“Second letter,” continued Drew, “is addressed to Albert Jones, General Delivery, New York Post Office. It is from Ossining. It is signed Mortimer Morphy. How careless,” said the detective, rising in his excitement. “How very careless! It goes on to say that everything is all right. That the appeal is pending with the governor. That uncle Monty was expected to die and that aunt Lou was very low.”
Drew paused and glanced toward Loris and Nichols. “You know what that means?” he asked. “Uncle Monty was Mr. Montgomery Stockbridge and aunt Lou would figure out for you, Miss Stockbridge. Keep this, Delaney. We’re going to convict this man right here—whether he talks or not. This letter was written to him two months ago. It shows premeditation.”
“He looks ill,” said Loris. “His face is so white.”
“Dope!” snapped Drew, pressing down the prisoner’s right eyelid and glancing at the pupil. “A narcotic of some kind shows in the small iris. It’s like a pin head. Yen she, eh, Delaney?”
“Guess it is, Chief. Frisk his cap and belt. They carry it there, sometimes.”
Drew started at the prisoner’s hair and went over his entire body with careful fingers. A bulge, at the waist, resolved itself into a chamois money-belt which contained five cartridges, a small handful of electric fuses and a spool of fine wire.
Drew eyed this last with furrowed brow. He pocketed it finally and studied the cartridges.
“Twenty-two, cupronickle, center-fire,” he announced with a hard smile. “That forges another chain. We’re getting there. He was loaded for something, Delaney.”
“Sure and he was. Look at those handcuffs, Chief. I made them tight as I could.”
Drew handed up the cartridges and fuses and rattled the cuffs. The prisoner protested by turning partly over. His eyelids fluttered and opened full upon Loris. She shrank back between the curtains. Her hands went up to her face in voiceless fear. “Please keep away,” said Drew. “This man is always dangerous. I want to trim his claws before I take any chances with him. Delaney,” he added, “get my overcoat and bring me those plaster-casts. This case grows interesting. I wonder who the fellow is? ‘Albert Jones’ doesn’t convey much. He is a friend and tool of Morphy. Poor Morphy! I wonder what he’ll say when the governor gets this evidence? He’s buried now for twenty long years of penal service. He picked a good tool, though. A smart man!”