A strange motto on that crest--that seemed so strangely apt! The Tocsin! Never once in all the times that he had heard from her, never once in the years that had gone since that initial letter of hers had struck its first warning note, had any communication from her been but to sound again a new alarm--the Toscin! The Tocsin--the word seemed to visualise her, to give her a concrete form and being, to breathe her very personality.
"The Tocsin!"-- Jimmie Dale whispered the word softly, a little wistfully.

"Yes; I shall call you that--the Tocsin!" He folded the glove very carefully, placed it with the ring in his pocketbook, picked up the letter--and, with a sharp exclamation, turned it quickly over in his fingers, then bent hurriedly with it to the light.
Strange things were happening that night! For the first time, the letter was not even SEALED! That was not like her, either! What did it mean?
Quick, alert now, anxious even, he pulled the double, folded sheets from the envelope, glanced rapidly through them--and, after a moment, a smile, whimsical, came slowly to his lips.
It was quite plain now--all of it.

The glove, the ring, and the unsealed letter--and the postscript held the secret; or, rather, what had been intended for a postscript did, for it comprised only a few words, ending abruptly, unfinished: "Look in the cupboard at the rear of the room.

The man with the red wig is--" That was all, and the words, written in ink, were badly blurred, as though the paper had been hastily folded before the ink was dry.
It was quite plain; and, in view of the real explanation of it all, eminently characteristic of her.

With the letter already written, she had come there, meaning to place it on the seat and cover it with the rug, as, indeed, she had done; then, deciding to add the postscript, and because she would attract less attention that way than in any other, she had climbed into the car as though it belonged to her, and had seated herself there to write it.