caused no apprehension; but as early afternoon came and
there was still no sign of Roessle the mill management took alarm.
Discovering that he had left the bank for the return journey at a few
minutes before eleven, and that nothing had been seen of him at his
home, the police were notified. Followed then several hours of fruitless
search, until finally, with the whole countryside aroused and the
efforts of the police augumented by private search parties, the car was
found in a thicket at the edge of a crossroad some four miles back from
the river, and, a little way from the car, the body of Roessle, dead,
the man's head crushed in where it had been fiendishly battered by some
blunt, heavy object. 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. Life and death lay in that white,
innocent-looking, unaddressed envelope, danger, peril--it was always
life and death, for those were the stakes for which the Tocsin played.
But, master of many things, Jimmie Dale was most of all master of
himself. Not a muscle of his face moved. He reached nonchalantly for the
letter.

"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale.

The man bowed and started away. Jimmie Dale laid the envelope on the
arm of the lounging chair. The man had reached the door when Jimmie Dale
stopped him.

"Oh, by the way," said Jimmie Dale languidly, "where did this come
from?"