There was no clew--no one could be found who had seen the car on the crossroad--the murderer, or murderers, and the twenty-odd thousand dollars in cash had disappeared leaving no trace behind.
There were several columns of this, which Jimmie Dale skimmed through quickly; but at the end he stared for a long time at the last paragraph.
Somehow, strange, to relate, the paper had neglected to turn its "sob" artist loose, and the few words, added almost as though they were an afterthought, for once rang true and full of pathos in their very simplicity--at the Roessle home, where Mrs.Roessle was prostrated, two little tots of five and seven, too young to understand, had gravely received the reporter and told him that some bad man had hurt their daddy.
"Mr.Dale, sir!" Jimmie Dale lowered his paper.

A club attendant was standing before him, respectfully extending a silver card tray.

From the man, Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed on a white envelope on the tray.

One glance was enough--it was HERS, that letter.

The Tocsin again! His brain seemed suddenly to be afire, and he could feel his pulse quicken, the blood begin to pound in fierce throbs at his heart.