sir."

"Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our
mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier."

The letter came to light. It read:

Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through,
your shack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully,
am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one
thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to
follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you
dont come through, watch out.

Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the
pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their
advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight
having been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon
was commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water.

But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted
before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too
little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and
started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel
Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the
island.

That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there was no
explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone
that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned to the ground.

Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in
what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also came another letter:

Mr. Peter Winn, RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house.
You have raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up all the
time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. You sure cant
follow her, and its cruelty to animals.

Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. The detectives
were powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would
strike--perhaps at the lives of those near and dear to him. He even
telephoned to San Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large
denomination. But Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the
same firm-set jaw as his fathers, and the same knitted, brooding
determination in his eyes. He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a
secret terror and delight to the financier, who alternated between pride
in his son's aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely and terrible e