“Probably he read it several hours ago and already has had his fit,” Verbeck said. “Had breakfast? Yes? You’re the original early bird, Muggs. Well, I’m famished!”
Verbeck bathed and dressed in record time, and hurried to the café in the basement, eager to eat and be gone before the regular luncheon crowd gathered to point him out and make remarks about his pursuit and capture of the Black Star.
No sooner had he seated himself at his favorite table than the waiter placed before his eyes an extra edition of one of the evening papers, damp from the press. Roger spread it open to find his own portrait gazing at him from the front page, and as he waited for his toast and eggs and coffee he read.
The Black Star had sent a letter to the evening paper also, but through the mail, with a special-delivery stamp affixed. Again the master criminal scoffed at the police, threatened some particularly daring crimes to demonstrate that he did not fear them, and then paid his respects to Roger Verbeck. A reproduction of the last paragraph of the Black Star’s letter was shown in the paper:
To All Whom It May Concern: There is war between myself and Roger Verbeck, who caused me considerable trouble the last few days. I hereby warn all persons not to give aid to this enemy of mine—to refuse him shelter, food, clothing, refuse to hold conversation with him, or have business dealings with him of any sort whatsoever. Against those who dare disobey this order I’ll strike—and strike hard.
*****
Roger smiled as he read that paragraph; he presumed it was one of the Black Star’s jokes—for he had discovered that the master rogue had a sense of humor. Certainly it could be nothing else. Roger Verbeck was the last of one of the city’s old families, a young man respected by all, with unlimited wealth at his command, possessing a myriad of acquaintances and legions of friends. This warning of the Black Star was very liable to fall upon deaf ears.
Still, it was embarrassing, and Roger found himself frowning because of the unpleasant publicity. That was one way the Black Star could fight him—by making him ridiculous through the newspapers; for it was certain that the papers would print any letters the Black Star sent them. Roger caught a vision of future days of horror, with every one pointing him out, joking him, making his life miserable. On the streets, at any of his clubs, wherever he met his friends, his name would be coupled with that of the Black Star. There would be but one escape—and that by capturing the master crook, turning the laugh on him, and so ending the affair.
Having breakfasted, Verbeck had Muggs get out the roadster, and they drove to police headquarters. The snowstorm was at an end, and the day was warm for March. But they failed to find the spirit of spring prevalent when police headquarters was reached.
A sleepy chief paced the floor of his private office, chewing at his inevitable black cigar. Detectives, plain-clothes men, and uniformed officers rushed in and out. Telephones rang.