other municipalities in this country is corrupt—rotten to the core.
"Our penitentiaries are full of men who took big chances for small stakes. The real criminals—the big fellows—walk our streets unmolested. It isn't fair. Would it be more criminal to rob these big criminals systematically of their illgotten gains than for the big fellows to rob the masses under their camouflage of legitimate business, or under the purchased protection of the law?"
I rose to a sitting posture and looked my pal in the eye. He had evidently read the thoughts that had been passing through my brain for many days.
"It would not, Terry," I answered emphatically.
"Then why should we remain penniless puppets of circumstance?" Terry asked. His chin had advanced belligerently, and the tense lines of his rather boyish face indicated the tenseness of his thoughts. "We have brains, Hal, and—er—well, if robbing criminals is crime, why not be criminals?" he finished.
"All of which means, I infer," I replied, "that you propose we forsake the path of law and order to pit our wits against the rich criminals—rob them?"
"Exactly."
"You have voiced my own thoughts and inclinations to a whisper, Terry."
We shook hands and discussed our plans.
Four hours later we, Terrance Garlock and Haldine Steadman, were men with a purpose—a criminal purpose. We were criminals.
And what a life of crime we led!
IT REQUIRED TIME, caution, patience and money to perfect our organization; but in one year from the day Terry and I turned our brains to crime, the "Black Hawks" met in the basement of Mother Maldrene's resort for our first business session.
Twenty-three of America's shrewdest criminals were present. Among them were four women, including Marie Galtier. Marie was a native of France, though she had chosen America as a field for her criminal operations.
Terry and I had experienced great difficulty in persuading her to become a member of our organization. Many were the human vultures and money fiends of America who had gone down to defeat under beautiful Marie's smiles.
The first meeting of the Black Hawks was devoted to the drafting of the oath of allegiance and the by-laws. Next came the election of officers and a general dis-
