Pellegrino, who had lain concealed behind the drapery, sprang into the room with drawn revolver, covered the intruder, handcuffed him and immediately communicated with the street by signal from a window. Other detectives broke into the hallway, seized the first emissary who was waiting there. On the near-by corner, Sergeant Fiaschetti and others of his staff clapped the wristlets on the arm of Antonio Marino and James Ruggieri, his stepson. A few moments later Santo Cusamano was dragged from the bakeshop where he worked. Five of the gang were in the toils and five more were seized before the night was over. Cusamano and the first messenger, who turned out to be Roberto Raffaelo, made admissions which were later shown in court as confessions. All the prisoners were locked into separate and distant cells in the Tombs, and the search for Joe Varotta was begun. Sergeant Fiaschetti, amply fortified by the correctness of his surmises, took the position that the child was not far away and would be released within a few hours now that the members of the gang were in custody. Here, however, the shrewd detective counted without a full consideration of the desperateness and deadliness of the amateur criminal, characteristics that have repeatedly upset and baffled those who know crime professionally and are conversant with the habits and conduct of experienced offenders. There can be no doubt that professionals would, in this situation, have released the boy and sent him home, though the Ross case furnishes a fearful exception. The whole logic of the situation was on this side of the scale. Once the boy was safely at home, his parents would probably have lost interest in the prosecution, and the police, busy with many graver matters, would probably have been content with convicting the actual messengers, the only ones against whom there was direct evidence. These men might have expected moderate terms of imprisonment and the whole affair would have been soon forgotten. But Little Joe was not released. The days dragged by, while the men in the Tombs were questioned, threatened, cajoled and besought. One and all they pretended to know nothing of the whereabouts of Joe Varotta. More than a week went by while the parents of the child grew more and more hysterical and finally gave up all but their prayers, convinced that only divine intervention could avail them. Was little Joe alive or dead? They did not know. They had asked the good St. Anthony’s aid and probably he would give them his answer soon. At seven o’clock on the morning of July eleventh, John Derahica, a Polish laborer, went down to the beach near Piermont, a settlement just below Nyack, in quest of driftwood. The tide was low in the Hudson, and Derahica had no trouble reaching the end of a small pier which extended out into the stream at this point. Just beyond, in about three feet of water, he found the body of a little boy, caught hold of the loose clothing with a stick, and brought it out.