A cold shiver passed through Laverick's veins at the thought.
Somewhere in London there must be a man thirsting for his blood, a man who had committed a murder in vain and been robbed of his spoil.
Laverick had no engagements for that evening, but instead of going to his club he drove straight to his rooms, meaning to change a little early for dinner and go to a theatre, lie found there, however, a small boy waiting for him with a note in his hand.

It was addressed in pencil only, and his name was printed upon it.
Laverick tore it open with a haste which he only imperfectly concealed.

There was something ominous to him in those printed characters.

Its contents, however, were short enough.
DEAR LAVERICK, I must see you.

Come the moment you get this.