The door opened. A rough-clad man entered. He was heavy-set, and would have passed for a native of the district.
A close observer might have detected that he was a man from Manhattan.
“We’ll have dinner in a few minutes,” said Jerry. “Here’s a letter I picked up to-day.”
The old man looked at the envelope. It was addressed to J. Stevens, care of general delivery in a town some miles away.
“From Bronson,” he said. “All right, Jerry, you may leave.”
He opened the letter. As he read it, his face paled momentarily; then it reddened, became grim, and settled. Finally the old man laughed, sneeringly.
Birdie Crull wondered at his varied emotions. Usually the old man was impassive.
“We are all playing with dynamite,” said the old man. “This proves it. It concerns you, as well as myself, Crull.
“There is only one being who has ever annihilated my plans. Only one who has ever defeated Isaac Coffran. He is—”
The old man hesitated before pronouncing the name. Birdie Crull listened tensely.