In another second Nick vanished, too, and as he came out upon the steps in front of the club he spied Lamont flitting around the nearest corner.
“Let him go. The quarry will not be missed just yet,” smiled the detective, and then he went into a near café and in one of the private stalls opened the letter.
“Didn’t want this matter to come up just now,” he laughed, as he glanced down the page. “Well, I should think not.”
It did not take the man of many trails long to master the lost missive, and when he finished he read what follows:
“Mr. Claude Lamont: I send you this for the last time. I will not be put off another day, and you must take the consequences, if you have the hardihood to do it. You know what I know, and if you do not come down I will unseal my lips. You fly high, like a bird with golden plumage, but I’ll clip your feathers and bring you to prison if you don’t pay attention to this letter. When my lips are unsealed there’ll be the biggest sensation New York has ever had, and you know it. Don’t put me off another day. You know what this means. I’m master of the field, and I can wreck your every hope and blight your fashionable life.
“Imogene.”
Twice did the detective read this over, and every word seemed to engrave itself upon his mind.
Quietly he folded the letter and smiled.
Who was “Imogene”?
Looking for her would be like hunting for a needle in the gutters of Gotham.