"At least I'm informed that he is. I received a letter some time ago containing most of the information you've just given me, and stating that there are extradition papers for him in New York. The letter says that some of his old gang have confessed to their part in the murder and have implicated Narcone so strongly that he will hang if they can get him back to Sicily."
"I believe that. But who is your informant?"
"I don't know. The letter is anonymous."
A sudden wild hope sprang up in Blake's mind. He dared not trust it, yet it clamored for credence.
"Was it written by a—woman?" he queried, tensely.
"No; at least I don't think so. It was written on one of these new-fangled typewriting machines. I left it at the office, or you could judge for yourself."
"If it is typewritten, how do you know whether—"
"I tell you I don't know. But I can guess pretty closely. It was one of the Pallozzo gang. This Narcone—he calls himself Vito Sabella, by the way—is a leader of the Quatrones. The two factions have been at war lately and some member of the Pallozzo outfit has turned him up."
The light died out of Norvin's face, his body relaxed. He had followed so many clues, his quest had been so long and fruitless, that he met disappointment half-way.
Up to this moment Bernie Dreux had listened without a word or movement, but now he stirred and inquired, hesitatingly: