the grand jury, and the law. But, so far, whoever struck the blow
had escaped punishment, and though for a month, ceaselessly, by
night and day "the office" and the police had sought him, he was
still at large, still "unknown." There had been hundreds of clews.
They had been furnished by the detectives of the city and county
and of the private agencies, by amateurs, by news- papers, by
members of the underworld with a score to pay off or to gain favor.
But no clew had led anywhere. When, in hoarse whispers, the last
one had been confided to him by his detectives, Wharton had
protested indignantly.

"Stop bringing me clews!" he exclaimed. "I want the man. I can't
electrocute a clew!"

So when, after all other efforts, over the telephone a strange
voice offered to deliver the murderer, Rumson was skeptical. He
motioned the girl to switch to the desk telephone.

"Assistant District Attorney Rumson speaking," he said. "What can
I do for you?"'

Before the answer came, as though the speaker were choosing his
words, there was a pause. It lasted so long that Rumson exclaimed
sharply:

"Hello," he called. "Do you want to speak to me, or do you want to
speak to me?"

"I've gotta letter for the district attorney," said the voice. "I'm
to give it to nobody but him. It's about Banf. He must get it