At 4 o'clock one April morning a tall, square-jawed man sat hunched over a table in his Winchester, Mass. home, writing a note. "Howard W. Lang," it read. "You told me that you would keep after me until you got me. Now you can take full credit for my death."
The pen scratched to a halt. The man lifted his pen again, boldly signed his name: Bowen Tufts. He slipped the note into his pocket.
Outside it was still pitch dark. Bowen Tufts slipped into his overcoat, put on his hat, stepped out of doors. He walked across the lawn and entered the...
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