One of them bore in a temperamental, feminine hand only three letters of a word, but they were illuminating: "lov." Odell smiled as he replaced it in his pocket; but his expression changed when he glanced at the others. The writing upon them was all in a bold, dashing, masculine hand, and two of the scraps fitted together read: "whole family in hell before."
Odell frowned thoughtfully and drew from his left coat-pocket one of the letters which he had taken from the center drawer in the desk. It was in the same strongly accentuated writing, and read without preamble:
"Where do you think you get off, Gene? You are in too deep to back out now, as I meant you should be. Your mother's went through without a hitch and the next one will if you only keep your nerve. It's got to be done by the sixth or you know where the first one will send you. I mean business, my boy.
"Farley Drew."
Barry Odell folded the letter slowly and replaced it in its envelope. To-day was the fourteenth, and Julian Chalmers had come to his death just eight days before—on the sixth!
