P. S. Destroy this letter.
The color had receded from Norvin's face when he looked up to meet the smoke-blue eyes of his friend.
"God!" he exclaimed. "This—looks bad, doesn't it?"
"You think it's on the level?"
"Don't you?"
Donnelly shrugged. "I'm blessed if I know. It may have come from the very gang I'm after. It strikes me that they wanted to get rid of Narcone, but didn't know just how to go about it, so used me for an instrument. Now they want to scare me off."
"But—he names the very place; the very hour."
"Sure—everything except the very dago who is to do the killing! If he knew where and when, why wouldn't he know how and who?"
"I—that sounds reasonable, and yet—you are not going to the Red Wing
Club any more, are you?"
"Why not? I've got until Thursday and—I like their coffee. Here is the other letter, by the way." Donnelly produced the first communication. The paper was identical and the type appeared to be the same. Beyond this Norvin could make out nothing.