cursed.  So then, if you like to see me, you come and take me.  You spoke to me about work thither, but I don’t understand about that work which you say, and then what will I do because here I have work, therefore, if you think I can come and work with you let me know because I have the address.  But if you want to do better you come and take me. Dear Brother, I remind you about our mother, because I don’t earn enough money, which she is your mother also.  DEAR BROTHER, I hope you did not forget our mother.  Dear Brother, let me know the names of your children, and I kiss them.  Many regards to your wife and Aunt.  I beg you to write to me.  Dear regards, your brother, Antonio Torsielli.  When you answer send the answer to the address below, Antonio Strollo.

Strollo made no attempt to explain the possession of this letter, which, if sent at all would naturally have come into the possession of the addressee.

“And what was Vito’s address at Yonkers?” inquired Petrosini.

“1570 Yonkers,” answered Strollo.

“Is that the street number of a house or a post-office number?” asked the detective.

“Neither,” said Strollo.  “Just 1570 Yonkers.”

Thus the infamy of this villain was made manifest.  He had invented out of his own brain the existence of Vito Torsielli in Yonkers, and had himself written the letters to Antonio which purported to come from him.  He had used the simple fellow’s love for his long-lost brother as the means to lure him to his destruction, and brutally murdered him for the sake of the few dollars which his innocent victim had worked so hard to earn to reunite him to his mother and his betrothed.

The wounds in Strollo’s hand and knee were found to correspond in shape and character with the thirty-six wounds in Torsielli’s body, and the mushroom digger unhesitatingly identified him as the man in the company of the deceased upon the afternoon of the murder.

It almost seemed like the finger of Providence indicating the assassin when the last necessary piece of evidence in this extraordinary case was discovered.  Petrosini had hurried to Lambertville immediately upon the discovery of the letter and visited the post-office.

A young lady named Miss Olive Phillips had been employed there as a clerk for twelve years, and had lately had charge of what are known as the “call boxes”—­that is to say, of boxes to which no keys are issued, but for the contents of which the lessees have to ask at the delivery window.  These are very inexpensive and in use generally by the Italian population of Lambertville, who are accustomed to rent them in common—­one box to three or four families.  She had noticed Strollo when he had come for his mail on account of his flashy dress and debonair demeanor.  Strollo’s box, she said, was No. 420.  Petrosini showed her the envelope of the letter found in Strollo’s pocket.  The stamp indicated that it had been