It was too amazing, almost beyond belief--the series of crimes, rampant for the past few weeks, at which the community had stood aghast, the brutal murder of Roessle but a few hours old, lay bare before his eyes.

It was all there, all of it, the details, the hellish cleverness, the personnel even of the thugs, all, everything--except the proof.
"Get him, Jimmie--the man higher up.

Get him, Jimmie--before another pays forfeit with his life"-- the words seemed to leap out at him from the white page in red, dancing lines--"Get him--Jimmie--the man higher up." Jimmie Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it again for the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments.

His fingers delved into the box again, and the transformation of Jimmie Dale, member of New York's most exclusive social set, into a low, vicious-featured denizen of the underworld went on--a little wax applied skilfully behind the ears, in the nostrils and under the upper lip.
It was all there--all except the proof.

And the proof--he laughed aloud suddenly, unpleasantly.