"You've got the policeman's eye," declared Donnelly with enthusiasm. "I wanted you to pick him out by yourself. We'll go, now, as soon as we lap up this dago vinegar."
Out in the street again, Blake heaved a sigh of relief, for even this little harmless adventure had been a trial to his unruly nerves.
"We'll drift past the Red Wing Club; it's a hang-out of mine and I want to talk further with you," said Donnelly.
They turned back towards the heart of the city, stopping a moment while the Chief directed O'Connell to keep a close watch upon Narcone.
The Red Wing Club was not really a club at all, but a small restaurant which had become known for certain of its culinary specialties and had gathered to itself a somewhat select clientele of bons vivants, who dined there after the leisurely continental fashion. Thither the two men betook themselves.
"I can't see what real good those extradition papers are going to do you, even now that you're sure of your man," said Norvin as soon as they were seated. "It won't be difficult to arrest him, but to extradite him will prove quite another matter. I'm not eager myself to take the stand against him, for obvious reasons." Donnelly nodded his appreciation. "I will do so, if necessary, of course, but my evidence won't counterbalance all the testimony Sabella will be able to bring. We know he's the man; his friends know it, but they'll unite to swear he is really Vito Sabella, a gentle, sweet soul whom they knew in Sicily, and they'll prove he was here in America at the time Martel Savigno was murdered. If we had him in New York, away from his friends, it would be different; he'd go back to Sicily, and once there he'd hang, as he deserves."
Donnelly swore under his breath. "It's the thing I run foul of every time I try to enforce the law against these people. But just the same I'm going to get this fellow, somehow, for he's one of the gang that fired into the Pallozzos and killed Tony Alto. That's another thing I know but can't prove. What made you ask if that letter was written by a woman? Has Sabella a sweetheart?"
"Not to my knowledge. I—" Norvin hesitated. "No, Sabella has no sweetheart, but Savigno had. I haven't told you much of that part of my story. It's no use my trying to give you an idea of what kind of woman the Countess of Terranova was, or is—you wouldn't understand. It's enough to say that she is a woman of extraordinary character, wholly devoted to Martel's memory, and Sicilian to the backbone. After her lover's death, when the police had failed, she swore to be avenged upon his murderers. I know it sounds strange, but it didn't seem so strange to me then. I tried to reason with her, but it was a waste of breath. When I returned to Sicily after my mother died, Margherita—the Countess—had disappeared. I tried every means to find her—you know, Martel left her, in a way, under my care—but I couldn't locate her in any Italian city. Then I learned that she had come to the United States and took up the search on this side. It's a long story; the gist of it is simply that I looked up every possibility, and finally gave up in despair. That was more than four years ago. I have no idea that all this has any connection with our present problem."
Donnelly listened with interest, and for a time plied Blake with shrewd questions, but at length the subject seemed to lose its importance in his mind.
"It's a queer coincidence," he said. "But the letter was mailed in this city and by some one familiar with Narcone's movements up to date. If your Countess was here you'd surely know it. This isn't New York. Besides, women don't make good detectives; they get discouraged. I dare say she went back to Italy long ago and is married now, with a dozen or more little counts and countesses around her."