"Certainly, sair," and the proprietor rattled off a string of dishes from which the boy made a copious selection, for he was hungry. But he noticed that the man who had been sitting at the table had not left the place but was furtively watching, a few steps away. He was an ugly-looking customer, and Hamilton, full of grit as he was, felt uneasy. Casting his eye down to where he had laid his book, he noticed the piece of paper sticking from beneath it, and noticed moreover, a heavy shadow as though there were a drawing on the other side. His pulse beat a little faster as an idea came into his mind, but he showed no sign until the proprietor returned to set the table. "I think," he said, watching the stranger carefully as he spoke, "that gentleman left a paper behind him. Ask him." The proprietor, looking much puzzled, put a question in Italian, to which was evidently returned a sharp denial. Still watching him, Hamilton slowly reached out his hand for the paper which lay on the table, only half-hidden by the book, and turning it over laid it flat upon the white cloth. It was the Black Hand. [Illustration: FESTA IN THE ITALIAN QUARTER. Boys in Little Italy, New York, preparing for one of the many characteristic holidays. (_Brown Bros._)] CHAPTER X RIOTS AROUND A CITY SCHOOL There was a moment's utter silence. The bright little restaurant had suddenly become charged with mystery, the slinking stranger seemed to have become in a moment allied to secret powers of evil, and the whole atmosphere seemed baneful in the sinister significance of that drawing on the table. A glance at the restaurant-keeper dispelled all question of complicity. His jaw had fallen, his face was ashen, his lips bluish. The other saw his advantage in the terror the mere display had excited, and stepping forward, he reached out his hand to pick up the paper, saying in English: "Mine!" Before the Italian had time to grasp the sketch, Hamilton quietly took it and folded it in half. "I wouldn't be so ready to claim it, if I were you," he said, knowing that the other might not understand the words but could tell the tone. "What are you going to do?" queried the restaurant-keeper in a hoarse whisper. "They will kill-a me!" Hamilton thought hard for a moment or two. In the first place the matter had nothing to do with the Census Bureau, and the boy felt that while he was on duty in that work and wearing the census badge he was not a private citizen. Again, it was not a crime to draw a hand on a piece of paper, and the space obviously left for the blackmail message had not been filled in, and thirdly he could not swear that he saw him draw the hand; he only saw the paper in the man's possession. "Tell him," he said to the restaurant-keeper, "that I shall say nothing about it, that I am not a policeman, nor a spy; tell him that so far as I am concerned I do not know that he had anything to do with it, and return him the paper."