*****
Roger Verbeck took the most of that epistle as a matter of course, but his eyes narrowed to two tiny slits when he read that “poor fool,” and his lips set in a straight line. That “poor fool” stung Roger Verbeck almost as much as the unpardonable phrase would have stung him.
He handed the Black Star’s letter to the waiting Muggs.
“We’ve fought some pretty good battles, Muggs, but nothing to what this is going to be,” he said. “On your toes, Muggs! Forget that hunch of yours! We don’t quit until I stand in court and hear a judge sentence the Black Star for his crimes, until I watch him pass in through the doors of a State prison. Think what he’s done, Muggs—of the decent persons he’s forced into his gang! This is going to be the hardest fight of our lives.”
“My coat’s off, boss, and my sleeves rolled up!”
“Good! We’ll fight alone, if we can. There is no one we can trust. Police officers, persons we meet every day, our acquaintances, even our friends, may be in his organization—and he’ll soon get it working again. But we can trust each other, Muggs.”
“You said something there, boss! You bet we can!”
[CHAPTER XVI—A NOCTURNAL VISIT]
Verbeck opened his eyes at eleven o’clock that morning after a dreamless, refreshing sleep to find Muggs standing at the foot of his bed, fully dressed, grinning, the morning newspapers in his hands.
“They’ve got it all, boss,” he reported. “That Black Star sent letters to the papers last night by special messengers, and from a downtown hotel. Whaddaya think of his nerve? Here it is—story of the whole thing, givin’ us a lot of credit and makin’ fun of the police for lettin’ the crook escape. I’ll bet that fat chief has a fit when he reads this!”