"At once,
Master Jim."
Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver, returned to the street, and seated
himself in his car. How long would it take them to get here? Half an
hour? Well then, for half an hour his hands were tied, and he could do
nothing but wait. He glanced around him. It was curious! It was here in
this very place that he had once found a letter from her in his car; it
was even here that, without knowing it at the moment, he had really seen
her for the first time. And now--what did it hold, this letter, this
"call to arms" that he sat here waiting for, while out there in that
little town a man lay dead on the floor of his room, and around whom,
where there had once been the evidence of a coward's guilt, crowned with
the sorriest epitaph that ever man had written, there was now the
evidence of a still blacker crime--the crime of murder.
He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could it be _that_--in her
letter! Intuition again? Well, why not--if old Kronische should answer
the question as the chances were one in ten that old Kronische might
answer it! Yes--why not! It would not be strange. Intuition--because
somehow the feeling that it _was_ so grew stronger with each moment that
passed--well, once before to-night he had said that intuition had never
failed him yet!
The minutes dragged by interminably.
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