She left the hospital to board a street car. At her cottage she dug deep into an ancient Italian trunk. From its depths she extracted a single square of cardboard. At the center of the card was a name; in one corner an address, in another, done in red ink with a pen, was a number; that was all.
With this card in her hand, she marched to Drew’s shack and knocked.
No answer. She pushed the door open. No one there.
She returned to her cottage. There, for a full half hour, she sat in silent meditation. At the end of that time she spoke aloud to the empty room:
“Yes, I will do it. If it is the last thing I do, that I will do!
“They have killed my husband, who was a good man. Now they shoot my Rosy, who is a good girl. Yes, I will do it!”
With the air of one who has formed a purpose from which she will not deviate, she thrust the card within the folds of her dress.
The card was a secret token. The number on that card was a password. It belonged to the underworld. It admitted one to secret places. How had the Ramacciottis come into possession of this card? Who can say? When people speak a common language in a foreign land, strange things will happen. It was enough that she had the card. She meant to use it; had purposed to deliver it to Drew. Drew was not there. Very well. She could wait.
* * * * * * * *
Newspaper reports of the bold attack, of the ruthless shooting, roused the usually apathetic public. Two thousand dollars in rewards were offered. A thousand humble men in all walks of life became, overnight, zealous detectives.