“Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to see the flight.” “He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and had his breakfast sent down this morning.” “He'll break his neck yet,” Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda. Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature outward and upward. She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air. Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like grounds. “Beautiful, beautiful,” Peter Winn murmured. “I almost wish I had her back.” But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident. Three nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up. It was not a heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself was ruined. Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, and there was a deal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the morning half a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn. “It's come!” the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and his eyes bulging behind their glasses. “What has come?” Peter demanded. “It--the--the loo-loo bird.” Then the financier understood. “Have you gone over the mail yet?” “I was just going over it, sir.” “Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier.” The letter came to light. It read: Mr. Peter Winn, HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, your shack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully, am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Put five one thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feed her. Dont try to follow bird. She is wise to the way now and makes better time. If you dont come through, watch out. Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no message for the pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot. Her previous flight having been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon was commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water. But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted before the shore was reached. Then the mistake was made of putting too little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and started eastward across San Francisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the island.