"Go on," she said quietly.
"I have been attending to my correspondence, Miss Storm," he continued in the same facetious way. "Here is something that may amuse you." He handed her an envelope on which she read, in large, black letters of uneven size, cut from a printed page, the name in all the world that she dreaded most:
SCotLAnd yARd
LOnDoN
"Not such a wonderful job of pasting, Miss Storm, but I guess it will get there."
With a great effort she fought back her weakness, her terror, and asked quietly. "What is it you—you want?"
"Ah!" he smiled, and his gold tooth gleamed. "You have a logical mind. You came straight to the point. What do I want?" He poured some whiskey into the glass and gulped it down. "What do you think I want? If you'll run your beautiful dark eyes over the letter inside that envelope you may get an idea of what I want, friend Hester."
She lifted the flap of the envelope and was about to draw forth the letter when he leaned forward and added, with a queer, twisted smile, "and please get one thing into your head, little lady: it ain't a question of what I want, but of what I'm going to have. Now read it."
With a sickening sense of helplessness Hester opened the sheet and read the following message, also made up of ill-assorted words and letters cut from a newspaper:
"SCOTLAND YARD,
"LONDON.
"If you want a line on the party who stole five thousand pounds from the bishop of Bunchester, you can get it by sending a man to Ipping House, Ippingford, Surrey."