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diff --git a/1218-0.txt b/1218-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..686eedf --- /dev/null +++ b/1218-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17135 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1218 *** + +THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE + +by Frank L. Packard + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE + + +I. THE GRAY SEAL + +II. BY PROXY + +III. THE MOTHER LODE + +IV. THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE + +V. THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN + +VI. DEVIL'S WORK + +VII. THE THIEF + +VIII. THE MAN HIGHER UP + +IX. TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE + +X. THE ALIBI + +XI. THE STOOL-PIGEON + + + +PART TWO: THE WOMAN IN THE CASE + + +I. BELOW THE DEAD LINE + +II. THE CALL TO ARMS + +III. THE CRIME CLUB + +IV. THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER + +V. ON GUARD + +VI. THE TRAP + +VII. THE “HOUR” + +VIII. THE TOCSIN + +IX. THE TOCSIN'S STORY + +X. SILVER MAG + +XI. THE MAGPIE + +XII. JOHN JOHANSSON--FOUR-TWO-EIGHT + +XIII. THE ONLY WAY + +XIV. OUT OF THE DARKNESS + +XV. RETRIBUTION + +XVI. “DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” + + + + + +PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE GRAY SEAL + + +Among New York's fashionable and ultra-exclusive clubs, the St. James +stood an acknowledged leader--more men, perhaps, cast an envious eye at +its portals, of modest and unassuming taste, as they passed by on Fifth +Avenue, than they did at any other club upon the long list that the city +boasts. True, there were more expensive clubs upon whose membership roll +scintillated more stars of New York's social set, but the St. James was +distinctive. It guaranteed a man, so to speak--that is, it guaranteed a +man to be innately a gentleman. It required money, it is true, to keep +up one's membership, but there were many members who were not wealthy, +as wealth is measured nowadays--there were many, even, who were pressed +sometimes to meet their dues and their house accounts, but the accounts +were invariably promptly paid. No man, once in, could ever afford, or +ever had the desire, to resign from the St. James Club. Its membership +was cosmopolitan; men of every walk in life passed in and out of +its doors, professional men and business men, physicians, artists, +merchants, authors, engineers, each stamped with the “hall mark” of +the St. James, an innate gentleman. To receive a two weeks' out-of-town +visitor's card to the St. James was something to speak about, and men +from Chicago, St. Louis, or San Francisco spoke of it with a sort of +holier-than-thou air to fellow members of their own exclusive clubs, at +home again. + +Is there any doubt that Jimmie Dale was a gentleman--an INNATE +gentleman? Jimmie Dale's father had been a member of the St. James +Club, and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the United States, a +prosperous, wealthy man, and at Jimmie Dale's birth he had proposed his +son's name for membership. It took some time to get into the St. James; +there was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pull +could alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their sons' names for +membership when they were born as religiously as they entered them upon +the city's birth register. At twenty-one Jimmie Dale was elected to +membership; and, incidentally, that same year, graduated from Harvard. +It was Mr. Dale's desire that his son should enter the business and +learn it from the ground up, and Jimmie Dale, for four years thereafter, +had followed his father's wishes. Then his father died. Jimmie Dale had +leanings toward more artistic pursuits than business. He was credited +with sketching a little, writing a little; and he was credited with +having received a very snug amount from the combine to which he sold out +his safe-manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life--his mother +had been dead many years--in the house that his father had left him on +Riverside Drive, kept a car or two and enough servants to run his +menage smoothly, and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitably +inclined. + +Could there be any doubt that Jimmie Dale was innately a gentleman? + +It was evening, and Jimmie Dale sat at a small table in the corner of +the St. James Club dining room. Opposite him sat Herman Carruthers, +a young man of his own age, about twenty-six, a leading figure in the +newspaper world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor of the +morning NEWS-ARGUS within the short space of a few years had been almost +meteoric. + +They were at coffee and cigars, and Jimmie Dale was leaning back in his +chair, his dark eyes fixed interestedly on his guest. + +Carruthers, intently engaged in trimming his cigar ash on the edge of +the Limoges china saucer of his coffee set, looked up with an abrupt +laugh. + +“No; I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime,” he +said whimsically; “that would never do. But I don't mind admitting quite +privately that it's been a positive regret to me that he has gone.” + +“Made too good 'copy' to lose, I suppose?” suggested Jimmie Dale +quizzically. “Too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like that +for him--the Gray Seal--rather unique! Who stuck that on him--you?” + +Carruthers laughed--then, grown serious, leaned toward Jimmie Dale. + +“You don't mean to say, Jimmie, that you don't know about that, do you?” + he asked incredulously. “Why, up to a year ago the papers were full of +him.” + +“I never read your beastly agony columns,” said Jimmie Dale, with a +cheery grin. + +“Well,” said Carruthers, “you must have skipped everything but the stock +reports then.” + +“Granted,” said Jimmie Dale. “So go on, Carruthers, and tell me about +him--I dare say I may have heard of him, since you are so distressed +about it, but my memory isn't good enough to contradict anything you may +have to say about the estimable gentleman, so you're safe.” + +Carruthers reverted to the Limoges saucer and the tip of his cigar. + +“He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals +of crime,” said Carruthers reminiscently, after a moment's silence. +“Jimmie, he was the king-pin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him, +or dare-devil isn't either. I used to think sometimes his motive was +more than half for the pure deviltry of it, to laugh at the police and +pull the noses of the rest of us that were after him. I used to dream +nights about those confounded gray seals of his--that's where he got +his name; he left every job he ever did with a little gray paper affair, +fashioned diamond-shaped, stuck somewhere where it would be the first +thing your eyes would light upon when you reached the scene, and--” + +“Don't go so fast,” smiled Jimmie Dale. “I don't quite get the +connection. What did you have to do with this--er--Gray Seal fellow? +Where do you come in?” + +“I? I had a good deal to do with him,” said Carruthers grimly. “I was a +reporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, after +I began really to appreciate what he was, was to get him--and I nearly +did, half a dozen times, only--” + +“Only you never quite did, eh?” cut in Jimmie Dale slyly. “How near did +you get, old man? Come on, now, no bluffing; did the Gray Seal ever even +recognise you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game?” + +“You're flicking on the raw, Jimmie,” Carruthers answered, with a wry +grimace. “He knew me, all right, confound him! He favoured me with +several sarcastic notes--I'll show 'em to you some day--explaining +how I'd fallen down and how I could have got him if I'd done something +else.” Carruthers' fist came suddenly down on the table. “And I would +have got him, too, if he had lived.” + +“Lived!” ejaculated Jimmie Dale. “He's dead, then?” + +“Yes,” averted Carruthers; “he's dead.” + +“H'm!” said Jimmie Dale facetiously. “I hope the size of the wreath you +sent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation.” + +“I never sent any wreath,” returned Carruthers, “for the very simple +reason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said he +was dead because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger.” + +“Rotten poor evidence, even for a newspaper,” commented Jimmie Dale. +“Why not give him credit for having, say--reformed?” + +Carruthers shook his head. “You don't get it at all, Jimmie,” he said +earnestly. “The Gray Seal wasn't an ordinary crook--he was a classic. +He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man like +that could no more stop than he could stop breathing--and live. He's +dead; there's nothing to it but that--he's dead. I'd bet a year's salary +on it.” + +“Another good man gone wrong, then,” said Jimmie Dale capriciously. “I +suppose, though, that at least you discovered the 'woman in the case'?” + +Carruthers looked up quickly, a little startled; then laughed shortly. + +“What's the matter?” inquired Jimmie Dale. + +“Nothing,” said Carruthers. “You kind of got me for a moment, that's +all. That's the way those infernal notes from the Gray Seal used to +end up: 'Find the lady, old chap; and you'll get me.' He had a damned +patronising familiarity that would make you squirm.” + +“Poor old Carruthers!” grinned Jimmie Dale. “You did take it to heart, +didn't you?” + +“I'd have sold my soul to get him--and so would you, if you had been in +my boots,” said Carruthers, biting nervously at the end of his cigar. + +“And been sorry for it afterward,” supplied Jimmie Dale. + +“Yes, by Jove, you're right!” admitted Carruthers, “I suppose I should. +I actually got to love the fellow--it was the GAME, really, that I +wanted to beat.” + +“Well, and how about this woman? Keep on the straight and narrow path, +old man,” prodded Jimmie Dale. + +“The woman?” Carruthers smiled. “Nothing doing! I don't believe there +was one--he wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters on +to finding her if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course. +He worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success, +according to my way of thinking. There was never so much as an +indication that he had had an accomplice in anything he ever did.” + +Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled around the club's homelike, perfectly +appointed room. He nodded to a fellow member here and there, then his +eyes rested musingly on his guest again. + +Carruthers was staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup. + +“He was the prince of crooks and the father of originality,” announced +Carruthers abruptly, following the pause that had ensued. “Half the time +there wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things he +did, than there was getting at the Gray Seal himself.” + +“Carruthers,” said Jimmy Dale, with a quick little nod of approval, +“you're positively interesting to-night. But, so far, you've been kind +of scouting around the outside edges without getting into the thick of +it. Let's have some of your experiences with the Gray Seal in detail; +they ought to make ripping fine yarns.” + +“Not to-night, Jimmie,” said Carruthers; “it would take too long.” He +pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it--and pushed +back his chair. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “It's nearly half-past +nine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have to +hurry; we're a morning paper, you know, Jimmie.” + +“What! Really! Is it as late as that.” Jimmie Dale rose from his chair +as Carruthers stood up. “Well, if you must--” + +“I must,” said Carruthers, with a laugh. + +“All right, O slave.” Jimmie Dale laughed back--and slipped his hand, +a trick of their old college days together, through Carruthers' arm as +they left the room. + +He accompanied Carruthers downstairs to the door of the club, and saw +his guest into a taxi; then he returned inside, sauntered through the +billiard room, and from there into one of the cardrooms, where, pressed +into a game, he played several rubbers of bridge before going home. + +It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Jimmie Dale arrived at +his house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant. + +“Hello, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “You still up!” + +“Yes, sir,” replied Jason, who had been valet to Jimmie Dale's father +before him. “I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a +messenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, +and--” + +“Jason”--Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sudden, quick, +imperative--“what did she look like?” + +“Why--why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir,” stammered +Jason, taken aback. “Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance, +and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face.” + +“Hair and eyes--what color?” demanded Jimmie Dale crisply. “Nose, lips, +chin--what shape?” + +“Why, sir,” gasped Jason, staring at his master, “I--I don't rightly +know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take +particular notice, and it wasn't overlight outside the door.” + +“It's too bad you weren't a younger man, Jason,” commented Jimmie Dale, +with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. “I'd have given a +year's income for your opportunity to-night, Jason.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Jason helplessly. + +“Well, go on,” prompted Jimmie Dale. “You told her I wasn't home, and +she said she knew it, didn't she? And she left the letter that I was on +no account to miss receiving when I got back, though there was no need +of telephoning me to the club--when I returned would do, but it was +imperative that I should have it then--eh?” + +“Good Lord, sir!” ejaculated Jason, his jaw dropped, “that's exactly what +she did say.” + +“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “listen to me. If ever she comes here +again, inveigle her in. If you can't inveigle her, use force; capture +her, pull her in, do anything--do anything, do you hear? Only don't let +her get away from you until I've come.” + +Jason gazed at his master as though the other had lost his reason. + +“Use force, sir?” he repeated weakly--and shook his head. “You--you +can't mean that, sir.” + +“Can't I?” inquired Jimmie Dale, with a mirthless smile. “I mean every +word of it, Jason--and if I thought there was the slightest chance of +her giving you the opportunity, I'd be more imperative still. As it +is--where's the letter?” + +“On the table in your studio, sir,” said Jason, mechanically. + +Jimmie Dale started toward the stairs--then turned and came back to +where Jason, still shaking his head heavily, had been gazing anxiously +after his master. Jimmie Dale laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. + +“Jason,” he said kindly, with a swift change of mood, “you've been a +long time in the family--first with father, and now with me. You'd do a +good deal for me, wouldn't you?” + +“I'd do anything in the world for you, Master Jim,” said the old man +earnestly. + +“Well, then, remember this,” said Jimmie Dale slowly, looking into the +other's eyes, “remember this--keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. +It's my fault. I should have warned you long ago, but I never dreamed +that she would ever come here herself. There have been times when it was +practically a matter of life and death to me to know who that woman is +that you saw to-night. That's all, Jason. Now go to bed.” + +“Master Jim,” said the old man simply, “thank you, sir, thank you for +trusting me. I've dandled you on my knee when you were a baby, Master +Jim. I don't know what it's about, and it isn't for me to ask. I +thought, sir, that maybe you were having a little fun with me. But I +know now, and you can trust me, Master Jim, if she ever comes again.” + +“Thank you, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, his hand closing with an +appreciative pressure on the other's shoulder “Good-night, Jason.” + +Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmie Dale opened a door, closed and +locked it behind him--and the electric switch clicked under his fingers. +A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. It was a +large room, a very large room, running the entire depth of the +house, and the effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of its +appointments seemed to breathe a sense of charm. There were great +cozy, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-covered +davenport, and an easel or two with half-finished sketches upon them; +the walls were panelled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in +the centre of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor +was a dark, heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there +was a great, old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room. + +For an instant Jimmie Dale remained quietly by the door, as though +listening. Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, like +a well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about +him--the grace and ease of power in his poise. His strong, clean-shaven +face, as the light fell upon it now, was serious--a mood that became him +well--the firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a +frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped. + +Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up an +envelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest +lounging chair. + +There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel. It was precisely +what he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken. It was +the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same +old haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it. Jimmie Dale's +hands turned the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it. +Wonderful hands were Jimmie Dale's, with long, slim, tapering fingers +whose sensitive tips seemed now as though they were striving to decipher +the message within. + +He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. +Five closely written sheets fell into his hand. He read them slowly, +critically, read them over again; and then, his eyes on the rug at his +feet, he began to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers, +depositing the pieces, as he tore them, upon the arm of his chair. The +five sheets demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds on +the arm of the chair and tore them over and over again, tore them until +they were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently +and mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet. + +Then with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present +reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces +of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them +down in a little pile, and set them afire. Lighting a cigarette, he +watched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred +scrap; then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fender +brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portiere +from where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees in +front of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe--one of his own design and +planning in the years when he had been with his father. + +His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and +dials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch +alone--and the door swung open. Within was another door, with locks and +bolts as intricate and massive as the outer one. This, too, he opened; +and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather +bundle tied together with thongs. He rose from his knees, closed the +safe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again. With the bundle +under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, +then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off the +lights and went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor. Here, +divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark +tweed suit with loose-fitting, sack coat from his wardrobe, and began to +put it on. + +Dressed, all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle that +he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it +out to its full length--and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged his +lips. Rolled the opposite away from that in which it had been tied +up, the leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat after +the fashion of a life preserver, the thongs being used for shoulder +straps--a belt that, once on, the vest would hide completely, and, +fitting close, left no telltale bulge in the outer garments. It was not +an ordinary belt; it was full of stout-sewn, up-right little pockets +all the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine, +blued-steel, highly tempered instruments--a compact, powerful burglar's +kit. + +The slim, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over +the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted +a thin, flat metal case. This Jimmie Dale opened, and glanced +inside--between sheets of oil paper lay little rows of GRAY, ADHESIVE, +DIAMOND-SHAPED SEALS. + +Jimmie Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from +another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for +examination. + +“Pretty good shape after a year,” muttered Jimmie Dale, replacing it. + +He put on the belt, then his vest and coat. From the drawer of his +dresser he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, +slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs. From the hat +stand he chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes--and +left the house. + +Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to the +top. It was late, and he found himself the only passenger. He inserted +his dime in the conductor's little resonant-belled cash receiver, and +then settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat. + +On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, and +headed for Fifth Avenue--but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quite +oblivious of its movements. + +It was a year since she had written him. SHE! Jimmie Dale did not smile, +his lips were pressed hard together. Not a very intimate or personal +appellation, that--but he knew her by no other. It WAS a woman, +surely--the hand-writing was feminine, the diction eminently so--and had +SHE not come herself that night to Jason! He remembered the last letter, +apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her. It was +a year ago now--and the letter had been hardly more than a note. The +police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Gray Seal, the +papers had grown absolutely maudlin--and she had written, in her +characteristic way: + + +Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's let them cool +for a year. + + +Since then until to-night he had heard nothing from her. It was a +strange compact that he had entered into--so strange that it could never +have known, could never know a parallel--unique, dangerous, bizarre, it +was all that and more. It had begun really through his connection with +his father's business--the business of manufacturing safes that should +defy the cleverest criminals--when his brains, turned into that channel, +had been pitted against the underworld, against the methods of a +thousand different crooks from Maine to California, the report of whose +every operation had reached him in the natural course of business, +and every one of which he had studied in minutest detail. It had begun +through that--but at the bottom of it was his own restless, adventurous +spirit. + +He had meant to set the police by the ears, using his gray-seal device +both as an added barb and that no innocent bystander of the underworld, +innocent for once, might be involved--he had meant to laugh at them and +puzzle them to the verge of madness, for in the last analysis they would +find only an abortive attempt at crime--and he had succeeded. And then +he had gone too far--and he had been caught--by HER. That string of +pearls, which, to study whose effect facetiously, he had so idiotically +wrapped around his wrist, and which, so ironically, he had been unable +to loosen in time and had been forced to carry with him in his sudden, +desperate dash to escape from Marx's the big jeweler's, in Maiden Lane, +whose strong room he had toyed with one night, had been the lever which, +AT FIRST, she had held over him. + +The bus was on Fifth Avenue now, and speeding rapidly down the deserted +thoroughfare. Jimmie Dale looked up at the lighted windows of the St. +James Club as they went by, smiled whimsically, and shifted in his seat, +seeking a more comfortable position. + +She had caught him--how he did not know--he had never seen her--did not +know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energies +for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morning +following the Maiden Lane affair, indeed, before he had breakfasted, +Jason had brought him the first letter from her. It had started by +detailing his every move of the night before--and it had ended with an +ultimatum: “The cleverness, the originality of the Gray Seal as a crook +lacked but one thing,” she had naively written, “and that one thing was +that his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels +that were worthy of his genius.” In a word, SHE would plan the coups, +and he would act at her dictation and execute them--or else how did +twenty years in Sing Sing for that little Maiden Lane affair appeal to +him? He was to answer by the next morning, a simple “yes” or “no” in the +personal column of the morning NEWS-ARGUS. + +A threat to a man like Jimmie Dale was like flaunting a red rag at a +bull, and a rage ungovernable had surged upon him. Then cold reason had +come. He was caught--there was no question about that--she had taken +pains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Innocent enough in +his own conscience, as far as actual theft went, for the pearls would in +due course be restored in some way to the possession of their owner, he +would have been unable to make even his own father, who was alive then, +believe in his innocence, let alone a jury of his peers. Dishonour, +shame, ignominy, a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, +and there was but one alternative--to link hands with this unseen, +mysterious accomplice. Well, he could at least temporise, he could +always “queer” a game in some specious manner, if he were pushed too +far. And so, in the next morning's NEWS-ARGUS, Jimmie Dale had answered +“yes.” And then had followed those years in which there had been NO +temporising, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail, +those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs that +Carruthers had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the old +headquarters on Mulberry Street to its foundations, until the Gray Seal +had become a name to conjure with. And, yes, it was quite true, he +had entered into it all, gone the limit, with an eagerness that was +insatiable. + +The bus had reached the lower end of Fifth Avenue, passed through +Washington Square, and stopped at the end of its run. Jimmie Dale +clambered down from the top, threw a pleasant “good-night” to the +conductor, and headed briskly down the street before him. A little +later he crossed into West Broadway, and his pace slowed to a leisurely +stroll. + +Here, at the upper end of the street, was a conglomerate business +section of rather inferior class, catering doubtless to the poor, +foreign element that congregated west of Broadway proper, and to the +south of Washington Square. The street was, at first glance, deserted; +it was dark and dreary, with stores and lofts on either side. An +elevated train roared by overhead, with a thunderous, deafening clamour. +Jimmie Dale, on the right-hand side of the street, glanced interestedly +at the dark store windows as he went by. And then, a block ahead, on the +other side, his eyes rested on an approaching form. As the other reached +the corner and paused, and the light from the street lamp glinted on +brass buttons, Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed a little under his slouch +hat. The policeman, although nonchalantly swinging a nightstick, +appeared to be watching him. + +Jimmie Dale went on half a block farther, stooped to the sidewalk to +tie his shoe, glanced back over his shoulder--the policeman was not in +sight--and slipped like a shadow into the alleyway beside which he had +stopped. + +It was another Jimmie Dale now--the professional Jimmie Dale. Quick as +a cat, active, lithe, he was over a six foot fence in the rear of a +building in a flash, and crouched a black shape, against the back door +of an unpretentious, unkempt, dirty, secondhand shop that fronted +on West Broadway--the last place certainly in all New York that the +managing editor of the NEWS-ARGUS, or any one else, for that matter, +would have picked out as the setting for the second debut of the Gray +Seal. + +From the belt around his waist, Jimmie Dale took the black silk mask, +and slipped it on; and from the belt, too, came a little instrument +that his deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping sound +followed. Jimmie Dale put his weight gradually against the door. The +door held fast. + +“Bolted,” said Jimmie Dale to himself. + +The sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door, +seeming to press and feel for the position of the bolt through an inch +of plank--then from the belt came a tiny saw, thin and pointed at the +end, that fitted into the little handle drawn from another receptacle in +the leather girdle beneath the unbuttoned vest. + +Hardly a sound it made as it bit into the door. Half a minute +passed--there was the faint fall of a small piece of wood--into the +aperture crept the delicate, tapering fingers--came a slight rasping of +metal--then the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been Jimmie +Dale vanished and the door closed again. + +A round, white beam of light glowed for an instant--and disappeared. A +miscellaneous, lumbering collection of junk and odds and ends +blocked the entry, leaving no more space than was sufficient for bare +passageway. Jimmie Dale moved cautiously--and once more the flashlight +in his hand showed the way for an instant--then darkness again. + +The cluttered accumulation of secondhand stuff in the rear gave place to +a little more orderly arrangement as he advanced toward the front of the +store. Like a huge firefly, the flashlight twinkled, went out, twinkled +again, and went out. He passed a sort of crude, partitioned-off +apartment that did duty for the establishment's office, a sort of little +boxed-in place it was, about in the middle of the floor. Jimmie Dale's +light played on it for a moment, but he kept on toward the front door +without any pause. + +Every movement was quick, sure, accurate, with not a wasted second. It +had been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. It was +hardly a quarter of a minute more before the cumbersome lock of the +front door was unfastened, and the door itself pulled imperceptibly +ajar. + +He went swiftly back to the office now--and found it even more of a +shaky, cheap affair than it had at first appeared; more like a box stall +with windows around the top than anything else, the windows doubtless to +permit the occupant to overlook the store from the vantage point of the +high stool that stood before a long, battered, wobbly desk. There was +a door to the place, too, but the door was open and the key was in +the lock. The ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight swept once around the +interior--and rested on an antique, ponderous safe. + +Under the mask Jimmie Dale's lips parted in a smile that seemed almost +apologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little +more than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came the +thin metal case and a pair of tweezers. He opened the case, and with +the tweezers lifted out one of the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped seals. +Holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened the gummed side with +his lips, then laid it on a handkerchief which he took from his pocket, +and clapped the handkerchief against the front of the safe, sticking +the seal conspicuously into place. Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no finger +prints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many +a time regretfully assured the police of that fact. + +And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. Into the +soft iron bit a drill--bit in and through--bit in and through again. +It was dark, pitch black--and silent. Not a sound, save the quick, dull +rasp of the ratchet--like the distant gnawing of a mouse! Jimmie Dale +worked fast--another hole went through the face of the old-fashioned +safe--and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every faculty +tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward. WHAT WAS +THAT! + +From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he +himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in the +utter darkness, Jimmie Dale listened--there was a scraping noise in the +rear--someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed! + +In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dale's hands disappeared into their +respective pockets beneath his vest--and the sensitive fingers shot to +the dial on the safe. + +“Too bad,” muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself. “I could have +made such an artistic job of it--I swear I could have cut Carruthers' +profile in the hole in less than no time--to open it like this is really +taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage.” + +He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as the +tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly--the +other ear strained toward the rear of the premises. + +Came a footstep--a ray of light--a stumble--nearer--the newcomer was +inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had +been tampered with. Nearer came the steps--still nearer--and then the +safe door swung open under Jimmie Dale's hand, and Jimmie Dale, that he +might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office--but he +had delayed a little too long. + +From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellany swept the +light--full on Jimmie Dale. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a +second would have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all +his life Jimmie Dale had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring, +he leaped full at the light and the man behind it. The rough voice, in +surprised exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry, died in a +gasp. + +There was a crash as the two men met--and the other reeled back before +the impact. Onto him Jimmie Dale sprang, and his hands flew for the +other's throat. It was an officer in uniform! Jimmie Dale had felt the +brass buttons as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile on +Jimmie Dale's tight lips. It was no doubt THE officer whom he had passed +on the other side of the street. + +The other was a smaller man than Jimmie Dale, but powerful for his +build--and he fought now with all his strength. This way and that the +two men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; and then--they +had lurched back close to the office door--with a sudden swing, every +muscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale hurled the +other from him, sending the man sprawling back to the floor of the +office, and in the winking of an eye had slammed shut the door and +turned the key. + +There was a bull-like roar, the shrill CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP of the +patrolman's whistle, and a shattering crash as the officer flung his +body against the partition--then the bark of a revolver shot, the tinkle +of breaking glass, as the man fired through the office window--and past +Jimmie Dale, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously. + +Out on the street dashed Jimmie Dale, whipping the mask from his +face--and glanced like a hawk around him. For all the racket, the +neighbourhood had not yet been aroused--no one was in sight. From just +overhead came the rattle of a downtown elevated train. In a hundred-yard +sprint, Jimmie Dale raced it a half block to the station, tore up the +steps--and a moment later dropped nonchalantly into a seat and pulled an +evening newspaper from his pocket. + +Jimmie Dale got off at the second station down, crossed the street, +mounted the steps of the elevated again, and took the next train uptown. +His movements appeared to be somewhat erratic--he alighted at the +station next above the one by which he had made his escape. Looking down +the street it was too dark to see much of anything, but a confused noise +as of a gathering crowd reached him from what was about the location of +the secondhand store. He listened appreciatively for a moment. + +“Isn't it a perfectly lovely night?” said Jimmie Dale amiably to +himself. “And to think of that cop running away with the idea that I +didn't see him when he hid in a doorway after I passed the corner! Well, +well, strange--isn't it?” + +With another glance down the street, a whimsical lift of his shoulders, +he headed west into the dilapidated tenement quarter that huddled for +a handful of blocks near by, just south of Washington Square. It was +a little after one o'clock in the morning now and the pedestrians were +casual. Jimmie Dale read the street signs on the corners as he went +along, turned abruptly into an intersecting street, counted the +tenements from the corner as he passed, and--for the eye of any one who +might be watching--opened the street door of one of them quite as though +he were accustomed and had a perfect right to do so, and went inside. + +It was murky and dark within; hot, unhealthy, with lingering smells of +garlic and stale cooking. He groped for the stairs and started up. +He climbed one flight, then another--and one more to the top. Here, +treading softly, he made an examination of the landing with a view, +evidently, to obtaining an idea of the location and the number of doors +that opened off from it. + +His selection fell on the third door from the head of the stairs--there +were four all told, two apartments of two rooms each. He paused for an +instant to adjust the black silk mask, tried the door quietly, found it +unlocked, opened it with a sudden, quick, brisk movement--and, stepping +in side, leaned with his back against it. + +“Good-morning,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. + +It was a squalid place, a miserable hole, in which a single flickering, +yellow gas jet gave light. It was almost bare of furniture; there was +nothing but a couple of cheap chairs, a rickety table--unpawnable. A +boy, he was hardly more than that, perhaps twenty-two, from a posture +in which he was huddled across the table with head buried in out-flung +arms, sprang with a startled cry to his feet. + +“Good-morning,” said Jimmie Dale again. “Your name's Hagan, Bert +Hagan--isn't it? And you work for Isaac Brolsky in the secondhand shop +over on West Broadway--don't you?” + +The boy's lips quivered, and the gaunt, hollow, half-starved face, +white, ashen-white now, was pitiful. + +“I--I guess you got me,” he faltered “I--I suppose you're a +plain-clothes man, though I never knew dicks wore masks.” + +“They don't generally,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “It's a fad of +mine--Bert Hagan.” + +The lad, hanging to the table, turned his head away for a moment--and +there was silence. + +Presently Hagan spoke again. “I'll go,” he said numbly. “I won't make any +trouble. Would--would you mind not speaking loud? I--I wouldn't like her +to know.” + +“Her?” said Jimmie Dale softly. + +The boy tiptoed across the room, opened a connecting door a little, +peered inside, opened it a little wider--and looked over his shoulder at +Jimmie Dale. + +Jimmie Dale crossed to the boy, looked inside the other room--and his +lip twitched queerly, as the sight sent a quick, hurt throb through his +heart. A young woman, younger than the boy, lay on a tumble-down bed, a +rag of clothing over her--her face with a deathlike pallor upon it, as +she lay in what appeared to be a stupor. She was ill, critically ill; +it needed no trained eye to discern a fact all too apparent to the most +casual observer. The squalor, the glaring poverty here, was even more +pitifully in evidence than in the other room--only here upon a chair +beside the bed was a cluster of medicine bottles and a little heap of +fruit. + +Jimmie Dale drew back silently as the boy closed the door. + +Hagan walked to the table and picked up his hat. + +“I'm--I'm ready,” he said brokenly. “Let's go.” + +“Just a minute,” said Jimmie Dale. “Tell us about it.” + +“Twon't take long,” said Hagan, trying to smile. “She's my wife. The +sickness took all we had. I--I kinder got behind in the rent and things. +They were going to fire us out of here--to-morrow. And there wasn't any +money for the medicine, and--and the things she had to have. Maybe you +wouldn't have done it--but I did. I couldn't see her dying there for the +want of something a little money'd buy--and--and I couldn't”--he caught +his voice in a little sob--“I couldn't see her thrown out on the street +like that.” + +“And so,” said Jimmie Dale, “instead of putting old Isaac's cash in +the safe this evening when you locked up, you put it in your pocket +instead--eh? Didn't you know you'd get caught?” + +“What did it matter?” said the boy. He was twirling his misshappen hat +between his fingers. “I knew they'd know it was me in the morning when +old Isaac found it gone, because there wasn't anybody else to do it. +But I paid the rent for four months ahead to-night, and I fixed it so's +she'd have medicine and things to eat. I was going to beat it before +daylight myself--I”--he brushed his hand hurriedly across his cheek--“I +didn't want to go--to leave her till I had to.” + +“Well, say”--there was wonderment in Jimmie Dale's tones, and his +English lapsed into ungrammatical, reassuring vernacular--“ain't that +queer! Say, I'm no detective. Gee, kid, did you think I was? Say, listen +to this! I cracked old Isaac's safe half an hour ago--and I guess there +won't be any idea going around that you got the money and I pulled a +lemon. Say, I ain't superstitious, but it looks like luck meant you to +have another chance, don't it?” + +The hat dropped from Hagan's hands to the floor, and he swayed a little. + +“You--you ain't a dick!” he stammered. “Then how'd you know about me and +my name when you found the safe empty? Who told you?” + +A wry grimace spread suddenly over Jimmie Dale's face beneath the mask, +and he swallowed hard. Jimmie Dale would have given a good deal to have +been able to answer that question himself. + +“Oh, that!” said Jimmie Dale. “That's easy--I knew you worked there. +Say, it's the limit, ain't it? Talk about your luck being in, why all +you've got to do is to sit tight and keep your mouth shut, and you're +safe as a church. Only say, what are you going to do about the money, +now you've got a four months' start and are kind of landed on your feet? + +“Do?” said the boy. “I'll pay it back, little by little. I meant to. I +ain't no--” He stopped abruptly. + +“Crook,” supplied Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Spit it right out, kid; you +won't hurt my feelings none. Well, I'll tell you--you're talking the way +I like to hear you--you pay that back, slide it in without his knowing +it, a bit at a time, whenever you can, and you'll never hear a yip out +of me; but if you don't, why it kind of looks as though I have a right +to come down your street and get my share or know the reason why--eh?” + +“Then you never get any share,” said Hagan, with a catch in his voice. +“I pay it back as fast as I can.” + +“Sure,” said Jimmie Dale. “That's right--that's what I said. Well, so +long--Hagan.” And Jimmie Dale had opened the door and slipped outside. + +An hour later, in his dressing room in his house on Riverside Drive, +Jimmie Dale was removing his coat as the telephone, a hand instrument on +the table, rang. Jimmie Dale glanced at it--and leisurely proceeded +to remove his vest. Again the telephone rang. Jimmie Dale took off his +curious, pocketed leather belt--as the telephone repeated its summons. +He picked out the little drill he had used a short while before, and +inspected it critically--feeling its point with his thumb, as one might +feel a razor's blade. Again the telephone rang insistently. He reached +languidly for the receiver, took it off its hook, and held it to his +ear. + +“Hello!” said Jimmie Dale, with a sleepy yawn. “Hello! Hello! Why the +deuce don't you yank a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning and +have done with it, and--eh? Oh, that you, Carruthers?” + +“Yes,” came Carruthers' voice excitedly. “Jimmie, listen--listen! The +Gray Seal's come to life! He's just pulled a break on West Broadway!” + +“Good Lord!” gasped Jimmie Dale. “You don't say!” + + + +CHAPTER II + +BY PROXY + + +“The most puzzling bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime,” + Herman Carruthers, the editor of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, had called the +Gray Seal; and Jimmie Dale smiled a little grimly now as he recalled +the occasion of a week ago at the St. James Club over their after-dinner +coffee. That was before his second debut, with Isaac Brolsky's +poverty-stricken premises over on West Broadway as a setting for the +break. + +SHE had written: “Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? +Let's let them cool for a year.” Well, they had cooled for a year, and +Carruthers as a result had been complacently satisfied in his own mind +that the Gray Seal was dead--until that break at Isaac Brolsky's over on +West Broadway! + +Jimmie Dale's smile was tinged with whimsicality now. The only effect +of the year's inaction had been to usher in his renewed activity with +a furor compared to which all that had gone before was insignificant. +Where the newspapers had been maudlin, they now raved--raved in +editorials and raved in headlines. It was an impossible, untenable, +unbelievable condition of affairs that this Gray Seal, for all his +incomparable cleverness, should flaunt his crimes in the faces of the +citizens of New York. One could actually see the editors writhing in +their swivel chairs as their fiery denunciations dripped from their +pens! What was the matter with the police? Were the police children; +or, worse still, imbeciles--or, still worse again, was there some one +“higher up” who was profiting by this rogue's work? New York would not +stand for it--New York would most decidedly not--and the sooner the +police realised that fact the better! If the police were helpless, or +tools, the citizens of New York were not, and it was time the citizens +were thoroughly aroused. + +There was a way, too, to arouse the citizens, that was both good +business from the newspaper standpoint, and efficacious as a method. +Carruthers, of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, had initiated it. The MORNING +NEWS-ARGUS offered twenty-five thousand dollars' reward for the capture +of the Gray Seal! Other papers immediately followed suit in varying +amounts. The authorities, State and municipal, goaded to desperation, +did likewise, and the five million men, women, and children of New York +were automatically metamorphosed into embryonic sleuths. New York was +aroused. + +Jimmie Dale, alias the Gray Seal, member of the ultra-exclusive St. +James Club, the latter fact sufficient in itself to guarantee his +social standing, graduate of Harvard, inheritor of his deceased father's +immense wealth amassed in the manufacture of burglar-proof safes, some +of the most ingenious patents on which were due to Jimmie Dale himself, +figured with a pencil on the margin of the newspaper he had been +reading, using the arm of the big, luxurious, leather-upholstered +lounging chair as a support for the paper. The result of his +calculations was eighty-five thousand dollars. + +He brushed the paper onto the Turkish rug, dove into the pocket of his +dinner jacket for his cigarettes, and began to smoke as his eyes strayed +around the room, his own particular den in his fashionable Riverside +Drive residence. + +Eighty-five thousand dollars' reward! Jimmie Dale blew meditative rings +of cigarette smoke at the fireplace. What would she say to that? Would +she decide it was “too hot” again, and call it off? It added quite a +little hazard to the game--QUITE a little! If he only knew who “she” + was! It was a strange partnership--the strangest partnership that had +ever existed between two human beings. + +He turned a little in his chair as a step sounded in the hallway +without--that is, Jimmie Dale caught the sound, muffled though it was by +the heavy carpet. Came then a knock upon the door. + +“Come in,” invited Jimmie Dale. + +It was old Jason, the butler. The old man was visibly excited, as he +extended a silver tray on which lay a letter. + +Jimmie Dale's hand reached quickly out, the long, slim tapering fingers +closed upon the envelope--but his eyes were on Jason significantly, +questioningly. + +“Yes, Master Jim,” said the old man, “I recognised it on the instant, +sir. After what you said, sir, last week, honouring me, I might say, to +a certain extent with your confidence, though I'm sure I don't know what +it all means, I--” + +“Who brought it this time, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale quietly. + +“Not the young person, begging your pardon, not the young lady, sir. A +shuffer in a big automobile. 'Your master at once,' he says, and shoves +the letter into my hand, and was off.” + +“Very good, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale. “You may go.” + +The door closed. Yes, it was from HER--it was the same texture of paper, +there was the same rare, haunting fragrance clinging to it. + +He tore the envelope open, and extracted a folded sheet of paper. What +was it this time? To call the partnership off again until the present +furor should have subsided once more--or the skilfully sketched outline +of a new adventure? Which? He glanced at the few lines written on the +sheet, and lunged forward from his chair to his feet. It was neither one +nor the other. It was-- + +Jimmie Dale's face was set, and an angry red surge swept his cheeks. His +lips moved, muttering audibly fragments of the letter, as he stared at +it. + +“--incredible that you--a heinous thing--act instantly--this is ruin--” + +For an instant--a rare occurrence in Jimmie Dale's life--he stood like a +man stricken, still staring at the sheet in his hand. Then mechanically +his fingers tore the paper into little pieces, and the little pieces +into tiny shreds. Anger fled, and a sickening sense of impotent dismay +took its place; the red left his cheeks, and in its stead a grayness +came. + +“Act instantly!” The words seemed to leap at him, drum at his ears with +constant repetition. Act instantly! But how? How? Then his brain--that +keen, clear, master brain--sprang from stunned inaction into virility +again. Of course--Carruthers! It was in Carruthers' line. + +He stepped to the desk--and paused with his hand extended to pick up the +telephone. How explain to Carruthers that he, Jimmie Dale, already knew +what Carruthers might not yet have heard of, even though Carruthers +would naturally be among the first to be in touch with such affairs! No; +that would never do. Better get there himself at once and trust to-- + +The telephone rang. + +Jimmie Dale waited until it rang again, then he lifted the receiver from +the hook. + +“Hello?” he said. + +“Hello! Hello! Jimmie!” came a voice. “This is Carruthers. That you, +Jimmie?” + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale and sat down limply in the desk chair. + +“It's the Gray Seal again. I promised you I'd let you in on the ground +floor next time anything happened, so come on down here quick if you +want to see some of his work at firsthand.” + +Jimmie Dale flirted a bead of sweat from his forehead. + +“Carruthers,” said Jimmie languidly, “you newspaper chaps make me tired +with your Gray Seal. I'm just going to bed.” + +“Bed nothing!” spluttered Carruthers, from the other end of the wire. +“Come down, I tell you. It's worth your while--half the population of +New York would give the toes off their feet for the chance. Come down, +you blast idiot! The Gray Seal has gone the limit this time--it's +MURDER.” + +Jimmie Dale's face was haggard. + +“Oh!” he said peevishly. “Sounds interesting. Where are you? I guess +maybe I'll jog along.” + +“I should think you would!” snapped Carruthers. “You know the Palace on +the Bowery? Yes? Well, meet me on the corner there as soon as you can. +Hustle! Good--” + +“Oh, I say, Carruthers!” interposed Jimmie Dale. + +“Yes?” demanded Carruthers. + +“Thanks awfully for letting me know, old man.” + +“Don't mention it!” returned Carruthers sarcastically. “You always were +a grateful beast, Jimmie. Hurry up!” + +Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver of the city 'phone, and took down the +receiver of another, a private-house installation, and rang twice for +the garage. + +“The light car at once, Benson,” he ordered curtly. “At once!” + +Jimmie Dale worked quickly then. In his dressing room, he changed from +dinner clothes to tweeds; spent a second or so over the contents of a +locked drawer in the dresser, from which he selected a very small but +serviceable automatic, and a very small but highly powerful magnifying +glass whose combination of little round lenses worked on a pivot, and, +closed over one another, were of about the compass of a quarter of a +dollar. + +In three minutes he was outside the house and stepping into the car, +just as it drew up at the curb. + +“Benson,” he said tersely to his chauffeur, “drop me one block this +side of the Palace on the Bowery--and forget there was ever a speed law +enacted. Understand?” + +“Very good, sir,” said Benson, touching his cap. “I'll do my best, sir.” + +Jimmie Dale, in the tonneau, stretched out his legs under the front +seat, and dug his hands into his pockets--and inside the pockets his +hands were clenched and knotted fists. + +Murder! At times it had occurred to him that there was a possibility +that some crook of the underworld would attempt to cover his tracks and +take refuge from pursuit by foisting himself on the authorities as the +Gray Seal. That was a possibility, a risk always to be run. But that +MURDER should be laid to the Gray Seal's door! Anger, merciless and +unrestrained, surged over Jimmie Dale. + +There was peril here, live and imminent. Suppose that some day he should +be caught in some little affair, recognised and identified as the Gray +Seal, there would be the charge of murder hanging over him--and the +electric chair to face! + +But the peril was not the only thing. Even worse to Jimmie Dale's +artistic and sensitive temperament was the vilification, the holding up +to loathing, contumely, and abhorrence of the name, the stainless name, +of the Gray Seal. It WAS stainless! He had guarded it jealously--as a +man guards the woman's name he loves. + +Affairs that had mystified and driven the police distracted with +impotence there had been, many of them; and on the face of them--crimes. +But no act ever committed had been in reality a crime--none without +the highest of motives, the righting of some outrageous wrong, the +protection of some poor stumbling fellow human. + +That had been his partnership with her. How, by what amazing means, by +what power that smacked almost of the miraculous she came in touch with +all these things and supplied him with the data on which to work he +did not know--only that, thanks to her, there were happier hearts and +happier homes since the Gray Seal had begun to work. “Dear Philanthropic +Crook,” she often called him in her letters. And now--it was MURDER! + +Take Carruthers, for instance. For years, as a reporter before he had +risen to the editorial desk, he had been one of the keenest on the scent +of the Gray Seal, but always for the sake of the game--always filled +with admiration, as he said himself, for the daring, the originality of +the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime. +Carruthers was but an example. Carruthers now would hunt the Gray Seal +like a mad dog. The Gray Seal, to Carruthers and every one else, would +be the vilest name in the land--a synonym for murder. + +On the car flew--and upon Jimmie Dale's face, as though chiselled in +marble, was a look that was not good to see. And a mirthless smile set, +frozen, on his lips. + +“I'll get the man that did this,” gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth. +“I'll GET him! And, when I get him, I'll wring a confession from him if +I have to swing for it!” + +The car swept from Broadway into Astor Place, on down the Bowery, and +presently stopped. + +Jimmie Dale stepped out. “I shall not want you any more, Benson,” he +said. “You may return home.” + +Jimmie Dale started down the block--a nonchalant Jimmie Dale now, if +anything, bored a little. Near the corner, a figure, back turned, was +lounging at the edge of the sidewalk. Jimmie Dale touched the man on the +arm. + +“Hello, Carruthers!” he drawled. + +“Ah, Jimmie!” Carruthers turned with an excited smile. “That's the boy! +You've made mighty quick time.” + +“Well, you told me to hurry,” grumbled Jimmie Dale. “I'm doing my best +to please you to-night. Came down in my car, and got summoned for three +fines to-morrow.” + +Carruthers laughed. “Come on,” he said; and, linking his arm in Jimmie +Dale's, turned the corner, and headed west along the cross street. “This +is going to make a noise,” he continued, a grim note creeping into his +voice. “The biggest noise the city has ever heard. I take back all I +said about the Gray Seal. I'd always pictured his cleverness as being +inseparable with at least a decent sort of man, even if he was a rogue +and a criminal, but I'm through with that. He's a rotter and a hound +of the rankest sort! I didn't think there was anything more vulgar or +brutal than murder, but he's shown me that there is. A guttersnipe's got +more decency! To murder a man and then boastfully label the corpse is--” + +“Say, Carruthers,” said Jimmie Dale plaintively, suddenly hanging back, +“I say, you know, it's--it's all right for you to mess up in this sort +of thing, it's your beastly business, and I'm awfully damned thankful to +you for giving me a look-in, but isn't it--er--rather INFRA DIG for me? +A bit morbid, you know, and all that sort of thing. I'd never hear the +end of it at the club--you know what the St. James is. Couldn't I be +Merideth Stanley Annstruther, or something like that, one of your new +reporters, or something like that, you know?” + +Carruthers chuckled. “Sure, Jimmie,” he said. “You're the latest +addition to the staff of the NEWS-ARGUS. Don't worry; the incomparable +Jimmie Dale won't figure publicly in this.” + +“It's awfully good of you,” said Jimmie gratefully. “I have to have a +notebook or something, don't I?” + +Carruthers, from his pocket, handed him one. “Thanks,” said Jimmie Dale. + +A little way ahead, a crowd had collected on the sidewalk before a +doorway, and Carruthers pointed with a jerk of his hand. + +“It's in Moriarty's place--a gambling hell,” he explained. “I haven't +got the story myself yet, though I've been inside, and had a look +around. Inspector Clayton discovered the crime, and reported it at +headquarters. I was at my desk in the office when the news came, and, as +you know the interest I've taken in the Gray Seal, I decided to 'cover' +it myself. When I got here, Clayton hadn't returned from headquarters, +so, as you seemed so keenly interested last week, I telephoned you. If +Clayton's back now we'll get the details. Clayton's a good fellow with +the 'press,' and he won't hold anything out on us. Now, here we are. +Keep close to me, and I'll pass you in.” + +They shouldered through the crowd and up to an officer at the door. +The officer nodded, stepped aside, and Carruthers, with Jimmie Dale +following, entered the house. + +They climbed one flight, and then another. The card-rooms, the faro, +stud, and roulette layouts were deserted, save for policemen here and +there on guard. Carruthers led the way to a room at the back of the +hall, whose door was open and from which issued a hubbub of voices--one +voice rose above the others, heavy and gratingly complacent. + +“Clayton's back,” observed Carruthers. + +They stepped over the threshold, and the heavy voice greeted them. + +“Ah, here's Carruthers now! H'are you, Carruthers? They told me you'd +been here, and were coming back, so I've been keeping the boys waiting +before handing out the dope. You've had a look at that--eh?” He flung +out a fat hand toward the bed. + +The voices rose again, all directed at Carruthers now. + +“Bubble's burst, eh, Carruthers? What about the 'Prince of Crooks'? +Artistry in crime, wasn't it, you said?” They were quoting from his +editorials of bygone days, a half dozen reporters of rival papers, +grinning and joshing him good-naturedly, seemingly quite unaffected by +what lay within arm's reach of them upon the bed. + +Carruthers smiled a little wryly, shrugged his shoulders--and presented +Jimmie Dale to Inspector Clayton. + +“Mr. Matthewson, a new man of ours--inspector.” + +“Glad to know you, Mr. Matthewson,” said the inspector. + +Jimmie Dale found his hand grasped by another that was flabby and +unpleasantly moist; and found himself looking into a face that was red, +with heavy rolls of unhealthy fat terminating in a double chin and a +thick, apoplectic neck--a huge, round face, with rat's eyes. + +Clayton dropped Jimmie Dale's hand, and waved his own in the air. Jimmie +Dale remained modestly on the outside of the circle as the reporters +gathered around the police inspector. + +“Now, then,” said Clayton coarsely, “the guy that's croaked there is +Metzer, Jake Metzer. Get that?” + +Jimmie Dale, scribbling hurriedly in his notebook like all the rest, +turned a little toward the bed, and his lower jaw crept out the fraction +of an inch. Both gas jets in the room were turned on full, giving ample +light. A man fully dressed, a man of perhaps forty, lay upon his back on +the bed, one arm outflung across the bedspread, the other dangling, +with fingers just touching the floor, the head at an angle and off the +pillow. It was as though he had been carried to the bed and flung upon +it after the deed had been committed. Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted and +swept the room. Yes, everything was in disorder, as though there had +been a struggle--a chair upturned, a table canted against the wall, +broken pieces of crockery from the washstand on the carpet, and-- + +“Metzer was a stool pigeon, see?” went on Clayton, “and he lived here. +Moriarty wasn't on to him. Metzer stood in thick with a wider circle of +crooks than any other snitch in New York.” + +Jimmie Dale, still scribbling as Clayton talked, stepped to the bed and +leaned over the murdered man. The murder had been done with a blackjack +evidently--a couple of blows. The left side of the temple was crushed +in. Right in the middle of the forehead, pasted there, a gray-colored, +diamond shaped paper seal flaunted itself--the device of the Gray Seal. +In Jimmie Dale' hand, hidden as he turned his back, the tiny combination +of powerful lenses was focused on the seal. + +Clayton guffawed. “That's right!” he called out. “Take a good look. +That's a bright young man you've got, Carruthers.” + +Jimmie Dale looked up a little sheepishly--and got a grin from the +assembled reporters, and a scowl from Carruthers. + +“Now, then,” continued Clayton, “here's the facts--as much of 'em as I +can let you boys print at present. You know I'm stretching a point +to let you in here--don't forget that when you come to write up the +case--honour where's honour's due, you know. Well, me and Metzer there +was getting ready to close down on a big piece of game, and I was over +here in this room talking to him about it early this afternoon. We had +it framed to get our man to-night--see? I left Metzer, say, about three +o'clock, and he was to show up over at headquarters with another little +bit of evidence we wanted at eight o'clock to-night.” + +Jimmie Dale was listening--to every word. But he stooped now again over +the murdered man's head deliberately, though he felt the inspector's +rat's eyes upon him--stooped, and, with his finger nail, lifted back the +right-hand point of the diamond-shaped seal where it bordered a faint +thread of blood on the man's forehead. + +There was a bull-like roar from the inspector, and he burst through the +ring of reporters, and grabbed Jimmie Dale by the shoulder. + +“Here you, what in hell are you doing!” he spluttered angrily. + +Embarrassed and confused, Jimmie Dale drew back, glanced around, and +smiled again a little sheepishly as his eyes rested on the red-flushed +jowl of the inspector. + +“I--I wanted to see how it was stuck on,” he explained inanely. + +“Stuck on!” bellowed Clayton. “I'll show you how it's STUCK on, if you +monkey around here! Don't you know any better than that! Where were you +dragged up anyway? The coroner hasn't been here yet. You're a hot cub +of a reporter, you are!” He turned to Carruthers. “Y'ought to get out +printed instructions for 'em before you turn 'em loose!” he snapped. + +Carruthers' face was red with mortification. There was a grin, expanded, +on the faces of the others. + +“Stand away from that bed!” roared Clayton at Jimmie Dale. “And if you +go near it again, I'll throw you out of here bodily!” + +Jimmie Dale edged away, and, eyes lowered, fumbled nervously with the +leaves of his notebook. + +Clayton grunted, glared at Jimmie Dale for an instant viciously--and +resumed his story. + +“I was saying,” he said, “that Metzer was to come to headquarters at +eight o'clock this evening. Well, he didn't show up. That looked queer. +It was mighty important business. We was after one of the biggest hauls +we'd ever pulled off. I waited till nine o'clock, an hour ago, and I +was getting nervous. Then I started over here to find out what was the +matter. When I got here I asked Moriarty if he'd seen Metzer. Moriarty +said he hadn't since I was here before. He was a little suspicious that +I had something on Metzer--see? Well, by pumping Moriarty, he admitted +that Metzer had had a visitor about an hour after I left.” + +“Who was it? Know what his name is, inspector?” asked one of the +reporters quickly. + +Inspector Clayton winked heavily. “Don't be greedy boys,” he grinned. + +“You mean you've got him?” burst out another one of the men excitedly. + +“Sure! Sure, I've got him.” Inspector Clayton waved his fat hand airily. +“Or I will have before morning--but I ain't saying anything more till +it's over.” He smiled significantly. “Well, that's about all. You've +got the details right around you. I left Moriarty downstairs and came up +here, and found just what you see--Metzer laying on the bed there, and +the gray seal stuck on his forehead--and”--he ended abruptly--“I'll have +the Gray Seal himself behind the bars by morning.” + +A chorus of ejaculations rose from the reporters, while their pencils +worked furiously. + +Then Jimmie Dale appeared to have an inspiration. Jimmie Dale turned a +leaf in his notebook and began to sketch rapidly, cocking his head now +on one side now on the other. With a few deft strokes he had outlined +the figure of Inspector Clayton. The reporter beside Jimmie Dale leaned +over to inspect the work, and another did likewise. Jimmie Dale drew +in Clayton's face most excellently, if somewhat flatteringly; and then, +with a little flourish of pride, wrote under the drawing: “The Man Who +Captured the Gray Seal.” + +“That's a cracking good sketch!” pronounced the reporter at his side. +“Let the inspector see it.” + +“What is it?” demanded Clayton, scowling. + +Jimmie Dale handed him the notebook modestly. + +Inspector Clayton took it, looked at it, looked at Jimmie Dale; then his +scowl relaxed into a self-sufficient and pleased smile, and he grunted +approvingly. + +“That's the stuff to put over,” he said. “Mabbe you're not much of +a reporter, but you can draw. Y're all right, sport--y're all right. +Forget what I said to you a while ago.” + +Jimmie Dale smiled too--deprecatingly. And put the notebook in his +pocket. + +An officer entered the room hurriedly, and, drawing Clayton aside, spoke +in an undertone. A triumphant and malicious grin settled on Clayton's +features, and he started with a rush for the door. + +“Come around to headquarters in two hours, boys,” he called as he went +out, “and I'll have something more for you.” + +The room cleared, the reporters tumbling downstairs to make for the +nearest telephones to get their “copy” into their respective offices. + +On the street, a few doors up from the house where they were free from +the crowd, Carruthers halted Jimmie Dale. + +“Jimmie,” he said reproachfully, “you certainly made a mark of us both. +There wasn't any need to play the 'cub' so egregiously. However, I'll +forgive you for the sake of the sketch--hand it over, Jimmie; I'm going +to reproduce it in the first edition.” + +“It wasn't drawn for reproduction, Carruthers--at least not yet,” said +Jimmie Dale quietly. + +Carruthers stared at him. “Eh?” he asked blankly. + +“I've taken a dislike to Clayton,” said Jimmie Dale whimsically. “He's +too patently after free advertising, and I'm not going to help along his +boost. You can't have it, old man, so let's think about something +else. What'll they do with that bit of paper that's on the poor devil's +forehead up there, for instance.” + +“Say,” said Carruthers, “does it strike you that you're acting queer? +You haven't been drinking, have you, Jimmie?” + +“What'll they do with it?” persisted Jimmie Dale. + +“Well,” said Carruthers, smiling a little tolerantly, “they'll +photograph it and enlarge the photograph, and label it 'Exhibit A' or +'Exhibit B' or something like that--and file it away in the archives +with the fifty or more just like it that are already in their +collection.” + +“That's what I thought,” observed Jimmie Dale. He took Carruthers by the +lapel of the coat. “I'd like a photograph of that. I'd like it so much +that I've got to have it. Know the chap that does that work for the +police?” + +“Yes,” admitted Carruthers. + +“Very good!” said Jimmie Dale crisply, “Get an extra print of the +enlargement from him then--for a consideration--whatever he asks--I'll +pay for it.” + +“But what for?” demanded Carruthers. “I don't understand.” + +“Because,” said Jimmie Dale very seriously, “put it down to imagination +or whatever you like, I think I smell something fishy here.” + +“You WHAT!” exclaimed Carruthers in amazement. “You're not joking, are +you, Jimmie?” + +Jimmie Dale laughed shortly. “It's so far from a joke,” he said, in +a low tone, “that I want your word you'll get that photograph into my +hands by to-morrow afternoon, no matter what transpires in the meantime. +And look here, Carruthers, don't think I'm playing the silly thickhead, +and trying to mystify you. I'm no detective or anything like that. I've +just got an idea that apparently hasn't occurred to any one else--and, +of course, I may be all wrong. If I am, I'm not going to say a word even +to you, because it wouldn't be playing fair with some one else; if I'm +right the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS gets the biggest scoop of the century. Will +you go in on that basis?” + +Carruthers put out his hand impulsively. “If you're in earnest, +Jimmie--you bet!” + +“Good!” returned Jimmie Dale. “The photograph by to-morrow afternoon +then. And now--” + +“And now,” said Caruthers, “I've got to hurry over to the office and get +a write-up man at work. Will you come along, or meet me at headquarters +later? Clayton said in two hours he'd--” + +“Neither,” said Jimmie Dale. “I'm not interested in headquarters. I'm +going home.” + +“Well, all right then,” Carruthers returned. “You can bank on me for +to-morrow. Good-night, Jimmie.” + +“Good-night, old man,” said Jimmie Dale, and, turning, walked briskly +toward the Bowery. + +But Jimmie Dale did not go home. He walked down the Bowery for three +blocks, crossed to the east side, and turned down a cross street. Two +blocks more he walked in this direction, and halfway down the next. +Here he paused an instant--the street was dimly lighted, almost dark, +deserted. Jimmie Dale edged close to the houses until his shadow blended +with the shadows of the walls--and slipped suddenly into a pitch-black +areaway. + +He opened a door, stepped into an unlighted hallway where the air was +close and evil smelling, mounted a stairway, and halted before another +door on the first landing. There was the low clicking of a lock, three +times repeated, and he entered a room, closing and fastening the door +behind him. + +Jimmie Dale called it his “Sanctuary.” In one of the worst +neighbourhoods of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the +rent was paid, it had the further advantage of three separate exits--one +by the areaway where he had entered; one from the street itself; and +another through a back yard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on +the next street. It was not often that Jimmie Dale used his Sanctuary, +but there had been times when it was no more nor less than exactly what +he called it--a sanctuary! + +He stepped to the window, assured himself that the shade was down--and +lighted the gas, blinking a little as the yellow flame illuminated the +room. + +It was a rough place, dirty, uninviting; a bedroom, furnished in the +most scanty fashion. Neither, apparently, was there anything suspicious +about it to reward one curious enough to break in during the owner's +absence--some rather disreputable clothes hanging on the wall, and flung +untidily across the bed--that was all. + +Alone now, Jimmie Dale's face was strained and anxious and, +occasionally, as he undressed himself, his hands clenched until his +knuckles grew white. The gray seal on the murdered man's forehead was +a GENUINE GRAY SEAL--one of Jimmie Dale's own. There was no doubt of +that--he had satisfied himself on that point. + +Where had it come from? How had it been obtained? Jimmie Dale carefully +placed the clothes he had taken off under the mattress, pulled a +disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, and pulled on a +disreputable pair of boots. There were only two sources of supply. His +own--and the collection that the police had made, which Carruthers had +referred to. + +Jimmie Dale lifted a corner of the oilcloth in a corner of the room, +lifted a piece of the flooring, lifted out a little box which he placed +upon the rickety table, and sat down before a cracked mirror. Who was +it that would have access to the gray seals in the possession of the +police, since, obviously, it was one of those that was on the dead man's +forehead? The answer came quick enough--came with the sudden out-thrust +of Jimmie Dale's lower jaw. ONE OF THE POLICE THEMSELVES--no one else. +Clayton's heavy, cunning face, Clayton's shifty eyes, Clayton's sudden +rush when he had touched the dead man's forehead, pictured themselves +in a red flash of fury before Jimmie Dale. There was no mask now, no +facetiousness, no acted part--only a merciless rage, and the muscles of +Jimmie Dale's face quivered and twitched. MURDER, foisted, shifted upon +another, upon the Gray Seal--making of that name a calumny--ruining +forever the work that she and he might do! + +And then Jimmie Dale smiled mirthlessly, with thinning lips. The box +before him was open. His fingers worked quickly--a little wax behind the +ears, in the nostrils, under the upper lip, deftly placed-hands, wrists, +neck, throat, and face received their quota of stain, applied with an +artist's touch--and then the spruce, muscular Jimmie Dale, transformed +into a slouching, vicious-featured denizen of the underworld, replaced +the box under the flooring, pulled a slouch hat over his eyes, +extinguished the gas, and went out. + +Jimmie Dale's range of acquaintanceship was wide--from the upper strata +of the St. James Club to the elite of New York's gangland. And, adored +by the one, he was trusted implicitly by the other--not understood, +perhaps, by the latter, for he had never allied himself with any of +their nefarious schemes, but trusted implicitly through long years of +personal contact. It had stood Jimmie Dale in good stead before, this +association, where, in a sort of strange, carefully guarded exchange, +the news of the underworld was common property to those without the law. +To New York in its millions, the murder of Metzer, the stool pigeon, +would be unknown until the city rose in the morning to read the +sensational details over the breakfast table; here, it would already be +the topic of whispered conversations, here it had probably been known +long before the police had discovered the crime. Especially would it be +expected to be known to Pete Lazanis, commonly called the Runt, who +was a power below the dead line and, more pertinent still, one in whose +confidence Jimmie Dale had rejoiced for years. + +Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat--a euphonious “monaker” bestowed possibly +because this particular world knew him only by night--began a search for +the Runt. From one resort to another he hurried, talking in the accepted +style through one corner of his mouth to hard-visaged individuals behind +dirty, reeking bars that were reared on equally dirty and foul-smelling +sawdust-strewn floors; visiting dance halls, secretive back rooms, and +certain Chinese pipe joints. + +But the Runt was decidedly elusive. There had been no news of him, no +one had seen him--and this after fully an hour had passed since Jimmie +Dale had left Carruthers in front of Moriarty's. The possibilities +however were still legion--numbered only by the numberless dives and +dens sheltered by that quarter of the city. + +Jimmie Dale turned into Chatham Square, heading for the Pagoda Dance +Hall. A man loitering at the curb shot a swift, searching glance at him +as he slouched by. Jimmie Dale paused in the doorway of the Pagoda and +looked up and down the street. The man he had passed had drawn a little +closer; another man in an apparently aimless fashion lounged a few yards +away. + +“Something up,” muttered Jimmie Dale to himself. “Lansing, of +headquarters, and the other looks like Milrae.” + +Jimmie Dale pushed in through the door of the Pagoda. A bedlam of noise +surged out at him--a tin-pan piano and a mandolin were going furiously +from a little raised platform at the rear; in the centre of the room a +dozen couples were in the throes of the tango and the bunny-hug; around +the sides, at little tables, men and women laughed and applauded and +thumped time on the tabletops with their beer mugs; while waiters, with +beer-stained aprons and unshaven faces, juggled marvelous handfuls of +glasses and mugs from the bar beside the platform to the patrons at the +tables. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes swept the room in a swift, comprehensive glance, +fixed on a little fellow, loudly dressed, who shared a table halfway +down the room with a woman in a picture hat, and a smile of relief +touched his lips. The Runt at last! + +He walked down the room, caught the Runt's eyes significantly as he +passed the table, kept on to a door between the platform and the bar, +opened it, and went out into a lighted hallway, at one end of which a +door opened onto the street, and at the other a stairway led above. + +The Runt joined him. “Wot's de row, Larry?” inquired the Runt. + +“Nuthin' much,” said Jimmie Dale. “Only I t'ought I'd let youse know. +I was passin' Moriarty's an' got de tip. Say, some guy's croaked Jake +Metzer dere.” + +“Aw, ferget it!” observed the Runt airily. “Dat's stale. Was wise to dat +hours ago.” + +Jimmie Dale's face fell. “But I just come from dere,” he insisted; “an' +de harness bulls only just found it out.” + +“Mabbe,” grunted the Runt. “But Metzer got his early in de +afternoon--see?” + +Jimmie Dale looked quickly around him--and then leaned toward the Runt. + +“Wot's de lay, Runt?” he whispered. + +The Runt pulled down one eyelid, and, with his knowing grin, the +cigarette, clinging to his upper lip, sagged down in the opposite corner +of his mouth. + +Jimmie Dale grinned, too--in a flash inspiration had come to Jimmie +Dale. + +“Say, Runt”--he jerked his head toward the street door--“wot's de fly +cops doin' out dere?” + +The grin vanished from the Runt's lips. He stared for a second wildly at +Jimmie Dale, and then clutched at Jimmie Dale's arm. + +“De WOT?” he said hoarsely. + +“De fly cops,” Jimmie Dale repeated in well-simulated surprise. “Dey was +dere when I come in--Lansing an' Milrae, an--” + +The Runt shot a hurried glance at the stairway, and licked his lips as +though they had gone suddenly dry. + +“My Gawd, I--” He gasped, and shrank hastily back against the wall +beside Jimmie Dale. + +The door from the street had opened noiselessly, instantly. Black forms +bulked there--then a rush of feet--and at the head of half a dozen men, +the face of Inspector Clayton loomed up before Jimmie Dale. There was +a second's pause in the rush; and, in the pause, Clayton's voice, in a +vicious undertone: + +“You two ginks open your traps, and I'll run you both in!” + +And then the rush passed, and swept on up the stairs. + +Jimmie Dale looked at the Runt. The cigarette dangled limply; the Runt's +eyes were like a hunted beast's. + +“Dey got him!” he mumbled. “It's Stace--Stace Morse. He come to me after +croakin' Metzer, an' he's been hidin' up dere all afternoon.” + +Stace Morse--known in gangland as a man with every crime in the calendar +to his credit, and prominent because of it! Something seemed to go +suddenly queer inside of Jimmie Dale. Stace Morse! Was he wrong, after +all? Jimmie Dale drew closer to the Runt. + +“Yer givin' me a steer, ain't youse?” He spoke again from the corner +of his mouth, almost inaudibly. “Are youse sure it was Stace croaked +Metzer? Wot fer? How'd yer know?” + +The Runt was listening, his eyes strained toward the stairs. The hall +door to the street was closed, but both were quite well aware that there +was an officer on guard outside. + +“He told me,” whispered the Runt. “Metzer was fixin' ter snitch on him +ter-night. Dey've got de goods on Stace, too. He made a bum job of it.” + +“Why didn't he get out of de country den when he had de chanst, instead +of hangin' around here all afternoon?” demanded Jimmie Dale. + +“He was broke,” the Runt answered. “We was gettin' de coin fer him ter +fade away wid ter-night, an'--” + +A revolver shot from above cut short his words. Came then the sound of a +struggle, oaths, the shuffling tread of feet--but in the dance hall the +piano still rattled on, the mandolin twanged, voices sang and applauded, +and beer mugs thumped time. + +They were on the stairs now, the officers, half carrying, half dragging +some one between them--and the man they dragged cursed them with utter +abandon. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jimmie Dale +caught sight of the prisoner's face--not a prepossessing +one--villainous,--low-browed, contorted with a mixture of fear and rage. + +“It's a lie! A lie! A lie!” the man shrieked. “I never seen him in me +life--blast you!--curse you!--d'ye hear!” + +Inspector Clayton caught Jimmie Dale and the Runt by the collars. + +“There's nothing to interest you around here!” he snapped maliciously. +“Go on, now--beat it!” And he pushed them toward the door. + +They had heard the disturbance in the dance hall now and the occupants +were swarming to the sidewalk. A patrol wagon came around the corner. In +the crowd Jimmie Dale slipped away from the Runt. + +Was he wrong, after all? A fierce passion seized him. It was Stace Morse +who had murdered Metzer, the Runt had said. In Jimmie Dale's brain the +words began to reiterate themselves in a singsong fashion: “It was Stace +Morse. It was Stace Morse.” Then his lips drew tight together. WAS it +Stace Morse? He would have given a good deal for a chance to talk to the +man--even for a minute. But there was no possibility of that now. Later, +to-morrow perhaps, if he was wrong, after all! + +Jimmie Dale returned to the Sanctuary, removed from his person all +evidences of Larry the Bat--and from the Sanctuary went home to +Riverside Drive. + +In his den there, in the morning after breakfast, Jason, the butler, +brought him the papers. Three-inch headlines in red ink screamed, +exulted, and shrieked out the news that the Gray Seal, in the person of +Stace Morse, fence, yeggman and murderer, had been captured. The public, +if it had held any private admiration for the one-time mysterious crook +could now once and forever disillusion itself. The Gray Seal was Stace +Morse--and Stace Morse was of the dregs of the city's scum, a pariah, +an outcast, with no single redeeming trait to lift him from the ruck +of mire and slime that had strewn his life from infancy. The face of +Inspector Clayton, blandly self-complacent, leaped out from the paper +to meet Jimmie Dale's eyes--and with it a column and a half of perfervid +eulogy. + +Something at first like dismay, the dismay of impotency, filled Jimmie +Dale--and then, cold, leaving him unnaturally calm, the old merciless +rage took its place. There was nothing to do now but wait--wait until +Carruthers should send that photograph. Then if, after all, he were +wrong--then he must find some other way. But was he wrong! The notebook +that Carruthers had given him, open at the sketch he had made of +Clayton, lay upon the desk. Jimmie Dale picked it up--he had already +spent quite a little time over it before breakfast--and examined it +again minutely, even resorting to his magnifying glass. He put it down +as a knock sounded at the door, and Jason entered with a silver card +tray. From Carruthers already! Jimmie Dale stepped quickly forward--and +then Jimmie Dale met the old man's eyes. It wasn't from Carruthers--it +was from HER! + +“The same shuffer brought it, Master Jim,” said Jason. + +Jimmie Dale snatched the envelope from the tray, and waved the other +from the room. As the door closed, he tore open the letter. There was +just a single line: + + +Jimmie--Jimmie, you haven't failed, have you? + + +Jimmie Dale stared at it. Failed! Failed--HER! The haggard look was in +his face again. It was the bond between them that was at stake--the Gray +Seal--the bond that had come, he knew for all time in that instant, to +mean his life. + +“God knows!” he muttered hoarsely, and flung himself into a lounging +chair, still staring at the note. + +The hours dragged by. Luncheon time arrived and passed--and then by +special messenger the little package from Carruthers came. + +Jimmie Dale started to undo the string, then laid the package down, +and held out his hands before him for inspection. They were trembling +visibly. It was a strange condition for Jimmie Dale either to witness or +experience, unlike him, foreign to him. + +“This won't do, Jimmie,” he said grimly, shaking his head. + +He picked up the package again, opened it, and from between two pieces +of cardboard took out a large photographic print. A moment, two, Jimmie +Dale examined it, used the magnifying glass again; and then a strange +gleam came into the dark eyes, and his lips moved. + +“I've won,” said Jimmie Dale, with ominous softness. “I've WON!” + +He was standing beside the rosewood desk, and he reached for the phone. +Carruthers would be at home now--he called Carruthers there. After a +moment or two he got the connection. + +“This is Jimmie, Carruthers,” he said. “Yes, I got it. Thanks. . . . +Yes. . . . Listen. I want you to get Inspector Clayton, and bring him up +here at once. . . . What? No, no--no! . . . How? . . . Why--er--tell him +you're going to run a full page of him in the Sunday edition, and you +want him to sit for a sketch. He'd go anywhere for that. . . . Yes. . . . +Half an hour. . . . YES. . . . Good-bye.” + +Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver; and, hastily now, began to write upon +a pad that lay before him on the desk. The minutes passed. As he wrote, +he scored out words and lines here and there, substituting others. At +the end he had covered three large pages with, to any one but himself, +an indecipherable scrawl. These he shoved aside now, and, very +carefully, very legibly, made a copy on fresh sheets. As he finished, he +heard a car draw up in front of the house. Jimmie Dale folded the copied +sheets neatly, tucked them in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and was +lolling lazily in his chair as Jason announced: “Mr. Carruthers, sir, +and another gentleman to see you.” + +“Show them up, Jason,” instructed Jimmie Dale. + +Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as they came in. Jason, well-trained +servant, closed the door behind them. + +“Hello, Carruthers; hello, inspector,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly, and +waved them to seats. “Take this chair, Carruthers.” He motioned to one +at his elbow. “Glad to see you, inspector--try that one in front of the +desk, you'll find it comfortable.” + +Carruthers, trying to catch Jimmie Dale's eye for some sort of a cue, +and, failing, sat down. Inspector Clayton stared at Jimmie Dale. + +“Oh, it's YOU, eh?” His eyes roved around the room, fastened for an +instant on some of Jimmie Dale's work on an easel, came back finally +to Jimmie Dale--and he plumped himself down in the chair indicated. +“Thought you was more'n a cub reporter,” he remarked, with a grin. +“You were too slick with your pencil. Pretty fine studio you got here. +Carruthers says you're going to draw me.” + +Jimmie Dale smiled--not pleasantly--and leaned suddenly over the desk. + +“Yes,” he said slowly, a grim intonation in his voice, “going to draw +you--TRUE TO LIFE.” + +With an exclamation, Clayton slued around in his chair, half rose, and +his shifty eyes, small and cunning, bored into Jimmie Dale's face. + +“What d'ye mean by that?” he snapped out + +“Just exactly what I say,” replied Jimmie Dale curtly. “No more, +no less. But first, not to be too abrupt, I want to join with the +newspapers in congratulating you on the remarkable--shall I call it +celerity, or acumen?--with which you solved the mystery of Metzer's +death, and placed the murderer behind the bars. It is really remarkable, +inspector, so remarkable, in fact, that it's almost--SUSPICIOUS. Don't +you think so? No? Well, that's what Mr. Carruthers was good enough to +bring you up here to talk over--in an intimate and confidential way, you +know.” + +Inspector Clayton surged up from his chair to his feet, his fists +clenched, the red sweeping over his face--and then he shook one fist at +Carruthers. + +“So that's your game, is it!” he stormed. “Trying to crawl out of that +twenty-five thousand reward, eh? And as for you”--he turned on Jimmie +Dale--“you've rigged up a nice little plant between you, eh? Well, it +won't work--and I'll make you squirm for this, both of you, damn you, +before I'm through!” He glared from one to the other for a moment--then +swung on his heel. “Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” he sneered, as he +started for the door. + +He was halfway across the room before Jimmie Dale spoke. + +“Clayton!” + +Clayton turned. Jimmie Dale was still leaning over the desk, but now one +elbow was propped upon it, and in the most casual way a revolver covered +Inspector Clayton. + +“If you attempt to leave this room,” said Jimmie Dale, without raising +his voice, “I assure you that I shall fire with as little compunction as +though I were aiming at a mad dog--and I apologise to all mad dogs for +coupling your name with them.” His voice rang suddenly cold. “Come back +here, and sit down in that chair!” + +The colour ebbed slowly from Clayton's face. He hesitated--then sullenly +retraced his steps; hesitated again as he reached the chair, and finally +sat down. + +“What--what d'ye mean by this?” he stammered, trying to bluster. + +“Just this,” said Jimmie Dale. “That I accuse you of the murder of Jake +Metzer--IT WAS YOU WHO MURDERED METZER.” + +“Good God!” burst suddenly from Carruthers. + +“You lie!” yelled Clayton--and again he surged up from his chair. + +“That is what Stace Morse said,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “Sit down!” + +Then Clayton tried to laugh. “You're--you're having a joke, ain't you? +It was Stace--I can prove it. Come down to headquarters, and I can prove +it. I got the goods on him all the way. I tell you”--his voice rose +shrilly--“it was Stace Morse.” + +“You are a despicable hound,” said Jimmie Dale, through set lips. +“Here”--he handed the revolver over to Carruthers--“keep him covered, +Carruthers. You're going to the CHAIR for this, Clayton,” he said, in +a fierce monotone. “The chair! You can't send another there in your +place--this time. Shall I draw you now--true to life? You've been +grafting for years on every disreputable den in your district. Metzer +was going to show you up; and so, Metzer being in the road, you removed +him. And you seized on the fact of Stace Morse having paid a visit to +him this afternoon to fix the crime on--Stace Morse. Proofs? Oh, yes, I +know you've manufactured proofs enough to convict him--if there weren't +stronger proofs to convict YOU.” + +“Convict ME!” Clayton's lower jaw hung loosely; but still he made +an effort at bluster. “You haven't a thing on me--not a thing--not a +thing.” + +Jimmie Dale smiled again--unpleasantly. + +“You are quite wrong, Clayton. See--here.” He took a sheet of paper from +the drawer of his desk. + +Clayton reached for it quickly. “What is it?” he demanded. + +Jimmie Dale drew it back out of reach. + +“Just a minute,” he said softly. “You remember, don't you, that in the +presence of Carruthers here, of myself, and of half a dozen reporters, +you stated that you had been alone with Metzer in his room at three +o'clock yesterday, and that it was you--alone--who found the body later +on at nine o'clock? Yes? I mention this simply to show that from your +own lips the evidence is complete that you had an OPPORTUNITY to commit +the crime. Now you may look at this, Clayton.” He handed over the sheet +of paper. + +Clayton took it, stared at it, turning it over from first one side to +the other. Then a sort of relief seemed to come to him and he gulped. + +“Nothing but a damned piece of blank paper!” he mumbled. + +Jimmie Dale reached over and took back the sheet. + +“You're wrong again, Clayton,” he said calmly. “It WAS quite blank +before I handed it to you--but not now. I noticed yesterday that your +hands were generally moist. I am sure they are more so now--excitement, +you know. Carruthers, see that he doesn't interrupt.” + +From a drawer, Jimmie Dale took out a little black bottle, the notebook +he had used the day before, and the photograph Carruthers had sent him. +On the sheet of paper Clayton had just handled, Jimmie Dale sprinkled a +little powder from the bottle. + +“Lampblack,” explained Jimmie Dale. He shook the paper carefully, +allowing the loose powder to fall on the desk blotter--and held out the +sheet toward Clayton. “Rather neat, isn't it? A very good impression, +too. Your thumb print, Clayton. Now don't move. You may look--not +touch.” He laid the paper down on the desk in front of Clayton. Beside +it he placed the notebook, open at the sketch--a black thumb print now +upon it. “You recall handling this yesterday, I'm sure, Clayton. I tried +the same experiment with the lampblack on it this morning, you see. And +this”--beside the notebook he placed the police photograph; that, +too, in its enlargement, showed, sharply defined, a thumb print on +a diamond-shaped background. “You will no doubt recognise it as an +official photograph, enlarged, taken of the gray seal on Metzer's +forehead--AND THE THUMB PRINT OF METZER'S MURDERER. You have only to +glance at the little scar at the edge of the centre loop to satisfy +yourself that the three are identical. Of course, there are a dozen +other points of similarity equally indisputable, but--” + +Jimmie Dale stopped. Clayton was on his feet--rocking on his feet. His +face was deathlike in its pallor. Moisture was oozing from his forehead. + +“I didn't do it! I didn't do it!” he cried out wildly. “My God, I tell +you, I DIDN'T do it--and--and--that would send me to the chair.” + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale coldly, “and that's precisely where you're +going--to the chair.” + +The man was beside himself now--racked to the soul by a paroxysm of +fear. + +“I'm innocent--innocent!” he screamed out. “Oh, for God's sake, don't +send an innocent man to his death. It WAS Stace Morse. Listen! Listen! +I'll tell the truth.” He was clawing with his hands, piteously, over the +desk at Jimmie Dale. “When the big rewards came out last week I stole +one of the gray seals from the bunch at headquarters to--to use it the +first time any crime was committed when I was sure I could lay my hands +on the man who did it. Don't you see? Of course he'd deny he was the +Gray Seal, just as he'd deny that he was guilty--but I'd have the +proof both ways and--and I'd collect the rewards, and--and--” The man +collapsed into the chair. + +Carruthers was up from his seat, his hands gripping tight on the edge of +the desk as he leaned over it. + +“Jimmie--Jimmie--what does this mean?” he gasped out. + +Jimmie Dale smiled--pleasantly now. + +“That he has told the truth,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “It is quite +true that Stace Morse committed the murder. Shows up the value of +circumstantial evidence though, doesn't it? This would certainly have +got him off, and convicted Clayton here before any jury in the land. But +the point is, Carruthers, that Stace Morse ISN'T the Gray Seal--and that +the Gray Seal is NOT a murderer.” + +Clayton looked up. “You--you believe me?” he stammered eagerly. + +Jimmie Dale whirled on him in a sudden sweep of passion. + +“NO, you cur!” he flashed. “It's not you I believe. I simply wanted your +confession before witnesses.” He whipped the three written sheets from +his pocket. “Here, substantially, is that confession written out.” He +passed it to Carruthers. “Read it to him, Carruthers.” + +Carruthers read it aloud. + +“Now,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “this spells ruin for you, Clayton. You +don't deserve a chance to escape prison bars, but I'm going to give you +one, for you're going to get it pretty stiff, anyhow. If you refuse to +sign this, I'll hand you over to the district attorney in half an hour, +and Carruthers and I will swear to your confession; on the other hand, +if you sign it, Carruthers will not be able to print it until to-morrow +morning, and that gives you something like fourteen hours to put +distance between yourself and New York. Here is a pen--if you are quick +enough to take us by surprise once you have signed, you might succeed in +making a dash for that door and effecting your escape--without forcing +us to compound a felony--understand?” + +Clayton's hand trembled violently as he seized the pen. He scrawled +his name--looked from one to the other--wet his lips--and then, taking +Jimmie Dale at his word, rushed for the door--and the door slammed +behind him. + +Carruthers' face was hard. “What did you let him go for, Jimmie?” he +said uncompromisingly. + +“Selfishness. Pure selfishness,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “They'd guy me +unmercifully if they ever heard of it at the St. James Club. The +honour is all yours, Carruthers. I don't appear on the stage. That's +understood? Yes? Well, then”--he handed over the signed confession--“is +the 'scoop' big enough?” + +Carruthers fingered the sheets, but his eyes in a bewildered way +searched Jimmie Dale's face. + +“Big enough!” he echoed, as though invoking the universe. “It's the +biggest thing the newspaper game has ever known. But how did you come to +do it? What started you? Where did you get your lead?” + +“Why, from you, I guess, Carruthers,” Jimmie Dale answered thoughtfully, +with artfully puckered brow. “I remembered that you had said last week +that the Gray Seal never left finger marks on his work--and I saw one on +the seal on Metzer's forehead. Then, you know, I lifted one corner where +the seal overlapped a thread of blood, and, underneath, the thread of +blood wasn't in the slightest disturbed; so, of course, I knew the seal +had been put on quite a long time after the man was dead--not until the +blood had dried thoroughly, to a crust, you know, so that even the damp +surface of the sticky side of the seal hadn't affected it. And then, +I took a dislike to Clayton somehow--and put two and two together, +and took a flyer in getting him to handle the notebook. I guess that's +all--no other reason on earth. Jolly lucky, don't you think?” + +Carruthers didn't say anything for a moment. When he spoke, it was +irrelevantly. + +“You saved me twenty-five thousand dollars on that reward, Jimmie.” + +“That's the only thing I regret,” said Jimmie Dale brightly. “It wasn't +nice of you, Carruthers, to turn on the Gray Seal that way. And +it strikes me you owe the chap, whoever he is, a pretty emphatic +exoneration after what you said in this morning's edition.” + +“Jimmie,” said Carruthers earnestly. “You know what I thought of him +before. It's like a new lease of life to get back one's faith in him. +You leave it to me. I'll put the Gray Seal on a pedestal to-morrow that +will be worthy of the immortals--you leave it to me.” + +And Carruthers kept his word. Also, before the paper had been an hour +off the press, Carruthers received a letter. It thanked Carruthers +quite genuinely, even if couched in somewhat facetious terms, for his +“sweeping vindication,” twitted him gently for his “backsliding,” + begged to remain “his gratefully,” and in lieu of signature there was a +gray-coloured piece of paper shaped like this: + +[Picture] + +Only there were no fingerprints on it. + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE MOTHER LODE + + +It was the following evening, and they had dined together again at the +St. James Club--Jimmie Dale, and Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS. +From Clayton and a discussion of the Metzer murder, the conversation had +turned, not illogically, upon the physiognomy of criminals in general. +Jimmie Dale, lazily ensconced now in a lounging chair in one of the +club's private library rooms, flicked a minute speck of cigar ash from +the sleeve of his dinner jacket, and smiled whimsically across the table +at his friend. + +“Oh, I dare say there's a lot in physiognomy, Carruthers,” he drawled. +“Never studied the thing, you know--that is, from the standpoint +of crime. Personally, I've only got one prejudice: I distrust, on +principle, the man who wears a perennial and pompous smirk--which isn't, +of course, strictly speaking, physiognomy at all. You see, a man can't +help his eyes being beady or his nose pronounced, but pomposity and a +smirk, now--” Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. + +Carruthers laughed--and then glanced ludicrously at Jimmie Dale, as the +door, ajar, was pushed open, and a man entered. + +“Speaking of angels,” murmured Jimmie Dale--and sat up in his chair. +“Hello, Markel!” he observed casually, “You've met Carruthers, of the +NEWS-ARGUS, haven't you?” + +Markel was fat and important; he had beady black eyes, fastidiously +trimmed whiskers--and a pronounced smirk. + +Markel blew his nose vigorously, coughed asthmatically, and held out his +hand. + +“Of course, certainly,” said he effusively. “I've met Carruthers several +times--used his sheet more than once to advertise a new bond flotation.” + +The dominant note in Markel's voice was an ingratiating and unpleasant +whine, and Carruthers nodded, not very cordially--and shook hands. + +Markel went back to the door, closed it carefully, and returned to the +table. + +“Fact is,” he smiled confidentially, “I saw you two come in here a few +minutes ago, and I've got something that I thought Carruthers might be +glad to have for his society column--say, in the Sunday edition.” + +He dove into the inside pocket of his coat, produced a large morocco +leather jeweller's case, and, holding it out over the table between +Carruthers and Jimmie Dale, suddenly snapped the cover open--and then, +with a complacent little chuckle that terminated in another fit of +coughing, spilled the contents on the table under the electric reading +lamp. + +Like a thing of living, pulsing fire it rolled before their eyes--a +magnificent diamond necklace, of wondrous beauty, gleaming and +scintillating as the light rays shot back from a thousand facets. + +For a moment, both men gazed at it without a word. + +“Little surprise for my wife,” volunteered Markel, with a debonair wave +of his pudgy hand, and trying to make his voice sound careless. + +The case lay open--patently displaying the name of the most famous +jewelry house in America. Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed on Markel's whiskers +where they were brushed outward in an ornate and fastidious gray-black +sweep. + +“By Jove!” he commented. “You don't do things by halves, do you, +Markel?” + +“Two hundred and ten thousand dollars I paid for that little bunch of +gewgaws,” said Markel, waving his hand again. Then he clapped Carruthers +heartily on the shoulder. “What do you think of it, Carruthers--eh? +Say, a photograph of it, and one of Mrs. Markel--eh? Please her, you +know--she's crazy on this society stunt--all flubdub to me of course. +How's it strike you, Carruthers?” + +Carruthers, very evidently, liked neither the man nor his manners, but +Carruthers, above everything else, was a gentleman. + +“To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Markel,” he said a little frigidly, +“I don't believe in this sort of thing. It's all right from a newspaper +standpoint, and we do it; but it's just in this way that owners of +valuable jewelry lay themselves open to theft. It simply amounts to +advising every crook in the country that you have a quarter of a million +at his disposal, which he can carry away in his vest pocket, once he can +get his hands on it--and you invite him to try.” + +Jimmie Dale laughed. “What Carruthers means, Markel, is that you'll have +the Gray Seal down your street. Carruthers talks of crooks generally, +but he thinks in terms of only one. He can't help it. He's been +trying so long to catch the chap that it's become an obsession. Eh, +Carruthers?” + +Carruthers smiled seriously. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I hope, though, +for Mr. Markel's sake, that the Gray Seal won't take a fancy to it--if +he does, Mr. Markel can say good-bye to his necklace.” + +“Pouf!” coughed Markel arrogantly. “Overrated! His cleverness is all +in the newspaper columns. If he knows what's good for him, he'll know +enough to leave this alone.” + +Jimmie Dale was leaning over the table poking gingerly with the tip of +his forefinger at the centre stone in the setting, revolving it gently +to and fro in the light--a very large stone, whose weight would hardly +be less than fifteen carats. Jimmie Dale lowered his head for a closer +examination--and to hide a curious, mocking little gleam that crept into +his dark eyes. + +“Yes, I should say you're right, Markel,” he agreed judicially. “He +ought to know better than to touch this. It--it would be too hard to +dispose of.” + +“I'm not worrying,” declared Markel importantly. + +“No,” said Jimmie Dale. “Two hundred and ten thousand, you said. +Any special--er--significance to the occasion, if the question's not +impertinent? Birthday, wedding anniversary--or something like that?” + +“No, nothing like that!” Markel grinned, winked secretively, and rubbed +his hands together. “I'm feeling good, that's all--I'm going to make the +killing of my life to-morrow.” + +“Oh!” said Jimmie Dale. + +Markel turned to Carruthers. “I'll let you in on that, too, Carruthers, +in a day or two, if you'll send a reporter around--financial man, you +know. It'll be worth your while. And now, how about this? What do you +say to a little article and the photos next Sunday?” + +There was a slight hint of rising colour in Carruthers' face. + +“If you'll send them to the society editor, I've no doubt he'll be able +to use them,” he said brusquely. + +“Right!” said Markel, and coughed, and patted Carruthers' shoulder +patronisingly again. “I'll just do that little thing.” He picked up the +necklace, dangled it till it flashed and flashed again under the light, +then restored it very ostentatiously to its case, and the case to his +pocket. “Thanks awfully, Carruthers,” he said, as he rose from his +chair. “See you again, Dale. Good-night!” + +Carruthers glared at the door as it closed behind the man. + +“Say it!” prodded Jimmie Dale sweetly. “Don't feel restrained because +you are a guest--I absolve you in advance.” + +“Rotter!” said Carruthers. + +“Well,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “You see--Carruthers?” + +Carruthers' match crackled savagely as he lighted a cigar. + +“Yes, I see,” he growled. “But I don't see--you'll pardon my saying +so--how vulgarity like that ever acquired membership in the St. James +Club.” + +“Carruthers,” said Jimmie Dale plaintively, “you ought to know better +than that. You know, to begin with, since it seems he has advertised +with you, that he runs some sort of brokerage business in Boston. He's +taken a summer home up here on Long Island, and some misguided chap put +him on the club's visitor's list. His card will NOT be renewed. Sleek +customer, isn't he? Trifle familiar--I was only introduced to him last +night.” + +Carruthers grunted, broke his burned match into pieces, and began to +toss the pieces into an ash tray. + +Jimmie Dale became absorbed in an inspection of his hands--those +wonderful hands with long, slim, tapering fingers, whose clean, pink +flesh masked a strength and power that was like to a steel vise. + +Jimmie Dale looked up. “Going to print a nice little story for him about +the 'costliest and most beautiful necklace in America'?” he inquired +innocently. + +Carruthers scowled. “No,” he said bluntly. “I am not. He'll read the +NEWS-ARGUS a long time before he reads anything about that, Jimmie.” + +But therein Carruthers was wrong--the NEWS-ARGUS carried the “story” of +Markel's diamond necklace in three-inch “caps” in red ink on the front +page in the next morning's edition--and Carruthers gloated over it +because the morning NEWS-ARGUS was the ONLY paper in New York that did. +Carruthers was to hear more of Markel and Markel's necklace than he +thought, though for the time being the subject dropped between the two +men. + +It was still early, barely ten o'clock, when Carruthers left the club, +and, preferring to walk to the newspaper offices, refused Jimmie Dale's +offer of his limousine. It was but five minutes later when Jimmie Dale, +after chatting for a moment or two with those about in the lobby, in +turn sought the coat room, where Markel was being assisted into his +coat. + +“Getting home early, aren't you, Markel?” remarked Jimmie Dale +pleasantly. + +“Yes,” said Markel, and ran his fingers fussily, comb fashion, through +his whiskers. “Quite a little run out to my place, you know--and with, +you know what, I don't care to be out too late.” + +“No, of course,” concurred Jimmie Dale, getting into his own coat. + +They walked out of the club together, and Markel climbed importantly +into the tonneau of a big gray touring car. + +“Ah--home, Peters,” he sniffed at his chauffeur; and then, with a +grandiloquent wave of his hand to Jimmie Dale: “'Night, Dale.” + +Jimmie Dale smiled with his eyes--which were hidden by the brim of his +hat. + +“Good-night, Markel,” he replied, and the smile crept curiously to +the corners of his mouth as he watched the gray car disappear down the +street. + +A limousine drew up, and Benson, Jimmie Dale's chauffeur, opened the +door. + +“Home, Mr. Dale?” he asked cheerily, touching his cap. “Yes, +Benson--home,” said Jimmie Dale absently, and stepped into the car. + +It was a luxurious car, as everything that belonged to Jimmie Dale was +luxurious--and he leaned back luxuriously on the cushions, extended +his legs luxuriously to their full length, plunged his hands into his +overcoat pockets--and then a change stole strangely, slowly over Jimmie +Dale. + +The sensitive fingers of his right hand in the pocket had touched, and +now played delicately over a sealed envelope that they had found there, +played over it as though indeed by the sense of touch alone they could +read the contents--and he drew his body gradually erect. + +It was another of those mysterious missives from--HER. The texture of +the paper was invariably the same--like this one. How had it come there? +Collusion with the coat boy at the club? That was hardly probable. +Perhaps it had been there before he had entered the club for dinner--he +remembered, now, that there had been several people passing, and that he +had been jostled slightly in crossing the sidewalk. What, however, did +it matter? It was there mysteriously, as scores of others had come to +him mysteriously, with never a clew to her identity, to the identity of +his--he smiled a little grimly--accomplice in crime. + +He took the envelope from his pocket and stared at it. His fingers had +not been at fault--it was one of hers. The faint, elusive, exquisite +fragrance of some rare perfume came to him as he held it. + +“I'd give,” said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself--“I'd give everything +I own to know who you are--and some day, please God, I will know.” + +Jimmie Dale tore the envelope very gently, as though the tearing almost +were an act of desecration--and extracted the letter from within. He +began to read aloud hurriedly and in snatches: + + +“DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Charleton Park Manor--Markel's house is the +second one from the gates on the right-hand side--library leads off +reception hall on left, door opposite staircase--telephone in reception +hall near vestibule entrance, left-hand side--safe is one of your +father's make, No. 14,321--clothes closet behind the desk--probably will +be kept in cash box--five servants; two men, three maids--quarters on +top story--Markel and wife occupy room over library--French windows to +dining room on opposite side of the house--opening on the lawn--get +it TO-NIGHT, Jimmie--TO-MORROW WOULD BE TOO LATE--dispose of it--see +fit--Henry Wilbur, Marshall Building, Broadway--fifth story--” + + +Through the glass-panelled front of the car, Jimmie Dale could see his +chauffeur's back, and the hand that held the letter dropped now to his +side, and Jimmie Dale stared--at his chauffeur's back. Then, presently, +he read the letter again, as though committing it to memory now; and +then, tearing the paper into tiny shreds, as he did with every one of +her communications, he reached out of the window and allowed the little +pieces to filter gradually from his hand. + +The Gray Seal! He smiled in his whimsical way. If it were ever known! +He, Jimmie Dale, with his social standing, his wealth, his position--the +Gray Seal! Not a police official, not a secret-service bureau probably +in the civilised world, but knew the name--not a man, woman, or child +certainly in this great city around him but to whom it was as +familiar as their own! Danger? Yes. A battle of wits? Yes. His against +everybody's--even against Carruthers', his old college chum! For, even +as a reporter, before he had risen to the editorial desk, and even now +that he had, Carruthers had been one of the keenest on the scent of the +Gray Seal. + +Danger? Yes. But it was worth it! Worth it a thousand times for the very +lure of the danger itself; but worth it most of all for his association +with her who, by some amazing means, verging indeed on the miraculous, +came into touch with all these things, and supplied him with the data on +which to work--that always some wrong might be righted, or gladness +come where there had been gloom before, or hope where there had been +despair--that into some fellow human's heart should come a gleam +of sunshine. Yes, in spite of the howls of the police, the virulent +diatribes of the press, an angry public screaming for his arrest, +conviction, and punishment, there were those perhaps who even on their +bended knees at night asked God's blessing on--the Gray Seal! + +Was it strange, then, after all, that the police, seeking a clew through +motive, should have been driven to frenzy on every occasion in finding +themselves forever confronted with what, from every angle they were able +to view it, was quite a purposeless crime! On one point only they +were right, the old dogma, the old, old cry, old as the institution of +police, older than that, old since time immemorial--CHERCHEZ LA FEMME! +Quite right--but also quite purposeless! Jimmie Dale's eyes grew +wistful. He had been “hunting for the woman in the case” himself, +now, for months and years indefatigably, using every resource at his +command--quite purposelessly. + +Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. Why go over all this to-night--there +were other things to do. She had come to him again--and this time with +a matter that entailed more than ordinary difficulty, more than usual +danger, that would tax his wits and his skill to the utmost, not only +to succeed, but to get out of it himself with a whole skin. Markel--eh? +Jimmie Dale leaned back in his seat, clasped his hands behind his +head--and his eyes, half closed now, were studying Benson's back again +through the plate-glass front. + +He was still sitting in that position as the car approached his +residence on Riverside Drive--but, as it came to a stop, and Benson +opened the door, it was a very alert Jimmie Dale that stepped to the +sidewalk. + +“Benson,” he said crisply, “I am going downtown again later on, but I +shall drive myself. Bring the touring car around and leave it in front +of the house. I'll run it into the garage when I get back--you need not +wait up.” + +“Very good, sir,” said Benson. + +In the hallway, Jason, the butler, who had been butler to Jimmie Dale's +father before him, took Jimmie Dale's hat and coat. + +“It's a fine evening, Master Jim,” said the privileged old man +affectionately. + +Jimmie Dale took out his silver cigarette case, selected a cigarette, +tapped it daintily on the cover of the case--and accepted the match the +old man hastily produced. + +“Yes, Jason.” said Jimmie Dale, pleasantly facetious, “it a fine night, +a glorious night, moon and stars and a balmy breeze--quite too fine, +indeed, to remain indoors. In fact, you might lay out my gray ulster; I +think I will go for a spin presently, when I have changed.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Jason. “Anything else, Master Jim?” + +“No; that's all, Jason. Don't sit up for me--you may go to bed now.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said the old man. + +Jimmie Dale went upstairs, opened the door of his own particular den on +the right of the landing, stepped inside, closed the door, switched on +the light--and Jimmie Dale's debonair nonchalance dropped from him as a +mask instantly--and it was another Jimmie Dale--the professional Jimmie +Dale. + +Quick now in every action, he swung aside the portiere that curtained +off the squat, barrel-shaped safe in the little alcove, opened the safe, +took out that curious leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools, +added to it a flashlight and an automatic revolver, closed the safe--and +passed into his dressing room. Here, he proceeded to divest himself +rapidly of his evening clothes, selecting in their stead a suit of dark +tweed. He heard Jason come up the stairs, pass along the hall, and mount +the second flight to his own quarters; and presently came the sound of +an automobile without. The dressing room fronted on the Drive--Jimmie +Dale looked out. Benson was just getting out of the touring car. +Slipping the leather girdle, then, around his waist, Jimmie Dale put on +his vest, then his coat--and walked briskly downstairs. + +Jason had laid out a gray ulster on the hall stand. Jimmie Dale put it +on, selected a leather cap with motor-goggle attachment that pulled down +almost to the tip of his nose, tucked a slouch hat into the pocket of +the ulster, and, leaving the house, climbed into his car. + +He glanced at his watch as he started--it was a quarter of eleven. +Jimmie Dale's lips pursed a little. + +“I guess it'll make a night of it, and a tight squeeze, at that, to get +back under cover before daylight,” he muttered. “I'll have to do some +tall speeding.” + +But at first, across the city and through Brooklyn, for all his +impatience, it was necessarily slow--after that, Jimmie Dale took +chances, and, once on the country roads of Long Island, the big, +powerful car tore through the night like a greyhound whose leash is +slipped. + +A half hour passed--Jimmie Dale's eyes shifting occasionally from the +gray thread of road ahead of him under the glare of the dancing lamps, +to the road map spread out at his feet, upon which, from time to time, +he focused his pocket flashlight. And then, finally, he slowed the car +to a snail's pace--he should be very near his destination--that very +ultra-exclusive subdivision of Charleton Park Manor. + +On either side of the road now was quite a thickly set stretch of wooded +land, rising slightly on the right--and this Jimmie Dale scrutinised +sharply. In fact, he stopped for an instant as he came opposite to a +wagon track--it seemed to be little more than that--that led in through +the trees. + +“If it's not too far from the seat of war,” commented Jimmie Dale to +himself, as he went on again, “it will do admirably.” + +And then, a hundred yards farther on, Jimmie Dale nodded his head in +satisfaction--he was passing the rather ornate stone pillars that marked +the entrance to Charleton Park Manor, and on which the initial promoters +of the subdivision, the real-estate people, had evidently deemed it good +advertising policy to expend a small fortune. + +Another hundred yards farther on, Jimmie Dale turned his car around +and returned past the gates to the wagon track again. The road was +deserted--not a car nor a vehicle of any description was in sight. +Jimmie Dale made sure of that--and in another instant Jimmie Dale's own +car, every light extinguished, had vanished--he had backed it up the +wagon track, just far enough in for the trees to screen it thoroughly +from the main road. + +Nor did Jimmie Dale himself appear again on the main road--until just as +he emerged close to the gates of Charleton Park Manor from a short cut +through the woods. Also, he was without his ulster now, and the slouch +hat had replaced the motor cap. + +Jimmie Dale, in the moonlight, took stock of his surroundings, as he +passed in at a businesslike walk through the gates. It was a large park, +if that name could properly be applied to it at all, and the houses--he +caught sight of one set back from the driveway on the right--were quite +far apart, each in its own rather spacious grounds among the trees. + +“The second house on the right,” her letter had said. Jimmie Dale had +already passed the first one--the next would be Markel's then--and it +loomed ahead of him now, black and shadowy and unlighted. + +Jimmie Dale shot a glance around him--there was stillness, quiet +everywhere--no sign of life--no sound. + +Jimmie Dale's face became tense, his lips tight--and he stepped suddenly +from the sidewalk in among the trees. They were not thick here, of +course, the trees, and the turf beneath his feet was well kept--and, +therefore, soundless. He moved quickly now, but cautiously, from tree to +tree, for the moonlight, flooding the lawn and house, threw all objects +into bold relief. + +A minute, two, three went by--and a shadow flitted here and there across +the light-green sward, like the moving of the trees swaying in the +breeze--and then Jimmie Dale was standing close up against one side of +the house, hidden by the protecting black shadows of the walls. + +But here, for a moment, Jimmie Dale seemed little occupied with the +house itself--he was staring down past its length to where the woods +made a heavy, dark background at the rear. Then he turned his head, +to face directly to the main road, then back again slowly, as though +measuring an angle. Jimmie Dale had no intention of making his escape by +the roundabout way in which he had been forced to come in order to make +certain of locating the right house, the second one from the gates--and +he was getting the bearings of his car and the wagon track now. + +“I guess that'll be about right,” Jimmie Dale muttered finally. “And now +for--” + +He slipped along the side of the house and halted where, almost on a +level with the ground, the French windows of the dining room opened on +the lawn. Jimmie Dale tried them gently. They were locked. + +An indulgent smile crept to Jimmie Dale's lips--and his hand crept in +under his vest. It came out again--not empty--and Jimmie Dale leaned +close against the window. There was a faint, almost inaudible, +scratching sound, then a slight, brittle crack--and Jimmie Dale laid a +neat little four-inch square of glass on the ground at his feet. Through +the aperture he reached in his hand, turned the key that was in the +lock, turned the bolt-rod handle, pushed the doors silently open--wide +open--left them open--and stepped into the room. + +He could see quite well within, thanks to the moonlight. Jimmie Dale +produced a black silk mask from one of the little leather pockets, +adjusted it carefully over his face, and crossed the room to the hall +door. He opened this--wide open--left it open--and entered the hall. + +Here it was dark--a pitch blackness. He stood for a moment, +listening--utter silence. And then--alert, strained, tense in an +instant, Jimmie Dale crouched against the wall--and then he smiled a +little grimly. It was only some one coughing upstairs--Markel--in his +sleep, perhaps, or, perhaps--in wakefulness. + +“I'm a fool!” confided Jimmie Dale to himself, as he recognised the +cough that he had heard at the club. “And yet--I don't know. One's +nerves get sort of taut. Pretty stiff business. If I'm ever caught, the +penitentiary sentence I get will be the smallest part of what's to pay.” + +A round button of light played along the wall from the flashlight in +his hand--just for an instant--and all was blackness again. But in that +instant Jimmie Dale was across the hall, and his fingers were tracing +the telephone connection from the instrument to where the wires +disappeared in the baseboard of the floor. Another instant, and he had +severed the wires with a pair of nippers. + +Again the quick, firefly gleam of light to locate the stair case and the +library door opposite to it--and, moving without the slightest noise, +Jimmie Dale's hand was on the door itself. Again he paused to listen. +All was silence now. + +The door swung under his hand, and, left open behind him, he was in +the room. The flashlight winked once--suspiciously. Then he snapped its +little switch, keeping the current on, and the ray dodged impudently +here and there all over the apartment. + +The safe was set in a sort of clothes closet behind the desk, she had +said. Yes, there it was--the door, at least. Jimmie Dale moved toward +it--and paused as his light swept the top of the intervening desk. A +mass of papers, books, and correspondence littered it untidily. The +yellow sheet of a telegram caught Jimmie Dale's eye. + +He picked it up and glanced at it. It read: + + +“Vein uncovered to-day. Undoubtedly mother lode. Enormously rich. Put +the screws on at once. THURL.” + + +Under the mask, Jimmie Dale's lips twitched. + +“I think, Markel, you miserable hound,” said he softly, “that God will +forgive me for depriving you of a share of the profits. Two hundred and +ten thousand, I think it was, you said the sparklers cost.” A curious +little sound came from Jimmie Dale's lips--like a chuckle. + +Jimmie Dale tossed the telegram back on the desk, moved on behind the +desk, opened the door of the closet that had been metamorphosed into +a vault--and the white light travelled slowly, searchingly, critically +over the shining black-enamelled steel, the nickelled knobs, and dials +of a safe that confronted him. + +Jimmie Dale nodded at it--familiarly, grimly. + +“It's number one-four-three-two-one, all right,” he murmured. “And one +of the best we ever made. Pretty tough. But I've done it before. Say, +half an hour of gentle persuasion. It would be too bad to crack it with +'soup'--besides, that's crude--Carruthers would never forgive the Gray +Seal for that!” + +The light went out--blackness fell. Jimmie Dale's slim, sensitive +fingers closed on the dial's knob, his head touched the steel front of +the safe as he pressed his ear against it for the tumblers' fall. + +And then silence. It seemed to grow heavier, that silence, with +each second--to palpitate through the quiet house--to grow pregnant, +premonitory of dread, of fear--it seemed to throb in long undulations, +and the stillness grew LOUD. A moonbeam filtered in between the edge +of the drawn shade and the edge of the window. It struggled across the +floor in a wavering path, strayed over the desk, and died away, shadowy +and formless, against the blackness of the opened recess door, against +the blackness of the great steel safe, the blackness of a huddled +form crouched against it. Only now and then, in a strange, projected, +wraithlike effect, the moon ray glinted timidly on the tip of a nickel +dial, and, ghostlike, disclosed a human hand. + +Upstairs, Markel coughed again. Then from the safe a whisper, +heavy-breathed as from great exertion: + +“MISSED IT!” + +The dial whirled with faint, musical, little metallic clicks; then +began to move slowly again, very, very slowly. The moonbeam, as though +petulant at its own abortive attempt to satisfy its curiosity, retreated +back across the floor, and faded away. + +Blackness! + +Time passed. Then from the safe again, but now in a low gasp, a pant of +relief: + +“Ah!” + +The ear might barely catch the sound--it was as of metal sliding in +well-oiled grooves, of metal meeting metal in a padded thud. The massive +door swung outward. Jimmie Dale stood up, easing his cramped muscles, +and flirted the sweat beads from his forehead. + +After a moment, he knelt again. There was still the inner door--but that +was a minor matter to Jimmie Dale compared with what had gone before. + +Stillness once more--a long period of it. And then again that cough from +above--a prolonged paroxysm of it this time that went racketing through +the house. + +Jimmie Dale, in the act of swinging back the inner door of the safe, +paused to listen, and little furrows under his mask gathered on his +forehead. The coughing stopped. Jimmie Dale waited a moment, still +listening--then his flashlight bored into the interior of the safe. + +“The cash box, probably,” quoted Jimmie Dale, beneath his breath--and +picked it up from where it lay in the bottom compartment of the safe. + +The lock snipped under the insistent probe of a delicate little +blued-steel instrument, and Jimmie Dale lifted the cover. There was +a package of papers and documents on top, held together with elastic +bands. Jimmie Dale spent a moment or two examining these, then +his fingers dived down underneath, and the next minute, under the +flashlight, the morocco leather case open, the diamond necklace was +sparkling and flashing on its white satin bed. + +“A tempting little thing, isn't it?” said Jimmie Dale gently. “It was +really thoughtful of you, Markel, to buy that this afternoon!” + +Jimmie Dale replaced the necklace in the cash box, set the cash box on +the floor, closed the inner door of the safe, and swung the outer door +a little inward--but left it flauntingly ajar. Then from a pocket of the +leather girdle beneath his vest he produced his small, thin, flat, metal +case. From this, from between sheets of oil paper, with the aid of a +pair of tweezers, he lifted out a gray, diamond-shaped seal. Jimmie +Dale was apparently fastidious. He held the seal with the tweezers as +he moistened the adhesive side with his tongue, laid the seal on his +handkerchief, and pressed the handkerchief firmly against the safe--as +usual, Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no finger prints as it lay neatly +capping the knob of the dial. + +He reached down, picked up the cash box--and then, for the second time +that night, held suddenly tense, alert, listening, his every muscle +taut. A door opened upstairs. There came a murmur of voices. Then a +momentary lull. + +Jimmie Dale listened. Like a statue he stood there in the black, +absolutely motionless--his head a little forward and to one side. +Nothing--not a sound. Then a very low, curious, swishing noise, and a +faint creak. SOMEBODY WAS COMING DOWN THE STAIRS! + +Jimmie Dale moved stealthily from the recess, and noiselessly to the +desk. Very faintly, but distinctly now, came a pad of either slippered +or bare feet on the stairway carpet. Like a cat, soundless in his +movements, Jimmie Dale crept toward the door of the room. Down the +stairs came that pad of feet; occasionally came that swishing sound. +Nearer the door crept Jimmie Dale, and his lips were thinned now, his +jaws clamped. How near were they together, he and this night prowler? At +times he could not hear the other at all, and, besides, the heavy carpet +made the judgment of distance an impossibility. If he could gain the +hall, and, in the darkness, elude the other, the way of escape through +the dining room was open. And then, within a few feet of the door, +Jimmie Dale halted abruptly, as a woman's voice rose querulously from +the hallway above: + +“You are making a perfect fool of yourself, Theodore Markel! Come back +here to bed!” + +Jimmie Dale's face hardened like stone--the answer came almost from the +very threshold in front of him: + +“I can't sleep, I tell you”--it was Markel's voice, in a disgruntled +snarl. “I was a fool to bring the confounded thing home. I'm going to +take the library couch for the rest of the night.” + +It happened quick, then--quick as the winking of an eye. Two sharp, +almost simultaneous, clicks of the electric-light buttons pressed by +Markel, and the hall and library were a flood of light--and Jimmie Dale +leaped forward to where, in dressing gown and pajamas, blankets and +bedding over one arm, a revolver dangling in the other hand, Markel +stood full before the door in the hallway without. + +There was a wild yell of terror and surprise from Markel, then a +deafening roar and a spit of flame from his revolver--a bitter, +smothered exclamation from Jimmie Dale as the cash box crashed to the +floor from his left hand, and he was upon the other like a tiger. + +With the impact, both men went to the floor, grappled, and rolled over +and over. Half mad with fear, shock, and surprise, Markel fought like a +maniac, and his voice, in gasping shouts, rang through the house. + +A minute, two passed--and the men rolled about the hall floor. Markel, +over middle age and unheathily fat, against Jimmie Dale's six feet of +muscle--only Jimmie Dale's left hand, dripping a red stream now, was +almost useless. + +From above came wild confusion--women's voices in little shrieks; men's +voices shouting in excitement; doors opening, running feet. And then +Jimmie Dale had snatched the revolver from the floor where Markel +had dropped it in the scuffle, and was pressing it against Markel's +forehead--and Markel, terror-stricken, had collapsed in a flabby, pliant +heap. + +Jimmie Dale, still covering Markel with the weapon, stood up. The +frightened faces of women protruded over the banisters above. The two +men-servants, at best none too enthusiastically on the way down, stopped +as though stunned as Jimmie Dale swung the revolver upon them. + +Then Jimmie Dale spoke--to Markel--pointing the weapon at Markel again. + +“I don't like you, Markel,” he said, with cold impudence. “The only +decent thing you'll ever do will be to die--and if those men of yours +on the stairs move another step it will be your death warrant. Do you +understand? I would suggest that you request them to stay where they +are.” + +Cold sweat was on Markel's face as he stared into the muzzle of the +revolver, and his teeth chattered. + +“Go back!” he screamed hysterically at the servants. “Go back! Sit down! +Don't move! Do what he tells you!” + +“Thank you!” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “Now, get up yourself!” + +Markel got up. + +Jimmie Dale backed to the library door, picked up the cash box, tucked +it under his left armpit, and faced those on the stairs. + +“Mr. Markel and I are going out for a little walk,” he announced coolly. +“If one of you make a move or raise an alarm before your master comes +back, I shall be obliged, in self-defence, to shoot--Mr. Markel. Mr. +Markel quite understands that--I am sure. Do you not, Mr. Markel?” + +“Helen,” screamed Markel to his wife, “don't let 'em move! For God's +sake, do as he says!” + +Jimmie Dale's lips, just showing beneath the edge of his mask, broadened +in a pleasant little smile. + +“Will you lead the way, Mr. Markel?” he requested, with ironic +deference. “Through the dining room, please. Yes, that's right!” + +Markel walked weakly into the dining room, and Jimmie Dale followed. A +prod in the back from the revolver muzzle, and Markel stepped through +the French windows and out on the lawn. Jimmie Dale faced the other +toward the woods at the rear of the house. + +“Go on!” Jimmie Dale's voice was curt now, uncompromising. “And step +lively!” + +They passed on along the side of the house and in among the trees. Fifty +yards or so more, and Jimmie Dale halted. He backed Markel up against a +large tree--not over gently. + +“I--I say”--Markel's teeth were going like castanets. “I--” + +“You'll oblige me by keeping your mouth shut,” observed Jimmie Dale +politely--and he whipped the cord of Markel's dressing gown loose +and began to tie the man to the tree. “You have many unpleasant +characteristics, Markel--your voice is one of them. Shall I repeat that +I do not like you?” He stepped to the back of the tree. “Pardon me if I +draw this uncomfortably tight. I don't think you can reach around to the +knot. No? The trunk is too large? Quite so!” He stepped around to face +Markel again--the man was thoroughly frightened, his face was livid, his +jaw sagged weakly, and his eyes followed every movement of the revolver +in Jimmie Dale's hand in a sort of miserable fascination. Jimmie Dale +smiled unhappily. “I am going to do something, Markel, that I should +advise no other man to do--I am going to put you on your honour! For the +next fifteen minutes you are not to utter a sound. Do you understand?” + +“Y-yes,” said Markel hoarsely. + +“No,” said Jimmie Dale sadly, “I don' think you do. Let me be painfully +explicit. If you break your vow of silence by so much as a second, then +to-morrow, or the next day, or the day after, at my convenience, Markel, +you and I will meet again--for the LAST time. There can be no possible +misapprehension on your part now--Markel?” + +“N-no,”--Markel could scarcely chatter out the word. + +“Quite so,” said Jimmie Dale, in velvet tones. He stood for an +instant looking at the other with cool insolence; then: “Good-night, +Markel”--and five minutes later a great touring car was tearing New +Yorkward over the Long Island roads at express speed. + +It was one o'clock in the morning as Jimmie Dale swung the car into a +cross street off lower Broadway, and drew up at the curb beside a large +office building. He got out, snuggled the cash box under his ulster, +went around to the Broadway entrance, glanced up to note that a light +burned in a fifth-story window, and entered the building. + +The hallway was practically in darkness, one or two incandescents only +threw a dim light about. Jimmie Dale stopped for a moment at the foot +of the stairs, beside the elevator well, to listen--if the watchman was +making rounds, it was in another part of the building Jimmie Dale began +to climb. + +He reached the fifth floor, turned down the corridor, and halted in +front of a door, through the ground-glass panel of which a light glowed +faintly--as though coming from an inner office beyond. Jimmie Dale drew +the black silk mask from his pocket, adjusted it, tried the door, found +it unlocked, opened it noiselessly, and stepped inside. Across the +room, through another door, half open, the light streamed into the outer +office, where Jimmie Dale stood. + +Jimmie Dale stole across the room, crouched by the door to look into the +inner office--and his face went suddenly rigid. + +“Good God!” he whispered. “As bad as that!”--but it was a nonchalant +Jimmie Dale to all outward appearances that, on the instant, stepped +unconcernedly over the threshold. + +An elderly man, white-haired, kindly-faced, kindly-eyed, save now that +the face was drawn and haggard, the eyes full of weariness, was standing +behind a flat-topped desk, his fingers twitching nervously on a revolver +in his hand. He whirled, with a startled cry, at Jimmie Dale's entrance, +and the revolver clattered from his fingers to the floor. + +“I am afraid,” said Jimmie Dale, smiling pleasantly, “that you were +going to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur, Henry Wilbur, isn't it?” + +Unmanned, trembling, the other stood--and nodded mechanically. + +“It's really not a nice thing to do,” said Jimmie Dale confidentially. +“Makes a mess, you see, too”--he was pulling off his motor gauntlet, +his ulster, his jacket, and, having set the cash box on the desk, was +rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. “Had a little experience myself +this evening.” He held out his hand that, with the forearm, was covered +with blood. “A little above the wrist--fortunately only a flesh wound--a +little memento from a chap named Markel, and--” + +“MARKEL!” The word burst, quivering, from the other's lips. + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale imperturbably. “Do you mind if I wash a bit--and +could you oblige me with a towel, or something that would do for a +bandage?” + +The man seemed dazed. In a subconscious way, he walked from the desk to +a little cupboard, and took out two towels. + +Jimmie Dale stooped, while the other's back was turned, picked up the +revolver from the floor, and slipped it into his trousers pocket. + +“Markel?” said Wilbur again, the same trembling anxiety in his voice, as +he handed Jimmie Dale the towels and motioned toward a washstand in the +corner of the room. “Did you say Markel--Theodore Markel?” + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, examining his wound critically. + +“You had trouble--a fight with him? Is he--he--dead?” + +“No,” said Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly. “He's pretty badly +hurt, though, I imagine--but not in a physical way.” + +“Strange!” whispered Wilbur, in a numbed tone to himself; and he went +back and sank down in his desk chair. “Strange that you should speak of +Markel--strange that you should have come here to-night!” + +Jimmie Dale did not answer. He glanced now and then at the other, as he +deftly dressed his wrist--the man seemed on the verge of collapse, on +the verge of a nervous breakdown. Jimmie Dale swore softly to himself. +Wilbur was too old a man to be called upon to stand against the trouble +and anxiety that was mirrored in the misery in his face, that had +brought him to the point of taking his own life. + +Jimmie Dale put on his coat again, walked over to the desk, and picked +up the 'phone. + +“If I may?” he inquired courteously--and confided a number to the +mouthpiece of the instrument. + +There was a moment's wait, during which Wilbur, in a desperate sort of +way, seemed to be trying to rally himself, to piece together a puzzle, +as it were; and for the first time he appeared to take a personal +interest in the masked figure that leaned against his desk. He kept +passing his hands across his eyes, staring at Jimmie Dale. + +Then Jimmie Dale spoke--into the 'phone. + +“MORNING NEWS-ARGUS office? Mr. Carruthers, please. Thank you.” + +Another wait--then Jimmie Dale's voice changed its pitch and register to +a pleasant and natural, though quite unrecognisable bass. + +“Mr. Carruthers? Yes. I thought it might interest you to know that +Mr. Theodore Markel purchased a very valuable diamond necklace this +afternoon. . . . Oh, you knew that, did you? Well, so much the better; +you'll be all the more keenly interested to know that it is no longer in +his possession. . . . I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I quite forgot--this is the +Gray Seal speaking. . . . Yes. . . . The Gray Seal. . . . I have just +come from Mr. Markel's country house, and if you hurry a man out there +you ought to be able to give the public an exclusive bit of news, +a scoop, I believe you call it--you see, Mr. Carruthers, I am not +ungrateful for, I might say, the eulogistic manner in which the MORNING +NEWS-ARGUS treated me in that last affair, and I trust I shall be able +to do you many more favours--I am deeply in your debt. And, oh, yes, +tell your reporter not to overlook the detail of Mr. Markel in his +pajamas and dressing gown tied to a tree in his park--Mr. Markel might +be inclined to be reticent on that point, and it would be a pity to +deprive the public of any--er--'atmosphere' in the story, you know. . . . +What? . . . No; I am afraid Mr. Markel's 'phone is--er--out of order. +. . . Yes. . . . And, by the way, speaking of 'phones, Mr. Carruthers, +between gentlemen, I know you will make no effort under the +circumstances to discover the number I am calling from. Good-night, Mr. +Carruthers.” Jimmie Dale hung the receiver abruptly on the hook. + +“You see,” said Jimmie Dale, turning to Wilbur--and then he stopped. The +man was on his feet, swaying there, his face positively gray. + +“My God!” Wilbur burst out. “What have you done? A thousand times better +if I had shot myself, as I would have done in another moment if you had +not come in. I was only ruined then--I am disgraced now. You have robbed +Markel's safe--I am the one man in the world who would have a reason +above all others for doing that--and Markel knows it. He will accuse +me of it. He can prove I had a motive. I have not been home to-night. +Nobody knows I am here. I cannot prove an alibi. What have you done!” + +“Really,” said Jimmie Dale, almost plaintively, swinging himself up on +the corner of the desk and taking the cash box on his knee, “really, you +are alarming yourself unnecessarily. I--” + +But Wilbur stopped him. “You don't know what you are talking about!” + Wilbur cried out, in a choked way; then, his voice steadying, he rushed +on: “Listen! I am a ruined man, absolutely ruined. And Markel has ruined +me--I did not see through his trick until too late. Listen! For years, +as a mining engineer, I made a good salary--and I saved it. Two years +ago I had nearly seventy thousand dollars--it represented my life work. +I bought an abandoned mine in Alaska for next to nothing--I was certain +it was rich. A man by the name of Thurl, Jason T. Thurl, another mining +engineer, a steamer acquaintance, was out there at the time--he was a +partner of Markel's, though I didn't know it then. I started to work the +mine. It didn't pan out. I dropped nearly every cent. Then I struck +a small vein that temporarily recouped me, and supplied the necessary +funds with which to go ahead for a while. Thurl, who had tried to buy +the mine out from under my option in the first place, repeatedly then +tried to buy it from me at a ridiculous figure. I refused. He persisted. +I refused--I was confident, I KNEW I had one of the richest properties +in Alaska.” + +Wilbur paused. A little row of glistening drops had gathered on his +forehead. Jimmie Dale, balancing Markel's cash box on one knee, drummed +softly with his finger tips on the cover. + +“The vein petered out,” Wilbur went on. “But I was still confident. +I sank all the proceeds of the first strike--and sank them fast, for +unaccountable accidents that crippled me both financially and in the +progress of the work began to happen.” Wilbur flung out his hands +impotently. “Oh, it's a long story--too long to tell. Thurl was at the +bottom of those accidents. He knew as well as I did that the mine was +rich--better than I did, for that matter, for we discovered before we +ran him out of Alaska that he had made secret borings on the property. +But what I did not know until a few hours ago was that he had actually +uncovered what we uncovered only yesterday--the mother lode. He was +driving me as fast as he could into the last ditch--for Markel. I +didn't know until yesterday that Markel had any thing to do with it. I +struggled on out there, hoping every day to open a new vein. I raised +money on everything I had, except my insurance and the mine--and sank +it in the mine. No one out there would advance me anything on a property +that looked like a failure, that had once already been abandoned. I +have always kept an office here, and I came back East with the idea of +raising something on my insurance. Markel, quite by haphazard as I then +thought, was introduced to me just before we left San Francisco on +our way to New York. On the run across the continent we became very +friendly. Naturally, I told him my story. He played sympathetic good +fellow, and offered to lend me fifty thousand dollars on a demand note. +I did not want to be involved for a cent more than was necessary, and, +as I said, I hoped from day to day to make another strike. I refused +to take more than ten thousand. I remember now that he seemed strangely +disappointed.” + +Again Wilbur stopped. He swept the moisture from his forehead--and his +fist, clenched, came down upon the desk. + +“You see the game!”--there was bitter anger in his voice now. “You see +the game! He wanted to get me in deep enough so that I couldn't wriggle +out, deeper than ten thousand that I could get at any time on my +insurance, he wanted me where I couldn't get away--and he got me. The +first ten thousand wasn't enough. I went to him for a second, a third, a +fourth, a fifth--hoping always that each would be the last. Each time a +new note, a demand note for the total amount, was made, cancelling the +former one. I didn't know his game, didn't suspect it--I blessed God for +giving me such a friend--until this, or, rather, yesterday afternoon, +when I received a telegram from my manager at the mine saying that +he had struck what looked like a very rich vein--the mother lode. +And”--Wilbur's fist curled until the knuckles were like ivory in their +whiteness--“he added in the telegram that Thurl had wired the news of +the strike to a man in New York by the name of Markel. Do you see? I +hadn't had the telegram five minutes, when a messenger brought me a +letter from Markel curtly informing me that I would have to meet my note +to-morrow morning. I can't meet it. He knew I couldn't. With wealth in +sight--I'm wiped out. A DEMAND note, a call loan, do you understand--and +with a few months in which to develop the new vein I could pay it +readily. As it is--I default the note--Markel attaches all I have left, +which is the mine. The mine is sold to satisfy my indebtedness. Markel +buys it in legally, upheld by the law--and acquires, ROBS me of it, +and--” + +“And so,” said Jimmie Dale musingly, “you were going to shoot yourself?” + +Wilbur straightened up, and there was something akin to pathetic +grandeur in the set of the old shoulders as they squared back. + +“Yes!” he said, in a low voice. “And shall I tell you why? Even if, +which is not likely, there was something reverting to me over the +purchase price, it would be a paltry thing compared with the mine. I +have a wife and children. If I have worked for them all my life, could I +stand back now at the last and see them robbed of their inheritance by a +black-hearted scoundrel when I could still lift a hand to prevent it! +I had one way left. What is my life? I am too old a man to cling to it +where they are concerned. I have referred to my insurance several times. +I have always carried heavy insurance”--he smiled a little curious, +mirthless smile--“THAT HAS NO SUICIDE CLAUSE.” He swept his hand over +the desk, indicating the papers scattered there. “I have worked late +to-night getting my affairs in order. My total insurance is fifty-two +thousand dollars, though I couldn't BORROW anywhere near the full amount +on it--but at my death, paid in full, it would satisfy the note. My +executors, by instruction would pay the note--and no dollar from the +mine, no single grain of gold, not an ounce of quartz, would Markel ever +get his hands on, and my wife and children would be saved. That is--” + +His words ended abruptly--with a little gasp. Jimmie Dale had opened +the cash box and was dangling the necklace under the light--a stream of +fiery, flashing, sparkling gems. + +Then Wilbur spoke again, a hard, bitter note in his voice, pointing his +hand at the necklace. + +“But now, on top of everything, you have brought me disgrace--because +you broke into his safe to-night for THAT? He would and will accuse me. +I have heard of you--the Gray Seal--you have done a pitiful night's work +in your greed for that thing there.” + +“For this?” Jimmie Dale smiled ironically, holding the necklace up. +Then he shook his head. “I didn't break into Markel's safe for this--it +wouldn't have been worth while. It's only paste.” + +“PASTE!” exclaimed Wilbur, in a slow way. + +“Paste,” said Jimmie Dale placidly, dropping the necklace back into its +case. “Quite in keeping with Markel, isn't it--to make a sensation on +the cheap?” + +“But that doesn't change matters!” Wilbur cried out sharply, after a +numbed instant's pause. “You still broke into the safe, even if you +didn't know then that the necklace was paste.” + +“Ah, but, you see--I did know then,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “I am +really--you must take my word for it--a very good judge of stones, and I +had--er--seen these before.” + +Wilbur stared--bewildered, confused. + +“Then why--what was it that--” + +“A paper,” said Jimmie Dale, with a little chuckle--and produced it from +the cash box. “It reads like this: 'On demand, I promise to pay--'” + +“My note!” It came in a great, surging cry from Wilbur; and he strained +forward to read it. + +“Of course,” said Jimmie Dale. “Of course--your note. Did you think that +I had just happened to drop in on you? Now, then, see here, you just +buck up, and--er--smile. There isn't even a possibility of you being +accused of the theft. In the first place, Markel saw quite enough of me +to know that it wasn't you. Secondly, neither Markel nor any one else +would ever dream that the break was made for anything else but the +necklace, with which you have no connection--the papers were in the cash +box and were just taken along with it. Don't you see? And, besides, the +police, with my very good friend, Carruthers at their elbows, will see +very thoroughly to it that the Gray Seal gets full and ample credit for +the crime. But”--Jimmie Dale pulled out his watch, and yawned under his +mask--“it's getting to be an unconscionable hour--and you've still a +letter to write.” + +“A letter?” Wilbur's voice was broken, his lips quivering. + +“To Markel,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Write him in reply to his +letter of the afternoon, and post it before you leave here--just as +though you had written it at once, promptly, on receipt of his. He will +still get it on the morning delivery. State that you will take up the +note immediately on presentation at whatever bank he chooses to name. +That's all. Seeing that he hasn't got it, he can't very well present +it--can he? Eventually, having--er--no use for fake diamonds, I +shall return the necklace, together with the papers in his cash box +here--including your note.” + +“Eventually?” Uncomprehendingly, stumblingly, Wilbur repeated the word. + +“In a month or two or three, as the case may be,” explained Jimmie +Dale brightly. “Whenever you insert a personal in the NEWS-ARGUS to +the effect that the mother lode has given you the cash to meet it.” He +replaced the note in the cash box, slipped down to his feet from the +desk--and then he choked a little. Wilbur, the tears streaming down +his face, unable to speak, was holding out his hands to Jimmie Dale. +“I--er--good-night!” said Jimmie Dale hurriedly--and stepped quickly +from the room. + +Halfway down the first flight of stairs he paused. Steps, running after +him, sounded along the corridor above; and then Wilbur's voice. + +“Don't go--not yet,” cried the old man. “I don't understand. How did you +know--who told you about the note?” + +Jimmie Dale did not answer--he went on noiselessly down the stairs. His +mask was off now, and his lips curved into a strange little smile. + +“I wish I knew,” said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE + + +It was still early in the evening, but a little after nine o'clock. +The Fifth Avenue bus wended its way, jouncing its patrons, particularly +those on the top seats, across town, and turned into Riverside Drive. A +short distance behind the bus, a limousine rolled down the cross street +leisurely, silently. + +As the lights of passing craft on the Hudson and a myriad scintillating, +luminous points dotting the west shore came into view, Jimmie Dale rose +impulsively from his seat on the top of the bus, descended the little +circular iron ladder at the rear, and dropped off into the street. It +was only a few blocks farther to his residence on the Drive, and +the night was well worth the walk; besides, restless, disturbed, and +perplexed in mind, the walk appealed to him. + +He stepped across to the sidewalk and proceeded slowly along. A month +had gone by and he had not heard a word from--HER. The break on West +Broadway, the murder of Metzer in Moriarty's gambling hell, the theft +of Markel's diamond necklace had followed each other in quick +succession--and then this month of utter silence, with no sign of her, +as though indeed she had never existed. + +But it was not this temporary silence on her part that troubled Jimmie +Dale now. In the years that he had worked with this unknown, mysterious +accomplice of his whom he had never seen, there had been longer +intervals than a bare month in which he had heard nothing from her--it +was not that. It was the failure, total, absolute, and complete, +that was the only result for the month of ceaseless, unremitting, +doggedly-expended effort, even as it had been the result many times +before, in an attempt to solve the enigma that was so intimate and vital +a factor in his own life. + +If he might lay any claims to cleverness, his resourcefulness, at +least, he was forced to admit, was no match for hers. She came, she went +without being seen--and behind her remained, instead of clews to her +identity, only an amazing, intangible mystery, that left him at times +appalled and dismayed. How did she know about those conditions in West +Broadway, how did she know about Metzer's murder, how did she know about +Markel and Wilbur--how did she know about a hundred other affairs of the +same sort that had happened since that night, years ago now, when out of +pure adventure he had tampered with Marx's, the jeweller's strong +room in Maiden Lane, and she had, mysteriously then, too, solved HIS +identity, discovered him to be the Gray Seal? + +Jimmie Dale, wrapped up in his own thoughts, entirely oblivious to his +surroundings, traversed another block. There had never been since the +world began, and there would never be again, so singular and bizarre a +partnership as this--of hers and his. He, Jimmie Dale, with his strange +double life, one of New York's young bachelor millionaires, one whose +social status was unquestioned; and she, who--who WHAT? That was just +it! Who what? What was she? What was her name? What one personal, +intimate thing did he know about her? And what was to be the end? +Not that he would have severed his association with her--not for +worlds!--though every time, that, by some new and curious method, one of +her letters found its way into his hands, outlining some fresh coup +for him to execute, his peril and danger of discovery was increased in +staggering ratio. To-day, the police hunted the Gray Seal as they hunted +a mad dog; the papers stormed and raved against him: in every detective +bureau of two continents he was catalogued as the most notorious +criminal of the age--and yet, strange paradox, no single crime had ever +been committed! + +Jimmie Dale's strong, fine-featured face lighted up. Crime! Thanks to +her, there were those who blessed the name of the Gray Seal, those +into whose lives had come joy, relief from misery, escape from death +even--and their blessings were worth a thousandfold the risk and peril +of disaster that threatened him at every minute of the day. + +“Thank God for her!” murmured Jimmie Dale softly. “But--but if I could +only find her, see her, know who she is, talk to her, and hear her +voice!” Then he smiled a little wanly. “It's been a pretty tough +month--and nothing to show for it!” + +It had! It had been one of the hardest months through which Jimmie Dale +had ever lived. The St. James, that most exclusive club, his favourite +haunt, had seen nothing of him; the easel in his den, that was his +hobby, had been untouched; there had been days even when he had not +crossed the threshold of his home. Every resource at his command he +had called into play in an effort to solve the mystery. For nearly the +entire month, following first this lead and then that, he had lived in +the one disguise that he felt confident she knew nothing of--that was, +or, rather, had become, almost a dual personality with him. From the +Sanctuary, that miserable and disreputable room in a tenement on the +East Side, a tenement that had three separate means of entrance and +exit, he had emerged day after day as Larry the Bat, a character as well +known and as well liked in the exclusive circles of the underworld as +was Jimmie Dale in the most exclusive strata of New York's society +and fashion. And it had been useless--all useless. Through his own +endeavours, through the help of his friends of the underworld, the +lives of half a dozen men, Bert Hagan's on West Broadway, for instance, +Markel's, and others', had been laid bare to the last shred, but nowhere +could be found the one vital point that linked their lives with hers, +that would account for her intimate knowledge of them, and so furnish +him with the clew that would then with certainty lead him to a solution +of her identity. + +It was baffling, puzzling, unbelievable, bordering, indeed, on the +miraculous--herself, everything about her, her acts, her methods, her +cleverness, intangible in one sense, were terrifically real in another. +Jimmie Dale shook his head. The miraculous and this practical, everyday +life were wide and far apart. There was nothing miraculous about it--it +was only that the key to it was, so far, beyond his reach. + +And then suddenly Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders in consonance with +a whimsical change in both mood and thought. + +“Larry the Bat, is a hard taskmaster!” he muttered facetiously. “I'm +afraid I'm not very presentable this evening--no bath this morning, +and no shave, and, after nearly a month of make-up, that beastly grease +paint gets into the skin creases in a most intimate way.” He chuckled +as the thought of old Jason, his butler, came to him. “I saw Jason, +torn between two conflicting emotions, shaking his head over the black +circles under my eyes last night--he didn't know whether to worry over +the first signs of a galloping decline, or break his heart at witnessing +the young master he had dandled on his knees going to the damnation +bowwows and turning into a confirmed roue! I guess I'll have to mind +myself, though. Even Carruthers detached his mind far enough from his +editorial desk and the hope of exclusively publishing the news of the +Gray Seal's capture in the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, to tell me I was looking +seedy. It's wonderful the way a little paint will metamorphose a man! +Well, anyway, here's for a good hot tub to-night, and a fresh start!” + +He quickened his pace. There were still three blocks to go, and here was +no hurrying, jostling crowd to impede his progress; indeed, as far as he +could see up the Drive, there was not a pedestrian in sight. And then, +as he walked, involuntarily, insistently, his mind harked back into the +old groove again. + +“I've tried to picture her,” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself. “I've +tried to picture her a hundred, yes, a thousand times, and--” + +A bus, rumbling cityward, went by him, squeaking, creaking, and rattling +in its uneasy joints--and out of the noise, almost at his elbow it +seemed, a voice spoke his name--and in that instant intuitively he KNEW, +and it thrilled him, stopped the beat of his heart, as, dulcet, soft, +clear as the note of a silver bell it fell--and only one word: + +“Jimmie!” + +He whirled around. A limousine, wheels just grazing the curb, was +gliding slowly and silently past him, and from the window a woman's +arm, white-gloved and dainty, was extended, and from the fingers to the +pavement fluttered an envelope--and the car leaped forward. + +For the fraction of a second, Jimmie Dale stood dazed, immovable, a +gamut of emotions, surprise, fierce exultation, amazement, a strange +joy, a mighty uplift, swirling upon him--and then, snatching up the +envelope from the ground, he sprang out into the road after the car. It +was the one chance he had ever had, the one chance she had ever given +him, and he had seen--a white-gloved arm! He could not reach the car, +it was speeding away from him like an arrow now, but there was something +else that would do just as well, something that with all her cleverness +she had overlooked--the car's number dangling on the rear axle, the +rays of the little lamp playing on the enamelled surface of the plate! +Gasping, panting, he held his own for a yard or more, and there floated +back to him a little silvery laugh from the body of the limousine, and +then Jimmie Dale laughed, too, and stopped--it was No. 15,836! + +He stood and watched the car disappear up the Drive. What delicious +irony! A month of gruelling, ceaseless toil that had been vain, futile, +useless--and the key, when he was not looking for it, unexpectedly, +through no effort of his, was thrust into his hand--No. 15,836! + +Jimmie Dale, the gently ironic smile still on his lips, those slim, +supersensitive fingers of his subconsciously noting that the texture of +the envelope was the same as she always used, retraced his steps to the +sidewalk. + +“Number fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six,” said Jimmie Dale +aloud--and halted at the curb as though rooted to the spot. It sounded +strangely familiar, that number! He repeated it over again slowly: +“One-five-eight-three-six.” And the smile left his lips, and upon his +face came the look of a chastened child. She had used a duplicate plate! +Fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six was the number of one of +his own cars--his own particular runabout! + +For a moment longer he stood there, undecided whether to laugh or swear, +and then his eyes fastened mechanically on the envelope he was twirling +in his fingers. Here, at least, was something that was not elusive; +that, on the contrary, as a hundred others in the past had done, +outlined probably a grim night's work ahead for the Gray Seal! And, if +it were as those others had been, every minute from the moment of its +receipt was precious time. He stepped under the nearest street light, +and tore the envelope open. + +“Dear Philanthropic Crook,” it began--and then followed two closely +written pages. Jimmie Dale read them, his lips growing gradually +tighter, a smouldering light creeping into his dark eyes, and once he +emitted a short, low whistle of consternation--that was at the end, as +he read the post-script that was heavily underscored: “Work quickly. +They will raid to-night. Be careful. Look out for Kline, he is the +sharpest man in the United States secret service.” + +For a brief instant longer, Jimmie Dale stood under the street lamp, +his mind in a lightning-quick way cataloguing every point in her letter, +viewing every point from a myriad angles, constructing, devising, +mapping out a plan to dove-tail into them--and then Jimmie Dale swung on +a downtown bus. There was neither time nor occasion to go home now--that +marvellous little kit of burglar's tools that peeped from their tiny +pockets in that curious leather undervest, and that reposed now in +the safe in his den, would be useless to him to-night; besides, in the +breast pocket of his coat, neatly folded, was a black silk mask, and, +relics of his role of Larry the Bat, an automatic revolver, an +electric flashlight, a steel jimmy, and a bunch of skeleton keys, were +distributed among the other pockets of his smart tweed suit. + +Jimmie Dale changed from the bus to the subway, leaving behind him, +strewn over many blocks, the tiny and minute fragments into which he had +torn her letter; at Astor Place he left the subway, walked to Broadway, +turned uptown for a block to Eighth Street, then along Eighth Street +almost to Sixth Avenue--and stopped. + +A rather shabby shop, a pitiful sort of a place, displaying in its +window a heterogeneous conglomeration of cheap odds and ends, ink +bottles, candy, pencils, cigarettes, pens, toys, writing pads, marbles, +and a multitude of other small wares, confronted him. Within, a little, +old, sweet-faced, gray-haired woman stood behind the counter, pottering +over the rearrangement of some articles on the shelves. + +“My word!” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself. “You wouldn't believe it, +would you! And I've always wondered how these little stores managed to +make both ends meet. Think of that old soul making fifteen or twenty +thousand dollars from a layout like this--even if it has taken her a +lifetime!” + +Jimmie Dale had halted nonchalantly and unconcernedly by the curb, +not too near the window, busied apparently in an effort to light a +refractory cigarette; and then, about to enter the store, he gazed +aimlessly across the street for a moment instead. A man came briskly +around the corner from Sixth Avenue, opened the store door, and went in. + +Jimmie Dale drew back a little, and turned his head again as the door +closed--and a sudden, quick, alert, and startled look spread over his +face. + +The man who had entered bent over the counter and spoke to the old lady. +She seemed to listen with a dawning terror creeping over her features, +and then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears. The +man motioned toward a door at the rear of the store. She hesitated, +then came out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though her +limbs would not support her weight. + +Jimmie Dale's lips thinned. + +“I'm afraid,” he muttered slowly, “I'm afraid that I'm too late even +now.” And then, as she came to the door and turned the key on the +inside: “Pray Heaven she doesn't turn the light out--or somebody might +think I was trying to break in!” + +But in that respect Jimmie Dale's fears were groundless. She did not +turn out either of the gas jets that lighted the little shop; instead, +in a faltering, reluctant sort of manner, she led the way directly +through the door in the rear, and the man followed her. + +The shop was empty--and Jimmie Dale was standing against the door on the +outside. His position was perfectly natural--a hundred passers-by would +have noted nothing but a most commonplace occurrence--a man in the act +of entering a store. And, if he appeared to fumble and have trouble with +the latch, what of it! Jimmie Dale, however, was not fumbling--hidden by +his back that was turned to the street, those wonderful fingers of his, +in whose tips seemed embodied and concentrated every one of the human +senses, were working quickly, surely, accurately, without so much as the +wasted movement of a single muscle. + +A faint tinkle--and the key within fell from the lock to the floor. A +faint click--and the bolt of the lock slipped back. Jimmie Dale restored +the skeleton keys and a little steel instrument that accompanied them +to his pocket--and quietly opened the door. He stepped inside, picked up +the key from the floor, inserted it in the lock, closed the door behind +him, and locked it again. + +“To guard against interruption,” observed Jimmie Dale, a little +quizzically. + +He was, perhaps, thirty seconds behind the others. He crossed the shop +noiselessly, cautiously, and passed through the door at the rear. It +opened into a short passage that, after a few feet, gave on a sort of +corridor at right angles--and down this latter, facing him, at the end, +the door of a lighted room was open, and he could see the figure of the +man who had entered the shop, back turned, standing on the threshold. +Voices, indistinct, came to him. + +The corridor itself was dark; and Jimmie Dale, satisfied that he was +fairly safe from observation, stole softly forward. He passed two +doors on his left--and the curious arrangement of the building that had +puzzled him for a moment became clear. The store made the front of an +old tenement building, with apartments above, and the rear of the store +was a sort of apartment, too--the old lady's living quarters. + +Step by step, testing each one against a possible creaking of the floor, +Jimmie Dale moved forward, keeping close up against one wall. The man +passed on into the room--and now Jimmie Dale could distinguish every +word that was being spoken; and, crouched up, in the dark corridor, in +the angle of the wall and the door jamb itself, could see plainly enough +into the room beyond. Jimmie Dale's jaw crept out a little. + +A young man, gaunt, pale, wrapped in blankets, half sat, half reclined +in an invalid's chair; the old lady, on her knees, the tears streaming +down her face, had her arms around the sick man's neck; while the other +man, apparently upset at the scene, tugged vigorously at long, gray +mustaches. + +“Sammy! Sammy!” sobbed the woman piteously. “Say you didn't do it, +Sammy--say you didn't do it!” + +“Look here, Mrs. Matthews,” said the man with the gray mustaches gently, +“now don't you go to making things any harder. I've got to do my duty +just the same, and take your son.” + +The young man, a hectic flush beginning to burn on his cheeks, gazed +wildly from one to the other. + +“What--what is it?” he cried out. + +The man threw back his coat and displayed a badge on his vest. + +“I'm Kline of the secret service,” he said gravely. “I'm sorry, Sammy, +but I want you for that little job in Washington at the bureau--before +you left on sick leave!” + +Sammy Matthews struggled away from his mother's arms, pulled himself +forward in his chair--and his tongue licked dry lips. + +“What--what job?” he whispered thickly. + +“You know, don't you?” the other answered steadily. He took a large, +flat pocketbook from his pocket, opened it, and took out a five-dollar +bill. He held this before the sick man's eyes, but just out of reach, +one finger silently indicating the lower left-hand corner. + +Matthews stared at it for a moment, and the hectic flush faded to a +grayish pallor, and a queer, impotent sound gurgled in his throat. + +“I see you recognise it,” said the other quietly. “It's open and shut, +Sammy. That little imperfection in the plate's got you, my boy.” + +“Sammy! Sammy!” sobbed the woman again. “Sammy, say you didn't do it!” + +“It's a lie!” said Matthews hoarsely. “It's a lie! That plate was +condemned in the bureau for that imperfection--condemned and destroyed.” + +“Condemned TO BE destroyed,” corrected the other, without raising his +voice. “There's a little difference there, Sammy--about twenty years' +difference--in the Federal pen. But it wasn't destroyed; this note was +printed from it by one of the slickest gangs of counterfeiters in the +United States--but I don't need to tell you that, I guess you know who +they are. I've been after them a long time, and I've got them now, just +as tight as I've got you. Instead of destroying that plate, you stole +it, and disposed of it to the gang. How much did they give you?” + +Matthews' face seemed to hold a dumb horror, and his fingers picked at +the arms of the chair. His mother had moved from beside him now, and +both her hands were patting at the man's sleeve in a pitiful way, while +again and again she tried to speak, but no words would come. + +“It's a lie!” said Matthews again, in a colourless, mechanical way. + +The man glanced at Mrs. Matthews as he put the five-dollar note back +into his pocket, seemed to choke a little, shook his head, and all trace +of the official sternness that had crept into his voice disappeared. + +“It's no good,” he said in a low tone. “Don't do that, Mrs. Matthews, +I've got to do my duty.” He leaned a little toward the chair. “It's dead +to rights, Sammy. You might as well make a clean breast of it. It was +up to you and Al Gregor to see that the plate was destroyed. It WASN'T +destroyed; instead, it shows up in the hands of a gang of counterfeiters +that I've been watching for months. Furthermore, I've got the plate +itself. And finally, though I haven't placed him under arrest yet for +fear you might hear of it before I wanted you to and make a get-away, +I've got Al Gregor where I can put my hands on him, and I've got his +confession that you and he worked the game between you to get that plate +out of the bureau and dispose of it to the gang.” + +“Oh, my God!”--it came in a wild cry from the sick man, and in a +desperate, lurching way he struggled up to his feet. “Al Gregor said +that? Then--then I'm done!” He clutched at his temples. “But it's not +true--it's not true! If the plate was stolen, and it must have been +stolen, or that note wouldn't have been found, it was Al Gregor who +stole it--I didn't, I tell you! I knew nothing of it, except that he and +I were responsible for it and--and I left it to him--that's the only way +I'm to blame. He's caught, and he's trying to get out of it with a light +sentence by pretending to turn State's evidence, but--but I'll fight +him--he can't prove it--it's only his word against mine, and--” + +The other shook his head again. + +“It's no good, Sammy,” he said, a touch of sternness back in his tones +again. “I told you it was open and shut. It's not only Al Gregor. One +of the gang got weak knees when I got him where I wanted him the other +night, and he swears that you are the one who DELIVERED the plate to +them. Between him and Gregor and what I know myself, I've got evidence +enough for any jury against every one of the rest of you.” + +Horror, fear, helplessness seemed to mingle in the sick man's staring +eyes, and he swayed unsteadily upon his feet. + +“I'm innocent!” he screamed out. “But I'm caught, I'm caught in a net, +and I can't get out--they lied to you--but no one will believe it any +more than you do and--and it means twenty years for me--oh, God!--twenty +years, and--” His hands went wriggling to his temples again, and he +toppled back in a faint into the chair. + +“You've killed him! You've killed my boy!” the old lady shrieked out +piteously, and flung herself toward the senseless figure. + +The man jumped for the table across the room, on which was a row of +bottles, snatched one up, drew the cork, smelled it, and ran back with +the bottle. He poured a little of the contents into his cupped hand, +held it under young Matthews' nostrils, and pushed the bottle into Mrs. +Matthews' hands. + +“Bathe his forehead with this, Mrs. Matthews,” he directed reassuringly. +“He'll be all right again in a moment. There, see--he's coming around +now.” + +There was a long, fluttering sigh, and Matthews opened his eyes; then +a moment's silence; and then he spoke, with an effort, with long pauses +between the words: + +“Am--I--to--go--now?” + +The words seemed to ring absolute terror in the old lady's ears. She +turned, and dropped to her knees on the floor. + +“Mr. Kline, Mr. Kline,” she sobbed out, “oh, for God's love, don't take +him! Let him off, let him go! He's my boy--all I've got! You've got +a mother, haven't you? You know--” The tears were streaming down the +sweet, old face again. “Oh, won't you, for God's dear name, won't you +let him go? Won't--” + +“Stop!” the man cried huskily. He was mopping at his face with his +handkerchief. “I thought I was case-hardened, I ought to be--but I guess +I'm not. But I've got to do my duty. You're only making it worse for +Sammy there, as well as me.” + +Her arms were around his knees now, clinging there. + +“Why can't you let him off!” she pleaded hysterically. “Why can't +you! Why can't you! Nobody would know, and I'd do anything--I'd pay +anything--anything--I'll give you ten--fifteen thousand dollars!” + +“My poor woman,” he said kindly, placing his hand on her head, “you are +talking wildly. Apart altogether from the question of duty, even if +I succeeded in hushing the matter up, I would probably at least be +suspected and certainly discharged, and I have a family to support--and +if I were caught I'd get ten years in the Federal prison for it. I'm +sorry for this; I believe it's your boy's first offence, and if I could +let him off I would.” + +“But you can--you can!” she burst out, rocking on her knees, clinging +tighter still to him, as though in a paroxysm of fear that he might +somehow elude her. “It will kill him--it will kill my boy. And you can +save him! And even if they discharged you, what would that mean against +my boy's life! You wouldn't suffer, your family wouldn't suffer, +I'll--I'll take care of that--perhaps I could raise a little more than +fifteen thousand--but, oh, have pity, have mercy--don't take him away!” + +The man stared at her a moment, stared at the white face on the +reclining chair--and passed his hand heavily across his eyes. + +“You will! You will!” It came in a great surging cry of joy from the old +lady. “You will--oh, thank God, thank God!--I can see it in your face!” + +“I--I guess I'm soft,” he said huskily, and stooped and raised Mrs. +Matthews to her feet. “Don't cry any more. It'll be all right--it'll be +all right. I'll--I'll fix it up somehow. I haven't made any arrests yet, +and--well, I'll take my chances. I'll get the plate and turn it over to +you to-morrow, only--only it's got to be destroyed in my presence.” + +“Yes, yes!” she cried, trying to smile through her tears--and then +she flung her arms around her son's neck again. “And when you come +to-morrow, I'll be ready with the money to do my share, too, and--” + +But Sammy Matthews shook his head. + +“You're wrong, both of you,” he said weakly. “You're a white man, +Kline. But destroying that plate won't save me. The minute a single note +printed from it shows up, they'll know back there in Washington that the +plate was stolen, and--” + +“No; you're safe enough there,” the other interposed heavily. “Knowing +what was up, you don't think I'd give the gang a chance to get them +into circulation, do you? I got them all when I got the plate. And”--he +smiled a little anxiously--“I'll bring them here to be destroyed with +the plate. It would finish me now, as well as you, if one of them ever +showed up. Say,” he said suddenly, with a catch in his breath, “I--I +don't think I know what I'm doing.” + +Mrs. Matthews reached out her hands to him. + +“What can I say to you!” she said brokenly, “What--” + +Jimmie Dale drew back along the wall. A little way from the door he +quickened his pace, still moving, however, with extreme caution. They +were still talking behind him as he turned from the corridor into the +passageway leading to the store, and from there into the store itself. +And then suddenly, in spite of caution, his foot slipped on the bare +floor. It was not much--just enough to cause his other foot, poised +tentatively in air, to come heavily down, and a loud and complaining +creak echoed from the floor. + +Jimmie Dale's jaws snapped like a steel trap. From down the corridor +came a sudden, excited exclamation in the little old lady's voice, and +then her steps sounded running toward the store. In the fraction of a +second Jimmie Dale was at the front door. + +“Clumsy, blundering fool!” he whispered fiercely to himself as he turned +the key, opened the door noiselessly until it was just ajar, and turned +the key in the lock again, leaving the bolt protruding out. One step +backward, and he was rapping on the counter with his knuckles. “Isn't +anybody here?” he called out loudly. “Isn't any--oh!”--as Mrs. Matthews +appeared in the back doorway. “A package of cigarettes, please.” + +She stared at him, a little frightened, her eyes red and swollen with +recent crying. + +“How--how did you get in here?” she asked tremendously. + +“I beg your pardon?” inquired Jimmie Dale, in polite surprise. + +“I--I locked the door--I'm sure I did,” she said, more to herself than +to Jimmie Dale, and hurried across the floor to the door as she spoke. + +Jimmie Dale, still politely curious, turned to watch her. For a moment +bewilderment and a puzzled look were in her face--and then a sort of +surprised relief. + +“I must have turned the key in the lock without shutting the door +tight,” she explained, “for I knew I turned the key.” + +Jimmie Dale bent forward to examine the lock--and nodded. + +“Yes,” he agreed, with a smile. “I should say so.” Then, gravely +courteous: “I'm sorry to have intruded.” + +“It is nothing,” she answered; and, evidently anxious to be rid of him, +moved quickly around behind the counter. “What kind of cigarettes do you +want?” + +“Egyptians--any kind,” said Jimmie Dale, laying a bill on the counter. + +He pocketed the cigarettes and his change, and turned to the door. + +“Good-evening,” he said pleasantly--and went out. + +Jimmie Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly. As he +started along the street, he heard the door of the little shop close +with a sort of supercareful bang, the key turned, and the latch rattle +to try the door--the little old lady was bent on making no mistake a +second time! + +And then the smile left Jimmie Dale's lips, his face grew strained and +serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue. Here he +paused for an instant--there was the elevated, the surface cars--which +would be the quicker? He looked up the avenue. There was no train +coming; the nearest surface car was blocks away. He bit his lips in +vexation--and then with a jump he was across the street and hailing a +passing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on. + +“Got a fare?” called Jimmie Dale. + +“No, sir,” answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt. + +“Good!” Jimmie Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open. “Do you +know where the Palace Saloon on the Bowery is?” + +“Yes, sir,” replied the man. + +Jimmie Dale held a ten-dollar bank note up before the chauffeur's eyes. + +“Earn that in four minutes, then,” he snapped--and sprang into the cab. + +The taxicab swerved around on little better than two wheels, started on +a mad dash down the Avenue--and Jimmie Dale braced himself grimly in +his seat. The cab swerved again, tore across Waverly Place, circuited +Washington Square, crossed Broadway, and whirled finally into the upper +end of the Bowery. + +Jimmie Dale spoke once--to himself--plaintively. + +“It's too bad I can't let old Carruthers in on this for a scoop with his +precious MORNING NEWS-ARGUS--but if I get out of it alive myself, I'll +do well! Wonder if the day'll ever come when he finds out that his very +dear friend and old college pal, Jimmie Dale, is the Gray Seal that he's +turned himself inside out for about four years now to catch, and that +he'd trade his soul with the devil any time to lay hands on! Good old +Carruthers! 'The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the +annals of crime'--am I?” + +The cab drew up at the curb. Jimmie Dale sprang out, shoved the bill +into the chauffeur's hand, stepped quickly across the sidewalk, and +pushed his way through the swinging doors of the Palace Saloon. Inside +leisurely and nonchalantly, he walked down past the length of the bar to +a door at the rear. This opened into a passageway that led to the side +entrance of the saloon on the cross street. Jimmie Dale emerged from +the side entrance, crossed the street, retraced his steps to the Bowery, +crossed over, and walked rapidly down that thoroughfare for two blocks. +Here he turned east into the cross street; and here, once more, his pace +became leisurely and unhurried. + +“It's a strange coincidence, though possibly a very happy one,” said +Jimmie Dale, as he walked along, “that it should be on the same street +as the Sanctuary--ah, this ought to be the place!” + +An alleyway, corresponding to the one that flanked the tenement where, +as Larry the Bat, he had paid room rent as a tenant for several years, +in fact, the alleyway next above it, and but a short block away, +intersected the street, narrow, black, and uninviting. Jimmie Dale, as +he passed, peered down its length. + +“No light--that's good!” commented Jimmie Dale to himself. Then: “Window +opens on alleyway ten feet from ground--shoe store, Russian Jew, in +basement--go in front door--straight hallway--room at end--Russian +Jew probably accomplice--be careful that he does not hear you moving +overhead”--Jimmie Dale's mind, with that curious faculty of his, was +subconsciously repeating snatches from her letter word for word, even +as he noted the dimly lighted, untidy, and disorderly interior of what, +from strings of leather slippers that decorated the cellarlike entrance, +was evidently a cheap and shoddy shoe store in the basement of the +building. + +The building itself was rickety and tumble-down, three stories high, and +given over undoubtedly to gregarious foreigners of the poorer class, a +rabbit burrow, as it were, having a multitude of roomers and lodgers. +There was nothing ominous or even secretive about it--up the short +flight of steps to the entrance, even the door hung carelessly half +open. + +Jimmie Dale's slouch hat was pulled a little farther down over his eyes +as he mounted the steps and entered the hallway. He listened a moment. +A sort of subdued, querulous hubbub seemed to hum through the place, as +voices, men's, women's, and children's, echoing out from their various +rooms above, mingled together, and floated down the stairways in a +discordant medley. Jimmie Dale stepped lightly down the length of +the hall--and listened again; this time intently, with his ear to the +keyhole of the door that made the end of the passage. There was not a +sound from within. He tried the door, smiled a little as he reached for +his keys, worked over the lock--and straightened up suddenly as his +ear caught a descending step on the stairs. It was two flights up, +however--and the door was unlocked now. Jimmie Dale opened it, and, like +a shadow, slipped inside; and, as he locked the door behind him, smiled +once more--the door lock was but a paltry makeshift at best, but INSIDE +his fingers had touched a massive steel bolt that, when shot home, would +yield when the door itself yielded--and not before. Without moving the +bolt, he turned--and his flashlight for a moment swept the room. + +“Not much like the way they describe this sort of place in storybooks!” + murmured Jimmie Dale capriciously. “But I get the idea. Mr. Russian Jew +downstairs makes a bluff at using it for a storeroom.” + +Again the flashlight made a circuit. Here, there, and everywhere, +seemingly without any attempt at order, were piles of wooden shipping +cases. Only the centre of the room was clear and empty; that, and a +vacant space against the wall by the window. + +Jimmie Dale, moving without sound, went to the window. There was a shade +on it, and it was pulled down. He reached up underneath it, felt for +the window fastening, and unlocked it; then cautiously tested the window +itself by lifting it an inch or two--it slid easily in its grooves. + +He stood then for a moment, hardfaced, a frown gathering his forehead +into heavy furrows, as the flashlight's ray again and again darted +hither and thither. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in the room +but wooden packing cases. He lifted the cover of the one nearest to him +and looked inside. It was quite empty, except for some pieces of heavy +cord, and a few cardboard shoe boxes that, in turn, were empty, too. + +“It's here, of course,” said Jimmie Dale thoughtfully to himself. +“Clever work, too! But I can't move half a hundred packing cases without +that chap below hearing me; and I can't do it in ten minutes, either, +which, I imagine is the outside limit of time. Fortunately, though, +these cases are not without their compensation--a dozen men could hide +here.” + +He began to move about the room. And now he stooped before one pile of +boxes and then another, curiously attempting to lift up the entire pile +from the bottom. Some he could not move; others, by exerting all his +strength, gave a little; and then, finally, over in one corner, he found +a pile that appeared to answer his purpose. + +“These are certainly empty,” he muttered. + +There was just room to squeeze through between them and the next stack +of cases alongside; but, once through, by the simple expedient of moving +the cases out a little to take advantage of the angle made by the +corner of the room, he obtained ample space to stand comfortably upright +against the wall. But Jimmie Dale was not satisfied yet. Could he see +out into the room? He experimented with his flashlight--and carefully +shifted the screen of cases before him a little to one side. And yet +still he was not satisfied. With a sort of ironical droop at the +corners of his lips, as though suddenly there had flashed upon him the +inspiration that fathered one of those whimsical ideas and fancies that +were so essentially a characteristic of Jimmie Dale, he came out from +behind the cases, went across the room to the case he had opened when he +first entered, took out the cord and the cover of one of the cardboard +shoe boxes, and with these returned to his hiding place once more. + +The sounds from the upper stories of the tenement now reached him hardly +at all; but from below, directly under his feet almost, he could hear +some one, the proprietor of the shoe store probably, walking about. + +Tense, every faculty now on the alert, his head turned in a strained, +attentive attitude, Jimmie Dale threw on the flashlight's tiny switch, +took that intimate and thin metal case from his pocket, extracted a +diamond-shaped, gray paper seal with the little tweezers, moistened the +adhesive side, and stuck it in the centre of the white cardboard-box +cover, then tore the edges of the cardboard down until the whole was +just small enough to slip into his pocket. Through the cardboard he +looped a piece of cord, placard fashion, and with his pencil printed the +four words--“with the compliments of “--above the gray seal. He +surveyed the result with a grim, mirthless chuckle--and put the piece of +cardboard in his pocket. + +“I'm taking the longest chances I ever took in my life,” said Jimmie +Dale very seriously to himself, as his fingers twisted, and doubled, +and tied the remaining pieces of cord together, and finally fashioned a +running noose in one end. “I don't--” The cord and the flashlight went +into his pocket, the room was in darkness, the black mask was whipped +from his breast pocket and adjusted to his face, and his automatic was +in his hand. + +Came the creak of a footstep, as though on a ladder exactly below him, +another, and another, receding curiously in its direction, yet at the +same time growing louder in sound as if nearer the floor--then a crack +of light showed in the floor in the centre of the room. This held for +an instant, then expanded suddenly into a great luminous square--and +through a trapdoor, opened wide now, a man's head appeared. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes, fixed through the space between the piles of cases, +narrowed--there was, indeed, little doubt but that the shoe-store +proprietor below was an accomplice! The store served a most convenient +purpose in every respect--as a secret means of entry into the room, as +a sort of guarantee of innocence for the room itself. Why not! To the +superficial observer, to the man who might by some chance blunder into +the room--it was but an adjunct of the store itself! + +The man in the trap-doorway paused with his shoulders above the floor, +looked around, listened, then drew himself up, walked across the floor, +and shot the heavy bolt on the door that led into the hallway of the +house. He returned then to the trapdoor, bent over it, and whistled +softly. Two more men, in answer to the summons, came up into the room. + +“The Cap'll be along in a minute,” one of them said. “Turn on the +light.” + +A switch clicked, flooding the room with sudden brilliancy from half a +dozen electric bulbs. + +“Too many!” grunted the same voice again. “We ain't working +to-night--turn out half of 'em.” + +The sudden transition from the darkness for a moment dazzled Jimmie +Dale's eyes--but the next moment he was searching the faces of the three +men. There were few crooks, few denizens of the crime world below the +now obsolete but still famous dead line that, as Larry the Bat, he did +not know at least by sight. + +“Moulton, Whitie Burns, and Marty Dean,” confided Jimmie Dale softly +to himself. “And I don't know of any worse, except--the Cap. And gun +fighters, every one of them, too--nice odds, to say nothing of--” + +“Here's the Cap now!” announced one of the three. “Hello, Cap, where'd +you raise the mustache?” + +Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the trapdoor, and into them crept a +contemptuous and sardonic smile--the man who was coming up now and +hoisting himself to the floor was the man who, half an hour before, had +threatened young Sammy Matthews with arrest. + +The Cap, alias Bert Malone, alias a score of other names, closed the +trapdoor after him, pulled off his mustache and gray wig, tucked them in +his pocket, and faced his companions brusquely. + +“Never mind about the mustache,” he said curtly. “Get busy, the lot of +you. Stir around and get the works out!” + +“What for?” inquired Whitie Burns, a sharp, ferret-faced little man. “We +got enough of the old stuff on hand now, and that bum break Gregor made +when he pinched the cracked plate put the finish on that. Say, Cap--” + +“Close your face, Whitie, and get the works out!” Malone cut in shortly. +“We've only got the whole night ahead of us--but we'll need it all. +We're going to run the queer off that cracked plate.” + +One of the others, Marty Dean this time, a certain brutal aggressiveness +in both features and physique, edged forward. + +“Say, what's the lay?” he demanded. “A joke? We printed one fiver off +that plate--and then we knew enough to quit. With that crack along +the corner, you couldn't pass 'em on a blind man! And Gregor saying he +thought we could patch the plate up enough to get by with gives me a +pain--he's got jingles in his dome factory! Run them fivers eh--say, are +you cracked, too?” + +“Aw, forget it!” observed Malone caustically. “Who's running this gang?” + Then, with a malicious grin: “I got a customer for those fivers--fifteen +thousand dollars for all we can turn out to-night. See?” + +The others stared at him for a moment, incredulity and greed mingling in +a curious half-hesitant, half-expectant look on their faces. + +Then Whitie Burns spoke, circling his lips with the tip of his tongue: + +“D'ye mean it, Cap--honest? What's the lay? How'd you work it?” + +Malone, unbending with the sensation he had created, grinned again. + +“Easy enough,” he said offhandedly. “It was like falling off a log. +Gregor said, didn't he, that the only way he had been able to get +his claws on that plate was on account of young Matthews going away +sick--eh? Well, the old Matthews woman, his mother, has got money--about +fifteen thousand. I guess she ain't got any more than that, or I'd have +raised the ante. Aw, it was easy. She threw it at me. I framed one up on +them, that's all. I'm Kline, of the secret service--see? I don't suppose +they'd ever seen him, though they'd know his name fast enough, but I +made up something like him. I showed them where I had a case against +Sammy for pinching the plate that was strong enough to put a hundred +innocent men behind the bars. Of course, he knew well enough he was +innocent, but he could see the twenty years I showed him with both eyes. +Say, he mussed all over the place, and went and fainted like a girl. And +then the old woman came across with an offer of fifteen thousand for the +plate, and corrupted me.” Malone's cunning, vicious face, now that +the softening effects of the gray hair and mustache were gone, seemed +accentuated diabolically by the grin broadening into a laugh, as he +guffawed. + +Marty Dean's hand swung with a bang to Malone's shoulder. + +“Say, Cap--say, you're all right!” he exclaimed excitedly. “You're +the boy! But what's the good of running anything off the plate before +turning it over to 'em--the stuff's no good to us.” + +“You got a wooden nut, with sawdust for brains,” said Malone +sarcastically. “If he'd thought the gang of counterfeiters that was +supposed to have bought the plate from him had run off only one fiver +and then stopped because they say it wouldn't get by, and weren't going +to run any more, and just destroy the plate like it was supposed to have +been destroyed to begin with, and it all end up with no one the wiser, +where d'ye think we'd have banked that fifteen thousand! I told him I +had the whole run confiscated, and that the queer went with the plate, +so we'll just make that little run to-night--that's why I sent word +around to you this morning.” + +“By the jumping!” ejaculated Whitie Burns, heavy with admiration. “You +got a head on you, Cap!” + +“It's a good thing for some of you that I have,” returned Malone +complacently. “But don't stand jawing all night. Go on, now--get busy!” + +There was no surprise in Jimmie Dale's face--he had chosen his position +behind a pile of cases that he had been extremely careful, as a man +is careful when his life hangs in the balance, to assure himself were +empty. None of the four came near or touched the pile behind which he +stood; but, here and there about the room, they pulled this one and that +one out from various stacks. In scarcely more than a moment, the room +was completely transformed. It was no longer a storeroom for surplus +stock, for the storage of bulky and empty packing cases! From the cases +the men had picked out, like a touch of magic, appeared a veritable +printing plant, an elaborate engraver's outfit--a highly efficient +foot-power press, rapidly being assembled by Whitie Burns; an electric +dryer, inks, a pile of white, silk-threaded bank-note paper, a cutter, +and a score of other appurtenances. + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale very gently to himself. “Yes, quite so--but the +plate? Ah!” Malone was taking it out from the middle of a bundle of old +newspapers, loosely tied together, that he had lifted from one of the +cases. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes fastened on it--and from that instant never left it. +A minute passed, two, three of them--the four men were silently busy +about the room--Malone was carefully cleaning the plate. + +“They will raid to-night. Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in +the United State secret service”--the warning in her letter was running +through Jimmie Dale's mind. Kline--the real Kline--was going to raid +the place to-night. When? At what time? It must be nearly eleven o'clock +already, and-- + +It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom--a terrific crash against the +bolted door--but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without, +held fast, thanks to the bolt. The four men, white-faced, seemed for an +instant turned to statues. Came another crash against the door--and a +sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender. + +“We're pinched! Beat it!” whispered Whitie Burns wildly--and dashed for +the trapdoor. + +Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed. Malone, farther away, +dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him, +after the others--but he never reached the trapdoor. + +Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door of +the room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants on +the floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries, +came the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor. +And over them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprang +at Malone. The man reeled back, with a cry. Moulton dashed through +the trapdoor and disappeared. The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale's +automatic was between Malone's eyes. + +“You make a move,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, “and +I'll drop you where you stand! Put your hands behind your back--palms +together!” + +Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed. A panel of the door split and rent down +its length--the hinges were sagging. Jimmie Dale worked like lightning. +The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone's +wrists, jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with no +sign of humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man's neck. + +“An introduction for you to Mr. Kline out there--that you seem so fond +of!” gritted Jimmie Dale. Then, working as he talked: “I've got no time +to tell you what I think of you, you pitiful hound”--he snatched up the +plate from the floor and put it in his pocket--“Twenty years, I think +you said, didn't you?”--his hand shot into Malone's pocket-book, and +extracted the five-dollar note--“If you can open this with your toes +maybe you can get a way”--he wrenched the trapdoor over and slammed it +shut--“good-night, Malone”--and he leaped for the window. + +The door tottered inward from the top, ripping, tearing, smashing +hinges, panels, and jamb. Jimmie Dale got a blurred vision of brass +buttons, blue coats, and helmets, and, in the forefront, of a stocky, +gray-mustached, gray-haired man in plain clothes. + +Jimmie Dale threw up the window, swung out, as with a rush the officers +burst through into the room and a revolver bullet hummed viciously past +his ear, and dropped to the ground--into encircling arms! + +“Ah, no, you don't, my bucko!” snapped a hoarse voice in his ear. “Keep +quiet now, or I'll crack your bean--understand!” + +But the officer, too heavy to be muscular, was no match for Jimmie +Dale, who, even as he had dropped from the sill, had caught sight of +the lurking form below; and now, with a quick, sudden, lithe movement he +wriggled loose, his fist from a short-arm jab smashed upon the point of +the other's jaw, sending the man staggering backward--and Jimmie Dale +ran. + +A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alleyway, mostly +occupants of the house itself, and into these, scattering them in all +directions, eluding dexterously another officer who made a grab for him, +Jimmie Dale charged at top speed, burst through, and headed down the +street, running like a deer. + +Yells went up, a revolver spat venomously behind him, came the shrill +CHEEP-CHEEP! of the police whistle, and heavy boots pounding the +pavement in pursuit. + +Down the block Jimmie Dale raced. The yells augmented in his rear. +Another shot--and this time he heard the bullet buzz. And then he +swerved--into the next alleyway--that flanked the Sanctuary. + +He had perhaps a ten yards' lead, just a little more than the distance +from the street to the side door of the Sanctuary that opened on +the alleyway. And, as he ran now, his fingers tore at his clothing, +loosening his tie, unbuttoning coat, vest, collar, shirt, and +undershirt. He leaped at the door, swung it open, flung himself +inside--and then sacrificing speed to silence, went up the stairs like a +cat, cramming his mask now into his pocket. + +His room was on the first landing. In an instant he had unlocked the +door, entered, and locked it again behind him. From outside, an excited +street urchin's voice shrilled up to him: + +“He went in that door! I seen him!” + +The police whistle chirped again; and then an authoritative voice: + +“Get around and watch the saloon back of this, Heeney--there's a way out +through there from this joint.” + +Jimmie Dale, divested of every stitch of clothing that he had worn, +pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, pulled on +a dirty and patched pair of trousers, and slipped into a threadbare and +filthy coat. Jimmie Dale was working against seconds. They were at the +lower door now. He lifted the oilcloth in the corner of the room, +lifted up the loose piece of the flooring, shoved his discarded garments +inside, and from a little box that was there smeared the hollow of +his hand with some black substance, possessed himself of two little +articles, replaced the flooring, replaced the oilcloth, and, in bare +feet, stole across the room to the door. Against the door, without a +sound, Jimmie Dale placed a chair, and on the chair seat he laid the two +little articles he had been carrying in his hand. It was intensely black +in the room, but Jimmie Dale needed no light here. From under the bed he +pulled out a pair of woolen socks and a pair of congress boots, both as +disreputable as the rest of his attire, put them on--and very quietly, +softly, cautiously, stretched himself out on the bed. + +The officers were at the top of the stairs. A voice barked out: + +“Stand guard on this landing, Peters. Higgins, you take the one above. +We'll start from the top of the house and work down. Allow no one to +pass you.” + +“Yes, sir! Very good, Mr. Kline,” was the response. + +Kline!--the sharpest man in the United States secret service, she had +said. Jimmie Dale's lips set. + +“I'm glad I had no shave this morning,” said Jimmie Dale grimly to +himself. + +His fingers were working with the black substance in the hollow of his +hand--and the long, slim, tapering fingers, the shapely, well-cared-for +hands grew unkempt and grimy, black beneath the finger nails--and a +little, too, played its part on the day's growth of beard, a little +around the throat and at the nape of the neck, a little across the +forehead to meet the locks of straggling and disordered hair. Jimmie +Dale wiped the residue from the hollow of his hand on the knee of his +trousers--and lay still. + +An officer paced outside. Upstairs doors opened and closed. Gruff, harsh +tones in commands echoed through the house. The search party descended +to the second floor--and again the same sounds were repeated. And then, +thumping down the creaking stairs, they stopped before Jimmie Dale's +room. Some one tried the door, and, finding it locked, rattled it +violently. + +“Open the door!” It was Kline's voice. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes were closed, and he was breathing regularly, though +just a little slower than in natural respiration. + +“Break it down!” ordered Kline tersely. + +There was a rush at it--and it gave. It surged inward, knocked against +the chair, upset the latter, something tinkled to the floor--and four +officers, with Kline at their head, jumped into the room. + +Jimmie Dale never moved. A flashlight played around the room and focused +upon him--and then he was shaken roughly--only to fall inertly back on +the bed again. + +“I guess this is all right, Mr. Kline,” said one of the officers. “It's +Larry the Bat, and he's doped to the eyes. There's the stuff on the +floor we knocked off the chair.” + +“Light the gas!” directed Kline curtly; and, being obeyed, stooped to +the floor and picked up a hypodermic syringe and a small bottle. He held +the bottle to the light, and read the label: LIQUOR MORPHINAE. “Shake +him again!” he commanded. + +None too gently, a policeman caught Jimmie Dale by the shoulder and +shook him vigorously--again Jimmie Dale, once the other let go his hold, +fell back limply on the bed, breathing in that same, slightly slowed +way. + +“Larry the Bat, eh?” grunted Kline; then, to the officer who had +volunteered the information: “Who's Larry the Bat? What is he? And how +long have you known him?” + +“I don't know who he is any more than what you can see there for +yourself,” replied the officer. “He's a dope fiend, and I guess a pretty +tough case, though we've never had him up for anything. He's lived here +ever since I've been on the beat, and that's three years or--” + +“All right!” interrupted Kline crisply. “He's no good to us! You say +there's an exit from this house into that saloon at the back?” + +“Yes, sir but the fellow, whoever he is, couldn't get away from there. +Heeney's been over on guard from the start.” + +“Then he's still inside there,” said Kline, clipping off his words. +“We'll search the saloon. Nice night's work this is! One out of the +whole gang--and that one with the compliments of the Gray Seal!” + +The men went out and began to descend the stairs. + +“One,” said Jimmie Dale to himself, still motionless, still breathing in +that slow way so characteristic of the drug. “Two. Three. Four.” + +The minutes went by--a quarter of an hour--a half hour. Still Jimmie +Dale lay there--still motionless--still breathing with slow regularity. +His muscles began to cramp, to give him exquisite torture. Around +him all was silence--only distant sounds from the street reached +him, muffled, and at intervals. Another quarter of an hour passed--an +eternity of torment. It seemed to Jimmie Dale, for all his will power, +that he could not hold himself in check, that he must move, scream out +even in the torture that was passing all endurance. It was silent now, +utterly silent--and then out of the silence, just outside his door, a +footstep creaked--and a man walked to the stairs and went down. + +“Five,” said Jimmie Dale to himself. “The sharpest man in the United +States secret service.” + +And then for the first time Jimmie Dale moved--to wipe away the beads of +sweat that had sprung out upon his forehead. + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN + + +Larry the Bat shambled out of the side door of the tenement into the +back alleyway; shambled along the black alleyway to the street--and +smiled a little grimly as a shadow across the roadway suddenly shifted +its position. The game was growing acute, critical, desperate even--and +it was his move. + +Larry the Bat, disreputable denizen of the underworld, alias Jimmie +Dale, millionaires' clubman, alias the Gray Seal, whom Carruthers of the +MORNING NEWS-ARGUS called the master criminal of the age, shuffled along +in the direction of the Bowery, his hands plunged deep in the pockets +of his frayed and tattered trousers, where his fingers, in a curious, +wistful way, fondled the keys of his own magnificent residence on +Riverside Drive. It was his move--and it was an impasse, ironical, +sardonic, and it was worse--it was full of peril. + +True, he had outwitted Kline of the secret service two nights before, +when Kline had raided the counterfeiters' den; true, he had no reason to +believe that Kline suspected HIM specifically, but the man Kline wanted +HAD entered the tenement that night, and since then the house had been +shadowed day and night. The result was both simple and disastrous--to +Jimmie Dale. Larry the Bat, a known inmate of the house, might come +and go as he pleased--but to emerge from the Sanctuary in the person of +Jimmie Dale would be fatal. Kline had been outwitted, but Kline had not +acknowledged final defeat. The tenement had been searched from top to +bottom--unostentatiously. His own room on the first landing had been +searched the previous afternoon, when he was out, but they had failed to +find the cunningly contrived opening in the floor under the oilcloth in +the corner, an impromptu wardrobe, that would proclaim Larry the Bat and +Jimmie Dale to be one and the same person--that would inevitably lead +further to the establishment of his identity as the Gray Seal. In time, +of course, the surveillance would cease--but he could not wait. That was +the monumental irony of it--the factor that, all unknown to Kline, was +forcing the issue hard now. It was his move. + +Since, years ago now, as the Gray Seal, he had begun to work with HER, +that unknown, mysterious accomplice of his, and the police, stung to +madness both by the virulent and constant attacks of the press and by +the humiliating prod of their own failures, sought daily, high and low, +with every resource at their command, for the Gray Seal, he had never +been in quite so strange and perilous a plight as he found himself at +that moment. To preserve inviolate the identity of Larry the Bat was +absolutely vital to his safety. It was the one secret that even she, who +so strangely appeared to know all else about him, he was sure, had not +discovered--and it was just that, in a way, that had brought the present +impossible situation to pass. + +In the month previous, in a lull between those letters of hers, he had +set himself doggedly and determinedly to the renewed task of what had +become so dominantly now a part of his very existence--the solving of +HER identity. And for that month, as the best means to the end--means, +however, that only resulted as futilely as the attempts that had gone +before--he had lived mostly as Larry the Bat, returning to his home in +his proper person only when occasion and necessity demanded it. He had +been going home that evening, two nights before, walking along Riverside +Drive, when from the window of the limousine she had dropped the letter +at his feet that had plunged him into the affair of the Counterfeit +Five--and he had not gone home! Eventually, to save himself, he had, in +the Sanctuary, performing the transformation in desperate haste, again +been forced to assume the role of Larry the Bat. + +That was really the gist of it. And yesterday morning he had remembered, +to his dismay, that he had had little or no money left the night before. +He had intended, of course, to replenish his supply--when he got home. +Only he hadn't gone home! And now he needed money--needed it badly, +desperately. With thousands in the bank, with abundance even in +his safe, in his own den at home, a supply kept there always for an +emergency, he was facing actual want--he rattled two dimes, a nickel, +and a few odd pennies thoughtfully against the keys in his pocket. + +To a certain extent, old Jason, his butler, could be trusted. Jason even +knew that mysterious letters of tremendous secretive importance came +to the house, and the old man always meant well--but he dared not trust +even Jason with the secret of his dual personality. What was he to do? +He needed money imperatively--at once. Thanks to Kline, for the time +being, at least, he could not rid himself of the personality of Larry +the Bat by the simple expedient or slipping into the clothes of Jimmie +Dale--he must live, act, and remain Larry the Bat until the secret +service officer gave up the hunt. How bridge the gulf between Jimmie +Dale and Larry the Bat in old Jason's eyes! + +Nor was that all. There was still another matter, and one that, in order +to counteract it, demanded at once a serious inroad--to the extent of +a telephone call--upon his slender capital. A too prolonged and +unaccounted-for absence from home, and old Jason, in his anxious, +blundering solicitude, would have the fat in the fire at that end--and +the city, and the social firmament thereof, would be humming with the +startling news of the disappearance of a well-known millionaire. The +complications that would then ensue, with himself powerless to lift a +finger, Jimmie Dale did not care to think about--such a contretemps must +at all hazards be prevented. + +Jimmie Dale reached the corner of the street, where it intersected +the Bowery, and paused languidly by the curb. No one appeared to be +following. He had not expected that there would be--but it was as well +to be sure. He walked then a few steps along the Bowery--and slipped +suddenly into a doorway, from where he could command a view of the +street corner that he had just left. At the end of ten minutes, +satisfied that no one had any concern in his immediate movements, he +shambled on again down the Bowery. + +There was a saloon two blocks away that boasted a private telephone +booth. Jimmie Dale made that his destination. + +Larry the Bat was a very well-known character in that resort, and the +bullet-headed dispenser of drinks behind the bar nodded unctuously to +him over the heads of those clustered at the rail as he entered; Larry +the Bat, as befitted one of the elite of the underworld, was graciously +pleased to acknowledge the proletariat salutation with a curt nod. He +walked down to the end of the room, entered the telephone booth--and was +carelessly careful to close the door tightly behind him. + +He gave the number of his residence on Riverside Drive, and waited for +the connection. After some delay, Jason's voice answered him. + +“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, in matter-of-fact tones, “I shall be out +of the city for another three or four days, possibly a week, and--” he +stopped abruptly, as a sort of gasp came to him over the wire. + +“Thank God that's you, sir!” exclaimed the old butler wildly. “I've been +near mad, sir, all day!” + +“Don't get excited, Jason!” said Jimmie Dale a little sharply. “The mere +matter of my absence for the last two days is nothing to cause you any +concern. And while I am on the subject, Jason, let me say now that I +shall be glad if you will bear that fact in mind in future.” + +“Yes, sir,” stammered Jason. “But, sir, it ain't that--good Lord, Master +Jim, it ain't that, sir! It's--it's one of them letters.” + +Something like a galvanic shock seemed to jerk the disreputable, +loose-jointed frame of Larry the Bat suddenly erect--and a strained +whiteness crept over the dirty, unwashed face. + +“Go on, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, without a quiver in his voice. + +“It came this morning, sir--that shuffer with his automobile left it. +I had just time to say you weren't at home, sir, and he was gone. And +then, sir, there ain't been an hour gone by all through the day that a +woman, sir--a lady, begging your pardon, Master Jim--hasn't rung up +on the telephone, asking if you were back, and if I could get you, and +where you were, and half frantic, sir, half sobbing, sometimes, sir, and +saying there was a life hanging on it, Master Jim.” + +Larry the Bat, staring into the mouthpiece of the instrument, +subconsciously passed his hand across his forehead, and subconsciously +noted that his fingers, as he drew them away, were damp. + +“Where is the letter now, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale coolly. + +“Here on your desk, Master Jim. Shall I bring it to you?” + +Bring it to him! How? When? Where? Bring it to him! The ghastly irony +of it! Jimmie Dale tried to think--prodding, spurring desperately that +keen, lightning brain of his that had never failed him yet. How bridge +the gulf between Larry the Bat and Jimmie Dale in Jason's eyes--not just +for the replenishing of funds now, but with a life at stake! + +“No--I think not, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “Just leave it where +it is. And if she telephones again, say that you have told me--that will +be sufficient to satisfy any further inquiries. And Jason--” + +“Yes, sir?” + +“If she telephones again, try and find out where the call comes from.” + +“I haven't forgotten what you said once, Master Jim, sir,” said the old +man eagerly. “And I've been trying that sir, all day. They've all come +from different pay stations, sir.” + +A mirthless little smile tinged Jimmie Dale's lips. Of course! He might +have known! It was always that way, always the same. He was as near to +the solution of her identity at that moment as he had been years ago, +when she, in some mysterious way, alone of all the world, had identified +him as the Gray Seal! + +“Very good, Jason,” he said quietly. “Don't bother about it any more. +It will be all right. You can expect me when you see me. Good-night.” He +hung the receiver on the hook, walked out of the booth, and mechanically +reached the street. + +All right! It was far from “all right”--very far from it. It was no +trivial thing, that letter; they never had been trivial things, those +letters of hers, that involved so often a matter of life and death--as +this one now, perhaps, as her actions would seem to indicate, involved +life and death more urgently than any that had gone before. It was far +from all right--at a moment when his own position, his own safety, was +at best but a desperate chance; when his every energy, brain, wit, and +cunning were taxed to the utmost to save himself! And yet, somehow, some +way, at any cost, he must get that letter--and at any cost he must act +upon it! To fail her was to fail utterly in everything that failure in +its most miserable, its widest sense, implied--failure in that which +rose paramount to every other consideration in life! + +Fail her! Jimmie Dale's lips thinned into a hard, drawn line--and then +parted slowly in a curiously whimsical smile. It would be a strange +burglary that he had decided upon, in order that he might not fail +her--stranger than any the Gray Seal had ever committed, and, in some +respects, even more perilous! + +He started along the Bowery, walking briskly now, toward the nearest +subway station, at Astor Place, his mind for the moment electing to face +the situation in a humour as whimsical as his smile. Supposing that, +as Larry the Bat, he were caught and arrested during the next hour, in +Jimmie's Dale's residence on Riverside Drive! With his arrest as Larry +the Bat, Jimmie's Dale would automatically disappear. Would follow then +the suspicion that Jimmie Dale, the millionaire, had met with foul play, +and as time went on, and Jimmie Dale, being then in prison as Larry +the Bat, did not reappear, the assurance of it; then the certainty +that suspicion would focus on Larry the Bat as being connected with +the millionaire's death, since Larry the Bat had been caught in Jimmie +Dale's home--and he would be accused of his own murder! It was quite +humourous, of course, quite grotesquely bizarre--but it was equally +an exceedingly grim possibility! There were drawbacks to a dual +personality! + +“In a word,” confided Jimmie Dale softly to himself, and a serious light +crept into the dark, steady eyes, “I'm in a bit of a nasty mess!” + +At Astor Place he entered the subway; at Fourteenth Street he changed +to an express, and at Ninety-sixth Street he got out. It was but a short +walk west to Riverside Drive, and from there his house was only a few +blocks farther on. + +Jimmie Dale did not slouch now. And for all his disreputable attire, +incongruous as it was in that neighbourhood, few people that he +passed paid any attention to him, none gave him more than a casual +glance--Jimmie Dale swung along, upright, with no attempt to make +himself inconspicuous, hurrying a little, as one intent upon a definite +errand. As he neared his house he slowed his pace a little until a +couple, who were passing in front of it, had gone on; then he went up +the steps, but noiselessly as a shadow now, to the front door, opened +it softly, closed it softly behind him, and crouched for a moment in the +vestibule. + +Through the monogrammed lace on the plate glass of the inner doors he +could see, a little indistinctly, into the reception hall beyond. The +hall was empty. Jason, for that matter, would be the only one likely to +be about; the other servants would have no business there in any case, +and whether in their quarters above or below, they had their own stairs +at the rear. + +Jimmie Dale inserted the key in the spring lock, and opened the door +a cautious fraction of an inch--to listen. There was no sound--yes, +a subdued murmured--the servants were downstairs in the basement. He +slipped inside, slipped, in a flash, across the hall, and, treading like +a cat, went up the stairs. He scarcely seemed to breathe until, with a +little sigh of relief, he stood inside his den on the first floor, with +the door shut behind him. + +“I must speak to Jason about being a little more watchful,” muttered +Jimmie Dale facetiously. “Here's all my property at the mercy of--Larry +the Bat!” + +An instant he stood by the door, looking about him--in the bright +moonlight streaming in through the side windows the room's appointments +stood out in soft shadows, the huge davenport, the great, luxurious +easy-chairs, an easel with a half-finished canvas, as he had left it; +the big, flat-topped, rosewood desk, the open fireplace--and then, his +steps silent on the thick velvet rug under foot, he walked quickly to +the desk. + +Yes, there it was--the letter. He placed it hurriedly in his pocket--the +moonlight was not strong enough to read by, and he dared not turn on the +lights. + +And now money--funds. In the alcove behind the portiere, Jimmie Dale +dropped on his knees before the squat, barrel-shaped safe, and opened +it. He reached inside, took out a package of banknotes, placed the bills +in his pocket--and hesitated a moment. What else would he require? What +act did that letter call upon the Gray Seal to perform in the next few +hours? Jimmie Dale stared thoughtfully into the interior of the safe. +Whatever it was, it must be performed in the role of Larry the Bat, for +though he could get into his dressing room now, and become Jimmie Dale +again, there were still those watchers outside the Sanctuary--THEY must +not become suspicious--and if Larry the Bat disappeared mysteriously, +Larry the Bat would be the man that Kline and the secret service of the +United States would never cease hunting for, and that would mean that +he could never reassume a character that was as necessary for his +protection as breath was to life, so long as the Gray Seal worked. True, +he could change now to Jimmie Dale, but he would have to change back +again and return to the Sanctuary before morning, as Larry the Bat--and +remain there until Kline, beaten, called off his human bloodhounds. No, +a change was not to be thought of. + +What, then, would he require--that compact little kit of burglar tools, +rolled in its leather jacket, that, unrolled slipped about his body like +a close-fitting undervest? As well to take it anyway. He removed his +coat and vest, took out the leather bundle from the safe, untied the +thongs that bound it together, unrolled it, passed it around his body, +life belt fashion, secured the thongs over his shoulders, and put on +his coat and vest again. A revolver, a flashlight? He had both--at +the Sanctuary, under the flooring--but there were duplicates here! He +slipped them into his pockets. Anything else--to forestall and provide +for any possible contingency? He hesitated again for a moment, thinking, +then slowly closed the inner door of the safe, locked it, swung the +outer door shut--and, in the act of twirling the knobs, sprang suddenly +to his feet. Sharp, shrill in the stillness of the room, the telephone +bell on the desk rang out clamourously. + +Jimmie Dale's face set hard, as he leaped out from behind the +curtain--had Jason heard it! It rang again before he could reach the +desk--was ringing as he snatched the receiver from the hook. + +“Yes, yes!” he called, in a low, guarded, hasty way, into the +mouthpiece. “Hello! What is it?” And then one hand, resting on the desk, +closed around the edge, and tightened until the skin over the knuckles +grew ivory white. It was--SHE! She! It was HER voice--he had only heard +it once in all his life--that night, two nights before, in a silvery +laugh from the limousine as it had sped away from him down the road--but +he knew! It thrilled him now with a mad rhapsody, robbing him for the +moment of every thought save that she was living, real, existent--that +it was HER voice. “It's you--YOU!” he said hoarsely. + +“Oh, Jimmie--you at last!”--it came in a little gasping cry of relief. +“The letter--” + +“Yes, I've got it--it's all right--it's all right”--the words would +not seem to come fast enough in his desperate haste. “But it's you now. +Listen! Listen!” he pleaded. “Tell me who you are! My God! how I've +tried to find you, and--” + +That rippling, silvery laugh again, but now, too, it seemed to his eager +ear, with just the faintest note of wistfulness in it. + +“Some day, Jimmie. That letter now. It--” + +Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly--Jason's steps, running, sounded +outside the room along the corridor--there was not an instant to lose. + +“Hang up! Good-bye! Danger! Don't ring again!” he whispered hurriedly, +and, with a miserable smile, replacing the receiver bitterly on the +hook, he jumped for the curtain. + +He reached it none too soon. The door opened, an electric-light switch +clicked, and the room was flooded with light. Jason, still running, +headed for the desk. + +“It'll be her again!” Jimmie Dale heard the old man mutter, as from the +edge of the portiere he watched the other's actions. + +Jason picked up the telephone. + +“Hello! Hello!” he called--then began to click impatiently with the +receiver hook. “Hello! . . . Who? . . . Central? . . . I don't want +any number--somebody was calling here. . . . What? . . . Nobody on the +wire!” + +He set the telephone back on the desk with a bewildered air. + +“That's queer!” he exclaimed. “I could have sworn I heard it ring twice, +and--” He stopped abruptly, and, leaning across the desk, hung there, +wide-eyed, staring, while a sickly pallor began to steal into his face. +“The letter!” he mumbled wildly. “The letter--Master Jim's letter--the +letter--it's GONE!” + +Trembling, excited, the old man began to search the desk, then down on +his knees on the floor under it; and then, growing more frantic with +every instant, rose and began to hunt around the room in an agitated, +aimless fashion. + +Jason's distress was very real--he was almost beside himself now with +fear and anxiety. A whimsical, affectionate smile played over Jimmie +Dale's lips at the old man's antics--and changed suddenly into one of +consternation. Jason was making directly now for the curtain behind +which he stood! Perhaps, though, he would pass it by, and--Jason's hand +reached out and grasped the portiere. + +“Jason!” said Jimmie Dale sharply. + +The old man staggered back as though he had been struck, tried to speak, +choked, and gazed at the curtain with distended eyes. + +“Is--is that you, sir--Master Jim--behind the curtain there?” he finally +blurted out. “I--sir--you gave me a start--and the letter, Master Jim--” + +“Don't lose your head, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “I've got the +letter. Now do as I bid you.” + +“Yes--Master Jim,” faltered the old man. + +“Pull down the window shades and draw the portiere together,” directed +Jimmie Dale. + +Jason, still overwrought and excited, obeyed a little awkwardly. + +“Now the lights, Jason,” instructed Jimmie Dale. “Turn them off, and go +and sit down in that chair at the desk.” + +Again Jason obeyed, stumbling in the darkness as he returned from the +electric-light switch at the farther end of the room. He sat down in the +chair. + +Larry the Bat stepped out from behind the curtain. “I came for that +letter, Jason,” he explained quietly. “I am going out again now. I may +be back to-morrow; I may not be back for a week. You will say nothing, +not a word, of my having been here to-night. Do you understand, Jason?” + +“Yes, sir,” said Jason; then hesitantly: “Would you mind saying, sir, +when you came in?” + +“It's of no consequence, Jason--is it?” + +“No, sir,” said Jason. + +Jimmie Dale smiled in the darkness. + +“Jason!” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“I wish you to remain where you are, without leaving that chair, for the +next ten minutes.” He moved across the room to the door. “Good-night, +Jason,” he said. + +“Good-night, Master Jim--good-night, sir--oh, Lord!” + +Jimmie Dale did not require that ten minutes; it was a very wide margin +of safety to obviate the possibility of Jason, from a window, detecting +the exit of a disreputable character from the house--in three minutes +he was turning the corner of the first cross street and walking rapidly +away from Riverside Drive. + +In the subway station Jimmie Dale read the letter--read it twice over, +as he always read those strange epistles of hers that opened the door to +new peril, new danger to the Gray Seal, but too, that seemed somehow to +draw tighter, in a glad, big way, the unseen bond between them; read it, +as he always read those letters, almost subconsciously committing the +very words to memory with that keen faculty of brain of his. But now +as he began to tear the sheet and envelope into minute particles, a +strained, hard look was on his face and in his eyes, and his lips, half +parted, moved a little. + +“It's a death warrant,” muttered Jimmie Dale. “I--I guess to-night will +see the end of the Gray Seal. She says I needn't do it, but I guess it's +worth the risk--a human life!” + +A downtown express roared into the station. + +“What time is it?” Jimmie Dale asked the guard, as he stepped aboard. + +“'Bout midnight,” the man answered tersely. + +The forward car was almost empty, and Jimmie Dale chose a seat by +himself. How did she know? How did she know not only this, but the +hundred other affairs that she had outlined in those letters of hers? By +what means, superhuman, indeed, it seemed, did she--Jimmie Dale jerked +himself erect suddenly. What good did it do to speculate on that now, +when every minute was priceless? What was HE to do, how was he to act, +what plan could he formulate and carry out, and WIN against odds that, +at the outset, were desperate enough even to forecast almost certain +failure--and death! + +Who would ever have suspected old Tom Ludgate, known for years +throughout the squalour of the East Side as old Luddy, the pushcart man, +of having a bag of unset diamonds under his pillow--or under the sack, +rather, that he probably used for a pillow! What a queer thing to do! +But then, old Luddy was a character--apparently always in the most +poverty-stricken condition, apparently hardly more than keeping body +and soul together, trusting no one, and obsessed by the dread that by +depositing in a bank some one would discover that he had money, and +attempt to force it from him, he had put his savings, year after +year, for twenty years, twenty-five years, perhaps, into unset +stone--diamonds. How had she found that out? + +Jimmie Dale sank into a deeper reverie. He could steal them all right, +and they would be well worth the stealing--old Luddy had done well, and +lived and existed on next to nothing--the stones, she said, were worth +about fifteen thousand dollars. Not so bad, even for twenty-five years +of vegetable selling from a pushcart! He could steal them all right; it +would tax the Gray Seal's ingenuity little to do so simple a thing as +that, but that was not all, nor, indeed, hardly a factor in it--it was +vital that if he were to succeed at all he must steal them PUBLICLY, as +it were. + +And after that--WHAT? His own chances were pretty slim at best. Jimmie +Dale, staring at the grayness of the subway wall through the window, +shook his head slowly--then, with a queer little philosophical shrug of +his shoulders, he smiled gravely, seriously. It was all a part of the +game, all a part of the life--of the Gray Seal! + +It was half-past twelve, or a little later, as nearly as he could judge, +for Larry the Bat carried no such ornate thing in evidence as a watch, +as he halted at the corner of a dark, squalid street in the lower +East Side. It was a miserable locality--in daylight humming with a +cosmopolitan hive of pitiful humans dragging out as best they could +an intolerable existence, a locality peopled with every nationality on +earth, their community of interest the struggle to maintain life at the +lowest possible expenditure, where necessity even was pared and +shaved down to a minimum; but now, at night time, or rather in the +early-morning hours, the darkness, in very mercy, it seemed, covered it +with a veil, as it were, and in the quiet that hung over it now hid the +bald, the hideous, aye, and the piteous, too, from view. + +It was a narrow street, and the row of tenement houses, each house +almost identical with its neighbour, that flanked the pavement on either +side, seemed, from where Jimmie Dale stood looking down its length, from +the corner, to converge together at a point a little way beyond, +giving it an unreal, ominous, cavernlike effect. And, too, there seemed +something ominous even in its quiet. It was as though one sensed acutely +the crouching of some Thing in its lair--waiting silently, viciously, +with sullen patience. + +A footstep sounded--another. Jimmie Dale drew quickly back around the +corner into an areaway. Two men passed--in helmets--swinging their +nightsticks--that beat was always policed in pairs! + +They passed on, turned the corner, and went down the narrow cross street +that Jimmie Dale had just been inspecting. He started to follow--and +drew back again abruptly. A form flitted suddenly across the road and +disappeared in the darkness in the officers' wake--ten yards behind +the first another followed--at the same interval of distance still +another--and yet still one more--four in all. + +The darkness hid all six, the two policemen, the four men behind +them--the only sounds were the OFFICERS' footsteps dying away in the +distance. + +Jimmie Dale's fingers were mechanically testing the mechanism of the +automatic in his pocket. + +“The Skeeter's gang!” he muttered to himself. “Red Mose, the Midget, +Harve Thoms--and the Skeeter! The Worst apaches in the city of New York; +death contractors--the lowest bidders! Professional assassins, and a +man's life any time for twenty-five dollars! I wonder--I've never +done it yet--but I wonder if it would be a crime in God's sight if one +shot--to KILL!” + +Jimmie Dale was at the corner again--again the street before him was +black, deserted, empty. He chose the right hand side, and, well in the +shadow of the houses, as an extra precaution, stole along silently. He +stopped finally before one where, in the doorway, hung a little sign. +Jimmie Dale mounted the porch, and with his eyes close to the sign could +just make out the larger words in the big printed type: + + +ROOM TO RENT + +TOP FLOOR + + +Jimmie Dale nodded. That was right. The first house on the right-hand +side, with the room-to-rent sign, her letter had said. His fingers were +testing the doorknob. The door was not locked. + +“Naturally, it wouldn't be locked,” Jimmie Dale told himself grimly--and +stepped inside. + +He stood for an instant without movement, every faculty on the alert. +Far up above him a step, guarded though his trained ear made it out +to be, creaked faintly upon the stairs--there was no other sound. The +creaking, almost inaudible at its loudest, receded farther up--and +silence fell. + +In the darkness, noiselessly, Jimmie Dale groped for the stairway, found +it, and began to ascend. The minutes passed--it seemed a minute even +from step to step, and there were three flights to the top! There must +be no creaking this time--the slightest sound, he knew well enough, +would be not only fatal to the work he had to do, but probably fatal to +himself as well. He had been near death many times--the consciousness +that he was nearer to it now, possibly, than he had ever been before, +seemed to stimulate his senses into acute and abnormal energy. And, too, +the physical effort, as, step by step, the flexed muscles relaxing so +slowly, little by little, gradually, each time as he found foothold +on the step higher up, was a terrific strain. At the top his face was +bathed in perspiration, and he wiped it off with his coat sleeve. + +It was still dark here, intensely dark, and his eyes, though grown +accustomed to it, could make out nothing but the deeper shadow of the +walls. But thanks to her, always a mistress of accurate and minute +detail, he possessed a mental plan of his surroundings. The head of the +stairs gave on the middle of the hallway--the hallway ran to his right +and left. To his right, on the opposite side of the hall, was the door +of old Luddy's squalid two-room apartment. + +For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant--a sudden perplexity and anxiety +growing upon him. It was strange! What did it mean? He had nerved +himself to a quick, desperate attempt, trusting to surprise and his own +wit and agility for victory--there had seemed no other way than that, +since he had seen those four men at the corner--since they were AHEAD +of him. True, they were not much ahead of him, not enough to have +accomplished their purpose--and, furthermore, they were not in that +room. He knew that absolutely, beyond question of doubt. He had listened +for just that all the nerve-racking way up the stairs. But where +were they? There was no sound--not a sound--just blackness, dark, +impenetrable, utter, that began to palpitate now. + +It came in a whisper, wavering, sibilant--from his left. A sort of +relief, fierce in the breaking of the tense expectancy, premonitory in +the possibilities that it held, swept Jimmie Dale. He crept along the +hall. The whisper had come from that room, presumably empty--that was +for rent! + +By the door he crouched--his sensitive fingers, eyes to Jimmie Dale so +often--feeling over jamb and panels with a delicate, soundless touch. +The door was just ajar. The fingers crept inside and touched the knob +and lock--there was no key within. + +The whispering still went on--but it seemed like a screaming of vultures +now in Jimmie Dale's ears, as the words came to him. + +“Aw, say, Skeeter, dis high-brow stunt gives me de pip! Me fer goin' in +dere an' croakin' de geezer reg'lar, widout de frills. Who's to know? +Say, just about two minutes, an' we're beatin' it wid de sparklers.” + +An inch, a half inch at a time, the knob slowly, very, very slowly +turning, the door was being closed by the crouched form on the +threshold. + +“Close yer trap, Mose!” came a fierce response. “We ain't fixed the +lay all day for nothin'. There ain't a soul on earth knows he's got any +sparklers, 'cept us. If there was, it would be different--then they'd +know that was what whoever did it was after, see?” + +The door was closed--the knob slowly, very, very slowly being released +again. From one of the leather pockets under Jimmie Dale's vest came a +tiny steel instrument that he inserted in the key-hole. + +The same voice spoke on: + +“That's what we're croaking him for, 'cause nobody knows about them +diamonds, and so's he can't TELL anybody afterward that any were +pinched. An' that's why it's got to look like he just got tired of +living and did it himself. I guess that'll hold the police when they +find the poor old duck hanging from the ceiling, with a bit of cord +around his neck, and a chair kicked out from under his feet on the +floor. Ain't you got the brains of a louse to see that?” + +“Sure”--the whisper came dully, in grudging intonation through the +panels--the door was locked. “Sure, but it's de hangin' 'round waitin' +to get busy that's gettin' me goat, an'--” + +Jimmie Dale straightened up and began to retreat along the corridor. +A merciless rage was upon him now, every fiber of his being seemed to +tingle and quiver with it--the damnable, hellish ingenuity of it all +seemed to choke and suffocate him. + +“Luck!” muttered Jimmie Dale between his clenched teeth. “Oh, the +blessed luck to get that door locked! I've got time now to set the stage +for my own get-away before the showdown!” + +He stole on along the corridor. Excerpts from her letter were running +through his brain: “It would do no good to warn him, Jimmie--the Skeeter +and his gang would never let up on him until they got the stones. . . . +It would do no good for you to steal them first, for they would only +take that as a ruse of old Luddy's, and murder the man first and hunt +afterward. . . . In some way you must let the Skeeter SEE you steal +them, make them think, make them certain that it is a bona-fide theft, +so that they will no longer have any interest or any desire to do old +Luddy harm. . . . And for it to appear real to them, it must appear real +to old Luddy himself--do not take any chances there.” + +Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed. Yes, it was simple enough now with that +pack of hell's wolves guarded for the moment by a locked door, forced to +give him warning by breaking the door before they could get out. It was +simple enough now to enter old Luddy's room, steal the stones at the +revolver point, then make enough disturbance--when he was ready--to set +the gang in motion, and, as they rushed in open him, to make his escape +with the stones to the roof through Luddy's room. That was simple +enough--there was an opening to the roof in Luddy's room, she had said, +and there was a ladder kept there in place. On hot nights, it seemed, +the old man used to go up there and sleep on the roof--not now, of +course. It was too late in the year for that--but the opening in the +roof was there, and the ladder remained there, too. + +Yes, it was simple enough now. And the next morning the papers would +rave with execrations against the Gray Seal--for the robbery of the +life savings of a poor, defenseless old man, for committing as vile and +pitiful a crime as had ever stirred New York! Even Carruthers, of +the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, would be moved to bitter attack. Good old +Carruthers--who little thought that the Gray Seal was his old college +pal, his present most intimate friend, Jimmie Dale! And afterward--after +the next morning? Well, that, at least, had never been in doubt. Old +Luddy could be made to leave New York, and, once away, with the Skeeter +and his gang robbed of incentive to pay any further attention to him, +the stones could be secretly returned to the old man. And it would +to the public, to the police, be just another of the Gray Seal's +crimes--that was all! + +Jimmie Dale had reached old Luddy's door. The Gray Seal? Oh, yes, they +would know it was the Gray Seal--the insignia was familiar enough; +familiar to the crooks of the underworld, who held it in awe; familiar +to the police, to whom it was an added barb of ridicule. He was placing +it now, that insignia, a diamond-shaped, gray paper seal, on the panel +of the door; and now, a black silk mask adjusted over his face, Jimmie +Dale bent to insert the little steel instrument in the lock--a pitiful, +paltry thing, a cheap lock, to fingers that could play so intimately +with twirling knobs and dials, masters of the intricate mechanism of +vaults and safes! + +And then, about to open the door, a sort of sudden dismay fell upon him. +He had not thought of that--somehow, it had not occurred to him! WHAT +WAS IT THEY WERE WAITING FOR? Why had they not struck at once, as, when +he had first entered the house, he had supposed they would do? What was +it? Why was it? Was old Luddy out? Were they waiting for his return--or +what? + +The door, without sound, moved gradually under his hand. A faint odor +assailed his nostrils! It was dark, very dark. Across the room, in a +direct line, was the doorway of the inner room--she had explained that +in her letter. It was slow progress to cross that room without sound, +in silence--it was a snail's movement--for fear that even a muscle might +crack. + +And now he stood in the inner doorway. It was dark here, to--and yet, +how bizarre, a star seemed to twinkle through the very roof of the room +itself! The odour was pungent now. There was a long-drawn sigh--then a +low, indescribable sound of movement. SOMEBODY, APART FROM OLD LUDDY, +WAS IN THE ROOM! + +It swept, the full consciousness of it, upon Jimmie Dale in an +instantaneous flash. Chloroform; the open scuttle in the roof; the +waiting of those others--all fused into a compact logical whole. They +had loosened the scuttle during the day, probably when old Luddy was +away--one of them had crept down there now to chloroform the old man +into insensibility--the others would complete the ghastly work presently +by stringing their victim up to the ceiling--and it would be suicide, +for, long before morning came, long before the old man would be +discovered, the fumes of the chloroform would be gone. + +It seemed like a cold hand, deathlike, clutching at his heart. Was he +too late, after all! Chloroform alone could--kill! To the right, just a +little to the right--he must make no mistake--his ear placed the sound! +He whipped his hands from the side pockets of his coat--the ray of his +flashlight cut across the room and fell upon an aged face upon a bed, +upon a hand clutching a wad of cloth, the cloth pressed horribly against +the nose and mouth of the upturned face--and then, roaring in the +stillness, spitting a vicious lane of fire that paralleled the +flashlight's ray, came the tongue flame of his automatic. + +There was a yell, a scream, that echoed out, reverberated, and went +racketing through the house, and Jimmie Dale leaped forward--over a +table, sending it crashing to the floor. The man had reeled back against +the wall, clutching at a shattered wrist, staring into the flashlight's +eye, white-faced, jaw dropped, lips working in mingled pain and fear. + +“Harve Thoms--you, eh?” gritted Jimmie Dale. + +A cunning look swept the distorted face. Here, apparently, was only one +man--there were pals, three of them, only a few yards away. + +“You ain't got nothing on me!” he snarled, sparring for time. “You +police are too damned fresh with your guns!” + +“I'll take yours!” snapped Jimmie Dale, and snatched it deftly from the +other's pocket. “This ain't any police job, my bucko, and you make +a move and I'll drop you for keeps, if what you've got already ain't +enough to teach you to keep your hands off jobs that belong to your +betters!” + +He was working with mad haste as he spoke. One minute at the outside +was, perhaps, all he could count upon. Already he had caught the rattle +of the locked door down the hall. He lit a match and turned on the gas +over the bed--it was the most dangerous thing he could do--he knew that +well enough, none knew it better--it was offering himself as a fair +mark when the others rushed in, as they would in a moment now--but the +Skeeter and his gang and this man here must have no misconception of his +purpose, his reason for being there, the same as their own, the theft of +the stones--and no misconception as to his SUCCESS. + +“Y'ain't the police!”--it came in a choked gasp from the other, as he +blinked in the sudden light “Say then--” + +“Shut up!” ordered Jimmie Dale curtly. “And mind what I told you about +moving!” He leaned over the bed. Old Luddy, though under the influence +of the chloroform, was moving restlessly. Thoms had evidently only begun +to apply the chloroform--old Luddy was safe! Jimmie Dale ran his hand +in under the pillow. “If you ain't swiped them already they ought to be +here!” he growled; “and if you have I'll--ah!” A little chamois bag was +in his hand. He laughed sneeringly at Thoms, opened the bag, allowed +a few stones to trickle into his hand--and then, without stopping to +replace them, dashed stones and bag into his pocket. The door along the +corridor crashed open. + +“What's that?” he gasped out, in well-simulated fright--and sprang for +the ladder that led up to the roof. + +It had all taken, perhaps, the minute that he had counted on--no more. +Noises came from the floors below now, a confusion of them--the shot, +the scream had been heard by others, save those who had been in the +locked room. And the latter were outside now in the corridor, running to +their accomplice's aid. + +There was a pause at the outer door--then an oath--and coupled with the +oath an exclamation: + +“The Gray Seal!” + +They had swept a flashlight over the door panel--Jimmie Dale, halfway up +the ladder, smiled grimly. + +The door opened--there was a rush of feet. The man with the shattered +wrist yelled, cursing wildly: + +“Here he is--on the ladder! Let him have it! Fill him full of holes!” + +Jimmie Dale was in the light--they were in the dark of the outer room. +He fired at the threshold, checking their rush--as a hail of bullets +chipped and tore at the ladder and spat wickedly against the wall. He +swung through to the roof, trying, as he did so, to kick the ladder +loose behind him. It was fastened! + +The three gunmen jumped into the room--from the roof Jimmie Dale got a +glimpse of them below, as he flung himself clear of the opening. Bullets +whistled through the aperture--a voice roared up as he gained his feet: + +“Come on! After him! The whole place is alive, but this lets us out. +We can frame up how we came to be here easy enough. Never mind the old +geezer there any more! Get the Gray Seal--the reward that's out for him +is worth twice the sparklers, and--” + +Jimmie Dale hurled the cover over the scuttle. He could have stood them +off from above and kept the ladder clear with his revolver, but the +alarm seemed general now--windows were opening, voices were calling to +one another--from the windows across the street he must stand out in +sharp outline against the sky. Yes--he was seen now. + +A woman's voice, from a top-story window across the street, screamed +out, high-pitched in excitement: + +“There he is! There he is! On the roof there!” + +Jimmie Dale started on the run along the roof. The houses, built wall to +wall, flat-roofed, seemed to offer an open course ahead of him--until +a lane or an intersecting street should bar his way! But they were not +quite all on the same level, though--the wall of the next house rose +suddenly breast high in front of him. He flung himself up, regained his +feet--and ducked instantly behind a chimney. + +The crack of a revolver echoed through the night--a bullet drummed +through the air--the Skeeter and his gang were on the roof now, dashing +forward, firing as they ran. Two shots from Jimmie Dale's automatic, in +quick succession cooled the ardour of their rush--and they broke, black, +flitting forms, for the shelter of chimneys, too. + +And now the whole neighbourhood seemed awakened. A dull-toned roar, +as from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of +slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses, +cries, shouts, and yells--and high over all the shrill call of the +police-patrol whistle--and the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of the Skeeter's +revolver shots--the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once self-appointed +allies of the law! + +Twice again Jimmie Dale fired--then crouching, running low, he zigzagged +his way across the next roof. The bullets followed him--once more his +pursuers dashed forward. And again Jimmie Dale, his face set like stone +now, his breath coming in hard gasps, dodged behind a chimney, and with +his gun checked their rush for the third time. + +He glanced about him--and with a growing sense of disaster saw that two +houses farther on the stretch of roof appeared to end. There would be +a lane or a street there! And in another minute or two, if it were not +already the case, others would be following the gunmen to the roof, +and then he would be--he caught his breath suddenly in a queer little +strangled cry of relief. Just back of him, a few yards away, his eyes +made out what, in the darkness, seemed to be a glass skylight. + +A dark form sped like a deeper shadow across the black in front of +him, making for a chimney nearer by, closing in the range. Jimmie Dale +fired--wide. Tight as was the corner he was in, little as was the +mercy deserved at his hands, he could not, after all, bring himself to +shoot--to kill. + +A voice, the Skeeter's, bawled out raucously: + +“Rush him all together--from different sides at once!” + +A backward leap! Jimmie Dale's boot was crashing glass and frame, +stamping at it desperately, making a hole for his body through the +skylight. A yell, a chorus of them, answered this--then the crunch of +racing feet on the gravel roof. He emptied his revolver, sweeping the +darkness with a semicircle of vicious flashes. + +It seemed an hour--it was barely the fraction of a second, as he hung +by his hands from the side of the skylight frame, his body swinging +back and forth in the unknown blackness below. The skylight might +be, probably was, directly over the stair well, and open clear to the +basement of the house--but it was his only chance. He swung his body +well out, let go--and dropped. With the impetus he smashed against a +wall, was flung back from it in a sort of rebound, and his hands closed, +gripping fiercely, on banisters. It had been the stair well beyond any +question of doubt, but his swing had sent him clear of it. + +Above, they had not yet reached the skylight. Jimmie Dale snatched a +precious moment to listen, as he rose, and found himself, apart from +bruises, perhaps unhurt. There was commotion, too, in this house below, +the alarm had extended and spread along the block--but the commotion was +all in the FRONT of the house--the street was the lure. + +Jimmie Dale started down the stairs, and in an instant he had gained the +landing. In another he had slipped to the rear of the hall--somewhere +there, from the hall itself, from one of the rear rooms, there must be +an exit to the fire escape. To attempt to leave by the front way was +certain capture. + +They were yelling, shouting down now through the sky-light above, as +Jimmie Dale softly raised the window sash at the rear of the hall. The +fire escape was there. Shouts from along the corridor, from the tenement +dwellers who had been crowding their neighbours' rooms, craning their +necks probably from the front windows, answered the shouts now from the +roof and the skylight; doors opened; forms rushed out--but it was dark +in the corridor, only a murky yellow at the upper end from the opened +doors. + +Jimmie Dale slipped through the window to the fire escape, and, working +cautiously, silently, but with the speed of a trained athlete, made his +way down. At the bottom he dropped from the iron platform into the back +yard, ran for the fence and climbed over into a lane on the other side. + +And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale snatched the mask from his face and +put it in his pocket. He was safe now. He swept the sweat drops from his +forehead with the back of his hand--noticing them for the first time. +It had been close--almost as close for him as it had been for old Luddy. +And to-morrow the papers would execrate the Gray Seal! He smiled a +little wanly. His breath was still coming hard. Presently they would +scour the lane--when they found that their quarry was not in the house. +What a racket they were making! The whole district seemed roused like a +swarm of angry bees. + +He kept on along the lane--and dodged suddenly into a cross street where +the two intersected. The clang of a bell dinned discordantly in +his ears--a patrol wagon swept by him, racing for the scene of the +disturbance--the riot call was out! + +Again Jimmie Dale smiled wearily, passing his hand across his eyes. + +“I guess,” said Jimmie Dale, “I'm pretty near all in. And I guess it's +time that Larry the Bat went--home.” + +And a little later a figure turned from the Bowery and shambled down +the cross street, a disreputable figure, with hands plunged deep in his +pockets--and a shadow across the roadway suddenly shifted its position +as the shambling figure slouched into the black alleyway and entered the +tenement's side door. + +And Larry the Bat smiled softly to himself--Kline's men were still on +guard! + + + +CHAPTER VI + +DEVIL'S WORK + + +A white-gloved arm, a voice, and a silvery laugh! Just that--no more! +Jimmie Dale, in his favourite seat, an aisle seat some seven or eight +rows back from the orchestra, stared at the stage, to all outward +appearances absorbed in the last act of the play; inwardly, quite +oblivious to the fact that even a play was going on. + +A white-gloved arm, a voice, and a silvery laugh! The words had formed +themselves into a sort of singsong refrain that, for the last few days, +had been running through his head. A strange enough guiding star to +mould and dictate every action in his life! And that was all he had ever +seen of her, all that he had ever heard of her--except those letters, +of course, each of which had outlined the details of some affair for the +Gray Seal to execute. + +Indeed, it seemed a great length of time now since he had heard from her +even in that way, though it was not so many days ago, after all. Perhaps +it was the calm, as it were, that, by contrast, had given place to the +strenuous months and weeks just past. The storm raised by the newspapers +at the theft of Old Luddy's diamonds had subsided into sporadic +diatribes aimed at the police; Kline, of the secret service, had finally +admitted defeat, and a shadow no longer skulked day and night at +the entrance to the Sanctuary--and Larry the Bat bore the government +indorsement, so to speak, of being no more suspicious a character than +that of a disreputable, but harmless, dope fiend of the underworld. + +Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! Jimmie Dale the millionaire! What if it +were ever known that that strange three were one! What if--Jimmie Dale +smiled whimsically. A burst of applause echoed through the house, the +orchestra was playing, the lights were on, seats banged, there was the +bustle of the rising audience, the play was at an end--and for the life +of him he could not have remembered a single line of the last act! + +The aisle at his elbow was already crowded with people on their way out. +Jimmie Dale stooped down mechanically to reach for his hat beneath his +seat--and the next instant he was standing up, staring wildly into the +faces around him. + +It had fallen at his feet--a white envelope. Hers! It was in his hand +now, those slim, tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers of Jimmie +Dale, that were an “open sesame” to locks and safes, subconsciously +telegraphing to his mind the fact that the texture of the paper--was +hers. Hers! And she must be one of those around him--one of those +crowding either the row of seats in front or behind, or one of those +just passing in the aisle. It had fallen at his feet as he had stooped +over for his hat--but from just exactly what direction he could not +tell. His eyes, eagerly, hungrily, critically, swept face after face. +Which one was hers? What irony! She, whom he would have given his +life to know, for whom indeed he risked his life every hour of the +twenty-four, was close to him now, within reach--and as far removed as +though a thousand miles separated them. She was there--but he could not +recognise a face that he had never seen! + +With an effort, he choked back the bitter, impotent laugh that rose to +his lips. They were talking, laughing around him. Her VOICE--yes, he +had once heard that, and that he would recognise again. He strained to +catch, to individualise the tone sounds that floated in a medley about +him. It was useless--of course--every effort that he had ever made +to find her had been useless. She was too clever, far too clever for +that--she, too, would know that he could and would recognise her voice +where he could recognise nothing else. + +And then, suddenly, he realised that he was attracting attention. Level +stares from the women returned his gaze, and they edged away a little +from his vicinity as they passed, their escorts crowding somewhat +belligerently into their places. Others, in the same row of seats as his +own, were impatiently waiting to get by him. With a muttered apology, +Jimmie Dale raised the seat of his chair, allowing these latter to pass +him--and then, slipping the letter into his pocketbook, he snatched up +his hat from the seat rack. + +There was still a chance. Knowing he was there, she would be on her +guard; but in the lobby, among the crowd and unaware of his presence, +there was the possibility that, if he could reach the entrance ahead of +her, she, too, might be talking and laughing as she left the theatre. +Just a single word, just a tone--that was all he asked. + +The row of seats at whose end he stood was empty now, and, instead of +stepping into the thronged aisle, he made his way across to the opposite +side of the theatre. Here, the far aisle was less crowded, and in a +minute he had gained the foyer, confident that he was now in advance of +her. The next moment he was lost in a jam of people in the lobby. + +He moved slowly now, very slowly--allowing those behind to press by +him on the way to the entrance. A babel of voices rose about him, +as, tight-packed, the mass of people jostled, elbowed, and pushed +good-naturedly. It was a voice now, her voice, that he was listening +for; but, though it seemed that every faculty was strained and intent +upon that one effort, his eyes, too, had in no degree relaxed their +vigilance--and once, half grimly, half sardonically, he smiled to +himself. There would be an unexpected aftermath to this exodus +of expensively gowned and bejewelled women with their prosperous, +well-groomed escorts! There was the Wowzer over there--sleek, dapper, +squirming in and out of the throng with the agility and stealth of a +cat. As Larry the Bat he had met the Wowzer many times, as indeed he +had met and was acquainted with most of the elite of the underworld. +The Wowzer, beyond a shadow of doubt, in his own profession stood upon +a plane entirely by himself--among those qualified to speak, no one yet +had ever questioned the Wowzer's claim to the distinction of being the +most dexterous and finished “poke getter” in the United States! + +The crowd thinned in the lobby, thinned down to the last few belated +stragglers, who passed him as he still loitered in the entrance; and +then Jimmie Dale, with a shrug of his shoulders that was a great +deal more philosophical than the maddening sense of chagrin and +disappointment that burned within him, stepped out to the pavement and +headed down Broadway. After all, he had known it in his heart of hearts +all the time--it had always been the same--it was only one more occasion +added to the innumerable ones that had gone before in which she had +eluded him! + +And now--there was the letter! Automatically he quickened his steps a +little. It was useless, futile, profitless, for the moment, at least, to +disturb himself over his failure--there was the letter! His lips parted +in a strange, half-serious, half-speculative smile. The letter--that +was paramount now. What new venture did the night hold in store for +him? What sudden emergency was the Gray Seal called upon to face this +time--what role, unrehearsed, without warning, must he play? What story +of grim, desperate rascality would the papers credit him with +when daylight came? Or would they carry in screaming headlines the +announcement that the Gray Seal was caged and caught at last, and in +three-inch type tell the world that the Gray Seal was--Jimmie Dale! + +A block down, he turned from Broadway out of the theatre crowds that +streamed in both directions past him. The letter! Almost feverishly +now he was seeking an opportunity to open and read it unobserved; an +eagerness upon him that mingled exhilaration at the lure of danger +with a sense of premonition that, irritably, inevitably was with him +at moments such as these. It seemed, it always seemed, that, with an +unopened letter of hers in his possession, it was as though he were +about to open a page in the Book of Fate and read, as it were, a +pronouncement upon himself that might mean life or death. + +He hurried on. People still passed by him--too many. And then a cafe, +just ahead, making a corner, gave him the opportunity that he sought. +Away from the entrance, on the side street, the brilliant lights from +the windows shone out on a comparatively deserted pavement. There was +ample light to read by, even as far away from the window as the curb, +and Jimmie Dale, with an approving nod, turned the corner and walked +along a few steps until opposite the farthest window--but, as he halted +here at the edge of the street, he glanced quickly behind him at a man +whom he had just passed. The other had paused at the corner and was +staring down the street. Jimmie Dale instantly and nonchalantly produced +his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and fastidiously tapped its +end on his thumb nail. + +“Inspector Burton in plain clothes,” he observed musingly to himself. “I +wonder if it's just a fluke--or something else? We'll see.” + +Jimmie Dale took a box of matches from his pocket. The first would not +light. The second broke, and, with an exclamation of annoyance, he flung +it away. The third was making a fitful effort at life, as another man +emerged hastily from the cafe's side door, hurried to the corner, joined +the man who was still loitering there, and both together disappeared at +a rapid pace down the street. + +Jimmie Dale whistled softly to himself. The second man was even better +known than the first; there was not a crook in New York but would +side-step Lannigan of headquarters, and do it with amazing celerity--if +he could! + +“Something up! But it's not my hunt!” muttered Jimmie Dale; then, with +a shrug of his shoulders: “Queer the way those headquarters chaps +fascinate and give me a thrill every time I see them, even if I haven't +a ghost of a reason for imagining that--” + +The sentence was never finished. Jimmie Dale's face was gray. The street +seemed to rock about him--and he stared, like a man stricken, white to +the lips, ahead of him. THE LETTER WAS GONE! His hand, wriggling from +his empty pocket, swept away the sweat beads that were bursting from his +forehead. It had come at last--the pitcher had gone once too often to +the well! + +Numbed for an instant, his brain cleared now, working with lightning +speed, leaping from premise to conclusion. The crush in the theatre +lobby--the pushing, the jostling, the close contact--the Wowzer, the +slickest, cleverest pickpocket in the United States! For a moment he +could have laughed aloud in a sort of ghastly, defiant mockery--he +himself had predicted an unexpected aftermath, had he not! + +Aftermath! It was--the END! An hour, two hours, and New York would be +metamorphosed into a seething caldron of humanity bubbling with the +news. It seemed that he could hear the screams of the newsboys now +shouting their extras; it seemed that he could see the people, roused to +frenzy, swarming in excited crowds, snatching at the papers; he seemed +to hear the mob's shouts swell in execration, in exultation--it seemed +as though all around him had gone mad. The mystery of the Gray Seal was +solved! It was Jimmie Dale, Jimmie Dale, Jimmie, Dale, the millionaire, +the lion of society--and there was ignominy for an honoured name, and +shame and disaster and convict stripes and sullen penitentiary walls--or +death! A felon's death--the chair! + +He was running now, his hands clenched at his sides; his mind, working +subconsciously, urging him onward in a blind, as yet unrealised, +objectless way. And then gradually impulse gave way to calmer reason, +and he slowed his pace to a quick, less noticeable walk. The Wowzer! +That was it! There was yet a chance--the Wowzer! A merciless rage, +cold, deadly, settled upon him. It was the Wowzer who had stolen his +pocketbook, and with it the letter. There could be no doubt of that. +Well, there would be a reckoning at least before the end! + +He was in a downtown subway train now--the roar in his ears in +consonance, it seemed, with the turmoil in his brain. But now, too, he +was Jimmie Dale again; and, apart from the slightly outthrust jaw, the +tight-closed lips, impassive, debonair, composed. + +There was yet a chance. As Larry the Bat he knew every den and lair +below the dead line, and he knew, too, the Wowzer's favourite haunts. +There was yet a chance, only one in a thousand, it was true, almost too +pitiful to be depended upon--but yet a chance. The Wowzer had probably +not worked alone, and he and his pal, or pals, would certainly not +remain uptown either to examine or divide their spoils--they would wait +until they were safe somewhere in one of their hell holes on the East +Side. If he could find the Wowzer, reach the man BEFORE THE LETTER WAS +OPENED--Jimmie Dale's lips grew tighter. THAT was the chance! It he +failed in that--Jimmie Dale's lips drooped downward in grim curves at +the corners. A chance! Already the Wowzer had at least a half hour's +lead, and, worse still, there was no telling which one of a dozen places +the man might have chosen to retreat to with his loot. + +Time passed. His mind obsessed, Jimmie Dale's physical acts were +almost wholly mechanical. It was perhaps fifteen minutes since he had +discovered the loss of the letter, and he was walking now through the +heart of the Bowery. Exactly how he had got there he could not have +told; he had only a vague realisation that, following an intuitive +sense of direction, he had lost not a second of time in making his way +downtown. + +And now he found himself hesitating at the corner of a cross street. Two +blocks east was that dark, narrow alleyway, that side door that made the +entrance to the Sanctuary. It would be safer, a hundred times safer, to +go there, change his clothes and his personality, and emerge again as +Larry the Bat--infinitely safer in that role to explore the dens of the +underworld, many of them indeed unknown and undreamed of by the police +themselves, than to trust himself there in well-cut, fashionable +tweeds--but that would take time. Time! When, with every second, the +one chance he had, desperate as that already was, was slipping away from +him. No; what was apparently the greater risk at least held out the only +hope. + +He went on again--his brain incessantly at work. At the worst, there +was one mitigating factor in it all. He had no need to think of her. +Whatever the ruin and disaster that faced him in the next few hours, she +in any case was safe. There was no clew to HER identity in the letter; +and where he, for months on end, with even more to work upon, had failed +at every turn to trace her, there was little fear that any one else +would have any better success. She was safe. As for himself--that was +different. The Gray Seal would be referred to in the letter, there would +be the outline, the data for the “crime” she had planned for that night; +and the letter, though unaddressed, being found in his pocketbook, +where cards and notes and a dozen different things among its contents +proclaimed him Jimmie Dale, needed no further evidence as to its +ownership nor the identity of the Gray Seal. + +Jimmie Dale's fingers crept inside his vest and fumbled there for a +moment--and a diamond stud, extracted from his shirt front, glistened +sportively in the necktie that was now tucked jauntily in at one side of +his shirt bosom. He had reached the Blue Dragon, one of Wowzer's usual +hang outs, and, swerving from the sidewalk, entered the place. There was +wild tumult within--a constant storm of applause, derision, and hilarity +that was hurled from the tables around the room at the turkey-trotting, +tango-writhing couples on the somewhat restricted space of polished +hardwood flooring in the centre. Jimmie Dale swaggered down the room, +a cigar tilted up at an angle between his teeth, his soft felt hat a +little rakishly on one side of his head and well over his nose. + +At the end of the room, at the bar, Jimmie Dale leaned toward the +barkeeper and talked out of the corner of his mouth. There were private +rooms upstairs, and he jerked his head surreptitiously ceilingward. + +“Say, is de Wowzer up dere?” he inquired in a cautious whisper. + +The man behind the bar, well known to Jimmie Dale as one of the Wowzer's +particular pals, favoured him with a blank stare. + +“Never heard of de guy!” he announced brusquely. “Wot's yours?” + +“Gimme a mug of suds,” said Jimmie Dale, reaching for a match. He puffed +at his cigar, blew out the match, and, after a moment, flung the charred +end away--but on his hand, as, palm outward, he raised it to take his +glass, the match had traced a small black cross. + +The barkeeper put down the beer he had just drawn, wiped his hand +hurriedly, and with sudden enthusiasm thrust it across the bar. + +“Glad to know youse, cull!” he exclaimed. “Wot's de lay?” + +Jimmie Dale smiled. + +“Nix!” said Jimmie Dale. “I just blew in from Chicago. Used to know de +Wowzer dere. He said dis place was on de level, an' I could always find +him here, dat's all.” + +“Sure, youse can!” returned the barkeeper heartily. “Only he ain't here +now. He beat it about fifteen minutes ago, him an' Dago Jim. I guess +youse'll find him at Chang's, I heard him an' Dago say dey was goin' +dere. Know de place?” + +Jimmie Dale shook his head. + +“I ain't much wise to New York,” he explained. + +“Aw, dat's easy,” whispered the barkeeper. “Go down to Chatham Square, +an' den any guy'll show youse Chang Foo's.” He winked confidentially. “I +guess youse won't bump yer head none gettin' around inside.” + +Jimmie Dale nodded, grinned back, emptied his glass, and dug for a coin. + +“Forget it!” observed the barkeeper cordially. “Dis is on me. Any friend +of de Wowzer's gets de glad hand here any time.” + +“T'anks!” said Jimmie Dale gratefully, as he turned away. “So long, +then--see youse later.” + +Chang Foo's! Jimmie Dale's face set even a little harder than it +had before, as he swung on again down the Bowery. Yes; he knew Chang +Foo's--too well. Underground Chinatown--where a man's life was worth the +price of an opium pill--or less! Mechanically his hand slipped into his +pocket and closed over the automatic that nestled there. Once in--where +he had to go--and the chances were even, just even, that was all, that +he would ever get out. Again he was tempted to return to the Sanctuary +and make the attempt as Larry the Bat. Larry the Bat was well enough +known to enter Chang Foo's unquestioned, and--but again he shook his +head and went on. There was not time. The Wowzer and his pal--it was +Dago Jim it seemed--had evidently been drinking and loitering their way +downtown from the theatre, and he had gained that much on them; but +by now they would be smugly tucked away somewhere in that maze of dens +below the ground, and at that moment probably were gloating over the +biggest night's haul they had ever made in their lives! + +And if they were! What then? Once they knew the contents of that +letter--what then? Buy them off for a larger amount than the many +thousands offered for the capture of the Gray Seal? Jimmie Dale gritted +his teeth. That meant blackmail from them all his life, an intolerable +existence, impossible, a hell on earth--the slave, at the beck and call +of two of the worst criminals in New York! The moisture oozed again to +Jimmie Dale's forehead. God, if he could get that letter before it was +opened--before they KNEW! If he could only get the chance to fight for +it--against ANY odds! Life! Life was a pitiful consideration against the +alternative that faced him now! + +From the Blue Dragon to Chang Foo's was not far; and Jimmie Dale covered +the distance in well under five minutes. Chang Foo's was just a tea +merchant's shop, innocuous and innocent enough in its appearance, +blandly so indeed, and that was all--outwardly; but Jimmie Dale, as he +reached his destination, experienced the first sensation of uplift he +had known that night, and this from what, apparently, did not in the +least seem like a contributing cause. + +“Luck! The blessed luck of it!” he muttered grimly, as he surveyed +the sight-seeing car drawn up at the curb, and watched the passengers +crowding out of it to the ground. “It wouldn't have been as easy to fool +old Chang as it was that fellow back at the Dragon--and, besides, if I +can work it, there's a better chance this way of getting out alive.” + +The guide was marshalling his “gapers”--some two dozen in all, men and +women. Jimmie Dale unostentatiously fell in at the rear; and, the guide +leading, the little crowd passed into the tea merchant's shop. Chang +Foo, a wizened, wrinkled-faced little Celestial, oily, suave, greeted +them with profuse bows, chattering the while volubly in Chinese. + +The guide made the introduction with an all-embracing sweep of his hand. + +“Chang Foo--ladies and gentlemen,” he announced; then held up his hand +for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said impressively, “this is one +of the most notorious, if not THE most notorious dive in Chinatown, and +it is only through special arrangement with the authorities and at great +expense that the company is able exclusively to gain an entree here for +its patrons. You will see here the real life of the Chinese, and in half +an hour you will get what few would get in a lifetime spent in China +itself. You will see the Chinese children dance and perform; the Chinese +women at their household tasks; the joss, the shrine of his hallowed +ancestors, at which Chang Foo here worships; and you will enter the most +famous opium den in the United States. Now, if you will all keep close +together, we will make a start.” + +In spite of his desperate situation, Jimmie Dale smiled a little +whimsically. Yes; they would see it all--UPSTAIRS! The same old bunk +dished out night after night at so much a head--and the nervous little +schoolma'am of uncertain age, who fidgeted now beside him, would go +back somewhere down in Maine and shiver while she related her “wider +experiences” in tremulous whispers into the shocked ears of envious +other maiden ladies of equally uncertain age. The same old bunk--and a +profitable one for Chang Foo for more reasons than one. It was dust in +the eyes of the police. The police smiled knowingly at mention of Chang +Foo. Who should know, if they didn't, that it was all harmless fake, all +bunk! And so it was--UPSTAIRS! + +They were passing out of the shop now, bowed out through a side door by +the obsequious and oily Chang Foo. And now they massed again in a sort +of little hallway--and Chang Foo, closing the door upon Jimmie Dale, who +was the last in the line, shuffled back behind the counter in his shop +to resume his guard duty over customers of quite another ilk. With the +door closed, it was dark, pitch dark. And this, too, like everything +else connected with Chang Foo's establishment, for more reasons than +one--for effect--and for security. Nervous little twitters began to +emanate from the women--the guide's voice rose reassuringly: + +“Keep close together, ladies and gentlemen. We are going upstairs now +to--” + +Jimmie Dale hugged back against the wall, sidled along it, and like a +shadow slipped down to the end of the hall. The scuffling of two dozen +pairs of feet mounting the creaky staircase drowned the slight sound as +he cautiously opened a door; the darkness lay black, impenetrable, along +the hall. And then, as cautiously as he had opened it, he closed the +door behind him, and stood for an instant listening at the head of a +ladder-like stairway, his automatic in his hand now. It was familiar +ground to Larry the Bat. The steps led down to a cellar; and diagonally +across from the foot of the steps was an opening, ingeniously hidden by +a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends, boxes, cases, and rubbish +from the pseudo tea shop above; a low opening in the wall to a passage +that led on through the cellars of perhaps half a dozen adjoining +houses, each of which latter was leased, in one name or another--by +Chang Foo. + +Jimmie Dale crept down the steps, and in another moment had gained the +farther side of the cellar; then, skirting around the ruck of cases, he +stooped suddenly and passed in through the opening in the wall. And +now he halted once more. He was straining his eyes down a long, narrow +passage, whose blackness was accentuated rather than relieved by curious +wavering, gossamer threads of yellow light that showed here and there +from under makeshift thresholds, from doors slightly ajar. Faint noises +came to him, a muffled, intermittent clink of coin, a low, continuous, +droning hum of voices; the sickly sweet smell of opium pricked at his +nostrils. + +Jimmie Dale's face set rigidly. It was the resort, not only of the most +depraved Chinese element, but of the worst “white” thugs that made New +York their headquarters--here, in the succession of cellars, roughly +partitioned off to make a dozen rooms on either side of the passage, +dope fiends sucked at the drug, and Chinese gamblers spent the greater +part of their lives; here, murder was hatched and played too often to +its hellish end; here, the scum of the underworld sought refuge from the +police to the profit of Chang Foo; and here, somewhere, in one of these +rooms, was--the Wowzer. + +The Wowzer! Jimmie Dale stole forward silently, without a sound, +swiftly--pausing only to listen for a second's space at the doors as he +passed. From this one came that clink of coin; from another that jabber +of Chinese; from still another that overpowering stench of opium--and +once, iron-nerved as he was, a cold thrill passed over him. Let this +lair of hell's wolves, so intent now on their own affairs, be once +roused, as they certainly must be roused before he could hope to finish +the Wowzer, and his chances of escape were-- + +He straightened suddenly, alert, tense, strained. Voices, raised in a +furious quarrel, came from a door just beyond him on the other side +of the passage, where a film of light streamed out through a cracked +panel--it was the Wowzer and Dago Jim! And drunk, both of them--and both +in a blind fury! + +It happened quick then, almost instantaneously it seemed to Jimmie Dale. +He was crouched now close against the door, his eye to the crack in the +panel. There was only one figure in sight--Dago Jim--standing beside +a table on which burned a lamp, the table top littered with watches, +purses, and small chatelaine bags. The man was lurching unsteadily on +his feet, a vicious sneer of triumph on his face, waving tauntingly +an open letter and Jimmie Dale's pocket-book in his hands--waving them +presumably in the face of the Wowzer, whom, from the restrictions of the +crack, Jimmie Dale could not see. He was conscious of a sickening sense +of disaster. His hope against hope had been in vain--the letter had been +opened and read--THE IDENTITY OF THE GRAY SEAL WAS SOLVED. + +Dago Jim's voice roared out, hoarse, blasphemous, in drunken rage: + +“De Gray Seal--see! Youse betcher life I knows! I been waitin' fer +somet'ing like dis, damn youse! Youse been stallin' on me fer a year +every time it came to a divvy. Youse've got a pocketful now youse +snitched to-night dat youse are tryin' to do me out of. Well, keep +'em”--he shoved his face forward. “I keeps dis--see! Keep 'em Wowzer, +youse cross-eyed--” + +“Everyt'ing I pinched to-night's on de table dere wid wot youse pinched +yerself,” cut in the Wowzer, in a sullen, threatening growl. + +“Youse lie, an' youse knows it!” retorted Dago Jim. “Youse have given me +de short end every time we've pulled a deal!” + +“Dat letter's mine, youse--” bawled the Wowzer furiously. + +“Why didn't youse open it an' read it, den, instead of lettin' me do it +to keep me busy while youse short-changed me?” sneered Dago Jim. “Youse +t'ought it was some sweet billy-doo, eh? Well, t'anks, Wowzer--dat's wot +it is! Say,” he mocked, “dere's a guy'll cash a t'ousand century notes +fer dis, an' if he don't--say, dere's SOME reward out fer the Gray +Seal! Wouldn't youse like to know who it is? Well, when I'm ridin' in +me private buzz wagon, Wowzer, youse stick around an' mabbe I'll tell +youse--an' mabbe I won't!” + +“By God”--the Wowzer's voice rose in a scream--“youse hand over dat +letter!” + +“Youse go to--” + +Red, lurid red, a stream of flame seemed to cut across Jimmie Dale's +line of vision, came the roar of a revolver shot--and like a madman +Jimmie Dale flung his body at the door. Rickety at best, it crashed +inward, half wrenched from its hinges, precipitating him inside. He +recovered himself and leaped forward. The room was swirling with blue +eddies of smoke; Dago Jim, hands flung up, still grasping letter and +pocketbook, pawed at the air--and plunged with a sagging lurch face +downward to the floor. There was a yell and an oath from the Wowzer--the +crack of another revolver shot, the hum of the bullet past Jimmie Dale's +ear, the scorch of the tongue flame in his face, and he was upon the +other. + +Screeching profanity, the Wowzer grappled; and, for an instant, the two +men rocked, reeled, and swayed in each other's embrace; then, both +men losing their balance, they shot suddenly backward, the Wowzer, +undermost, striking his head against the table's edge--and men, table, +and lamp crashed downward in a heap to the floor. + +It had been no more, at most, than a matter of seconds since Jimmie Dale +had hurled himself into the room; and now, with a gurgling sigh, +the Wowzer's arms, that had been wound around Jimmie Dale's back and +shoulders, relaxed, and, from the blow on his head the man, lay +back inert and stunned. And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as though +pandemonium, unreality, and chaos at the touch of some devil's hand +reigned around him. It was dark--no, not dark--a spurt of flame was +leaping along the line of trickling oil from the broken lamp on the +floor. It threw into ghastly relief the sprawled form of Dago +Jim. Outside, from along the passageway, came a confused jangle of +commotion--whispering voices, shuffling feet, the swish of Chinese +garments. And the room itself began to spring into weird, flickering +shadows, that mounted and crept up the walls with the spreading fire. + +There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming with +that rush from the passageway--and there was still the letter, the +pocketbook! The table had fallen half over Dago Jim--Jimmie Dale pushed +it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man's +hands--and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other's +heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself. There +was no sign of life--the man was dead. + +Jimmie Dale was on his feet now. A face, another, and another showed +in the doorway--the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to his +knees. There was one chance--just one--to take those crowding figures by +surprise. And with a yell of “Fire!” Jimmie Dale sprang for the doorway. + +They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise against +the opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway. +Doors were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into the +semi-darkness--only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale's +automatic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead of him. And +then, behind, the Wowzer's voice shrieked out: + +“Soak him! Kill de guy! He's croaked Dago Jim! Put a hole in him, de--” + +Yells, a chorus of them, took up the refrain--then the rush of following +feet--and the passageway seemed to racket as though a Gatling gun were +in play with the fusillade of revolver shots. But Jimmie Dale was at +the opening now--and, like a base runner plunging for the bag, he flung +himself in a low dive through and into the open cellar beyond. He was +on his feet, over the boxes, and dashing up the stairs in a second. The +door above opened as he reached the top--Jimmie Dale's right hand shot +out with clubbed revolver--and with a grunt Chang Foo went down before +the blow and the headlong rush. The next instant Jimmie Dale had sprung +through the tea shop and was out on the street. + +A minute, two minutes more, and Chinatown would be in an uproar--Chang +Foo would see to that--and the Wowzer would prod him on. The danger was +far from over yet. And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale gave a little gasp +of relief. Just ahead, drawn up at the curb, stood a taxicab--waiting, +probably, for a private slumming party. Jimmie Dale put on a spurt, +reached it, and wrenched the door open. + +“Quick!” he flung at the startled chauffeur. “The nearest subway +station--there's a ten-spot in it for you! Quick man--QUICK! Here they +come!” + +A crowd of Chinese, pouring like angry hornets from Chang Foo's shop, +came yelling down the street--and the taxi took the corner on two +wheels--and Jimmie Dale, panting, choking for his breath like a man +spent, sank back against the cushions. + +But five minutes later it was quite another Jimmie Dale, composed, +nonchalant, imperturbable, who entered an up-town subway train, and, +choosing a seat alone near the centre of the car, which at that hour +of night in the downtown district was almost deserted, took the crushed +letter from his pocket. For a moment he made no attempt to read it, +his dark eyes, now that he was free from observation, full of troubled +retrospect, fixed on the window at his side. It was not a pleasant +thought that it had cost a man his life, nor yet that that life was also +the price of his own freedom. True, if there were two men in the city of +New York whose crimes merited neither sympathy nor mercy, those two men +were the Wowzer and Dago Jim--but yet, after all, it was a human life, +and, even if his own had been in the balance, thank God it had been +through no act of his that Dago Jim had gone out! The Wowzer, cute and +cunning, had been quick enough to say so to clear himself, but--Jimmie +Dale smiled a little now--neither the Wowzer, nor Chang Foo, nor +Chinatown would ever be in a position to recognise their uninvited +guest! + +Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the letter speculatively, gravely. It +seemed as though the night had already held a year of happenings, and +the night was not over yet--there was the letter! It had already cost +one life; was it to cost another--or what? + +It began as it always did. He read it through once, in amazement; a +second time, with a flush of bitter anger creeping to his cheeks; and +a third time, curiously memorising, as it were, snatches of it here and +there. + + +“DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Robbery of Hudson-Mercantile National +Bank--trusted employee is ex-convict, bad police record, served term in +Sing Sing three years ago--known to police as Bookkeeper Bob, real name +is Robert Moyne, lives at ---- Street, Harlem--Inspector Burton +and Lannigan of headquarters trailing him now--robbery not yet made +public--” + + +There was a great deal more--four sheets of closely written data. With +an exclamation almost of dismay, Jimmie Dale pulled out his watch. So +that was what Burton and Lannigan were up to! And he had actually run +into them! Lord, the irony of it! The--And then Jimmie Dale stared at +the dial of his watch incredulously. It was still but barely midnight! +It seemed impossible that since leaving the theatre at a few minutes +before eleven, he had lived through but a single hour! + +Jimmie Dale's fingers began to pluck at the letter, tearing it into +pieces, tearing the pieces over and over again into tiny shreds. The +train stopped at station after station, people got on and off--Jimmie +Dale's hat was over his eyes, and his eyes were glued again to the +window. Had Bookkeeper Bob returned to his flat in Harlem with the +detectives at his heels--or were Burton and Lannigan still trailing the +man downtown somewhere around the cafe's? If the former, the theft +of the letter and its incident loss of time had been an irreparable +disaster; if the latter--well, who knew! The risk was the Gray Seal's! + +At One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street Jimmie Dale left the train; and, +at the end of a sharp four minutes' walk, during which he had dodged in +and out from street to street, stopped on a corner to survey the block +ahead of him. It was a block devoted exclusively to flats and apartment +houses, and, apart from a few belated pedestrians, was deserted. Jimmie +Dale strolled leisurely down one side, crossed the street at the end of +the block, and strolled leisurely back on the other side--there was no +sign of either Burton or Lannigan. It was a fairly safe presumption then +that Bookkeeper Bob had not returned yet, or one of the detectives at +least would have been shadowing the house. + +Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly, retraced his steps again, and +turned deliberately into a doorway--whose number he had noted as he had +passed a moment or so before. So, after all, there was time yet! +This was the house. “Number eighteen,” she had said in her letter. “A +flat--three stories--Moyne lives on ground floor.” + +Jimmie Dale leaned against the vestibule door--there was a faint +click--a little steel instrument was withdrawn from the lock--and Jimmie +Dale stepped into the hall, where a gas jet, turned down, burned dimly. + +The door of the ground-floor apartment was at his right, Jimmie Dale +reached up and turned off the light. Again those slim, tapering, +wonderfully sensitive fingers worked with the little steel instrument, +this time in the lock of the apartment door--again there was that almost +inaudible click--and then cautiously, inch by inch, the door opened +under his hand. He peered inside--down a hallway lighted, if it could be +called lighted at all, by a subdued glow from two open doors that gave +upon it--peered intently, listening intently, as he drew a black silk +mask from his pocket and slipped it over his face. And then, silent as +a shadow in his movements, the door left just ajar behind him, he stole +down the carpeted hallway. + +Opposite the first of the open doorways Jimmie Dale paused--a curiously +hard expression creeping over his face, his lips beginning to droop +ominously downward at the corners. It was a little sitting room, cheaply +but tastefully furnished, and a young woman, Bookkeeper Bob's wife +evidently, and evidently sitting up for her husband, had fallen sound +asleep in a chair, her head pillowed on her arms that were outstretched +across the table. For a moment Jimmie Dale held there, his eyes on the +scene--and the next moment, his hand curved into a clenched fist, he had +passed on and entered the adjoining room. + +It was a child's bedroom. A night lamp burned on a table beside the bed, +and the soft rays seemed to play and linger in caress on the tousled +golden hair of a little girl of perhaps two years of age--and something +seemed to choke suddenly in Jimmie Dale's throat--the sweet, innocent +little face, upturned to his, was smiling at him as she slept. + +Jimmie Dale turned away his head--his eyelashes wet under his mask. +“BENEATH THE MATTRESS OF THE CHILD'S BED,” the letter had said. His face +like stone, his lips a thin line now, Jimmie Dale's hand reached +deftly in without disturbing the child and took out a package--and then +another. He straightened up, a bundle of crisp new hundred-dollar notes +in each hand--and on the top of one, slipped under the elastic band that +held the bills together, an unsealed envelope. He drew out the latter, +and opened it--it was a second-class steamship passage to Vera Cruz, +made out in a fictitious name, of course, to John Davies, the booking +for next day's sailing. From the ticket, from the stolen money, Jimmie +Dale's eyes lifted to rest again on the little golden head, the smiling +lips--and then, dropping the packages into his pockets, his own lips +moving queerly, he turned abruptly to the door. + +“My God, the shame of it!” he whispered to himself. + +He crept down the corridor, past the open door of the room where the +young woman still sat fast asleep, and, his mask in his pocket again, +stepped softly into the vestibule, and from there to the street. + +Jimmie Dale hurried now, spurred on it seemed by a hot, insensate fury +that raged within him--there was still one other call to make that +night--still those remaining and minute details in the latter part of +her letter, grim and ugly in their portent! + +It was close upon one o'clock in the morning when Jimmie Dale stopped +again--this time before a fashionable dwelling just off Central Park. +And here, for perhaps the space of a minute, he surveyed the house from +the sidewalk--watching, with a sort of speculative satisfaction, a man's +shadow that passed constantly to and fro across the drawn blinds of one +of the lower windows. The rest of the house was in darkness. + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, nodding his head, “I rather thought so. The +servants will have retired hours ago. It's safe enough.” + +He ran quickly up the steps and rang the bell. A door opened almost +instantly, sending a faint glow into the hall from the lighted room; a +hurried step crossed the hall--and the outer door was thrown back. + +“Well, what is it?” demanded a voice brusquely. + +It was quite dark, too dark for either to distinguish the other's +features--and Jimmie Dale's hat was drawn far down over his eyes. + +“I want to see Mr. Thomas H. Carling, cashier of the Hudson-Mercantile +National Bank--it's very important,” said Jimmie Dale earnestly. + +“I am Mr. Carling,” replied the other. “What is it?” + +Jimmie Dale leaned forward. + +“From headquarters--with a report,” he said, in a low tone. + +“Ah!” exclaimed the bank official sharply. “Well, it's about time! I've +been waiting up for it--though I expected you would telephone rather +than this. Come in!” + +“Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale courteously--and stepped into the hall. + +The other closed the front door. “The servants are in bed, of course,” + he explained, as he led the way toward the lighted room. “This way, +please.” + +Behind the other, across the hall, Jimmie Dale followed and close at +Carling's heels entered the room, which was fitted up, quite evidently +regardless of cost, as a combination library and study. Carling, in +a somewhat pompous fashion, walked straight ahead toward the +carved-mahogany flat-topped desk, and, as he reached it, waved his hand. + +“Take a chair,” he said, over his shoulder--and then, turning in the act +of dropping into his own chair, grasped suddenly at the edge of the desk +instead, and, with a low, startled cry, stared across the room. + +Jimmie Dale was leaning back against the door that was closed now behind +him--and on Jimmie Dale's face was a black silk mask. + +For an instant neither man spoke nor moved; then Carling, spare-built, +dapper in evening clothes, edged back from the desk and laughed a little +uncertainly. + +“Quite neat! I compliment you! From headquarters with a report, I think +you said?” + +“Which I neglected to add,” said Jimmie Dale, “was to be made in +private.” + +Carling, as though to put as much distance between them as possible, +continued to edge back across the room--but his small black eyes, black +now to the pupils themselves, never left Jimmie Dale's face. + +“In private, eh?”--he seemed to be sparring for time, as he smiled. “In +private! You've a strange method of securing privacy, haven't you? A bit +melodramatic, isn't it? Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me who you +are?” + +Jimmie Dale smiled indulgently. + +“My mask is only for effect,” he said. “My name is--Smith.” + +“Yes,” said Carling. “I am very stupid. Thank you. I--” he had reached +the other side of the room now--and with a quick, sudden movement jerked +his hand to the dial of the safe that stood against the wall. + +But Jimmie Dale was quicker--without shifting his position, his +automatic, whipped from his pocket, held a disconcerting bead on +Carling's forehead. + +“Please don't do that,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “It's rather a good +make, that safe. I dare say it would take me half an hour to open it. I +was rather curious to know whether it was locked or not.” + +Carling's hand dropped to his side. + +“So!” he sneered. “That's it, is it! The ordinary variety of sneak +thief!” His voice was rising gradually. “Well, sir, let me tell you +that--” + +“Mr. Carling,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low, even tone, “unless you +moderate your voice some one in the house might hear you--I am quite +well aware of that. But if that happens, if any one enters this room, +if you make a move to touch a button, or in any other way attempt to +attract attention, I'll drop you where you stand!” His hand, behind his +back, extracted the key from the door lock, held it up for the other to +see, then dropped it into his pocket--and his voice, cold before, rang +peremptorily now. “Come back to the desk and sit down in that chair!” he +ordered. + +For a moment Carling hesitated; then, with a half-muttered oath, obeyed. + +Jimmie Dale moved over, and stood in front of Carling on the other side +of the desk--and stared silently at the immaculate, fashionably groomed +figure before him. + +Under the prolonged gaze, Carling's composure, in a measure at least, +seemed to forsake him. He began to drum nervously with his fingers on +the desk, and shift uneasily in his chair. + +And then, from first one pocket and then the other, Jimmie Dale took +the two packages of banknotes, and, still with out a word, pushed them +across the desk until they lay under the other's eyes. + +Carling's fingers stopped their drumming, slid to the desk edge, +tightened there, and a whiteness crept into his face. Then, with an +effort, he jerked himself erect in his chair. + +“What's this?” he demanded hoarsely. + +“About ten thousand dollars, I should say,” said Jimmie Dale slowly. “I +haven't counted it. Your bank was robbed this evening at closing time, I +understand?” + +“Yes!” Carling's voice was excited now, the colour back in his face. +“But you--how--do you mean that you are returning the money to the +bank?” + +“Exactly,” said Jimmie Dale. + +Carling was once more the pompous bank official. He leaned back and +surveyed Jimmie Dale critically with his little black eyes. + +“Ah, quite so!” he observed. “That accounts for the mask. But I am still +a little in the dark. Under the circumstances, it is quite impossible +that you should have stolen the money yourself, and--” + +“I didn't,” said Jimmie Dale. “I found it hidden in the home of one of +your employees.” + +“You found it--WHERE?” + +“In Moyne's home--up in Harlem.” + +“Moyne, eh?” Carling was alert, quick now, jerking out his words. “How +did you come to get into this, then? His pal? Double-crossing him, eh? I +suppose you want a reward--we'll attend to that, of course. You're +wiser than you know, my man. That's what we suspected. We've had the +detectives trailing Moyne all evening.” He reached forward over the desk +for the telephone. “I'll telephone headquarters to make the arrest at +once.” + +“Just a minute,” interposed Jimmie Dale gravely. “I want you to listen +to a little story first.” + +“A story! What has a story got to do with this?” snapped Carling. + +“The man has got a home,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “A home, and a +wife--and a little baby girl.” + +“Oh, that's the game then, eh? You want to plead for him?” Carling flung +out gruffly. “Well, he should have thought of all that before! It's +quite useless for you to bring it up. The man has had his chance +already--a better chance than any one with his record ever had before. +We took him into the bank knowing that he was an ex-convict, but +believing that we could make an honest man of him--and this is the +result.” + +“And yet--” + +“NO!” said Carling icily. + +“You refuse--absolutely?” Jimmie Dale's voice had a lingering, wistful +note in it. + +“I refuse!” said Carling bluntly. “I won't have anything to do with it.” + +There was just an instant's silence; and then, with a strange, slow, +creeping motion, as a panther creeps when about to spring, Jimmie Dale +projected his body across the desk--far across it toward the other. And +the muscles of his jaw were quivering, his words rasping, choked with +the sweep of fury that, held back so long, broke now in a passionate +surge. + +“And shall I tell you why you won't? Your bank was robbed to-night of +one hundred thousand dollars. There are ten thousand here. THE OTHER +NINETY THOUSAND ARE IN YOUR SAFE!” + +“You lie!” Ashen to the lips, Carling had risen in his chair. “You lie!” + he cried. “Do you hear! You lie! I tell you, you lie!” + +Jimmie Dale's lips parted ominously. + +“Sit down!” he gritted between his teeth. + +The white in Carling's face had turned to gray, his lips were +working--mechanically he sank down again in his chair. + +Jimmie Dale still leaned over the desk, resting his weight on his right +elbow, the automatic in his right hand covering Carling. + +“You cur!” whispered Jimmie Dale. “There's just one reason, only one, +that keeps me from putting a bullet through you while you sit there. +We'll get to that in a moment. There is that little story first--shall +I tell it to you now? For the past four years, and God knows how many +before that, you've gone the pace. The lavishness of this bachelor +establishment of yours is common talk in New York--far in excess of a +bank cashier's salary. But you were supposed to be a wealthy man in your +own right; and so, in reality you were--once. But you went through +your fortune two years ago. Counted a model citizen, an upright man, an +honour to the community--what were you, Carling? What ARE you? Shall I +tell you? Roue, gambler, leading a double life of the fastest kind. You +did it cleverly, Carling; hid it well--but your game is up. To-night, +for instance, you are at the end of your tether, swamped with debts, +exposure threatening you at any moment. Why don't you tell me again that +I lie--Carling?” + +But now the man made no answer. He had sunk a little deeper in his +chair--a dawning look of terror in the eyes that held, fascinated, on +Jimmie Dale. + +“You cur!” said Jimmie Dale again. “You cur, with your devil's work! A +year ago you saw this night coming--when you must have money, or face +ruin and exposure. You saw it then, a year ago, the day that Moyne, +concealing nothing of his prison record, applied through friends for a +position in the bank. Your co-officials were opposed to his appointment, +but you, do you remember how you pleaded to give the man his chance--and +in your hellish ingenuity saw your way then out of the trap! An +ex-convict from Sing Sing! It was enough, wasn't it? What chance had +he!” Jimmie Dale paused, his left hand clenched until the skin formed +whitish knobs over the knuckles. + +Carling's tongue sought his lips, made a circuit of them--and he tried +to speak, but his voice was an incoherent muttering. + +“I'll not waste words,” said Jimmie Dale, in his grim monotone. “I'm not +sure enough myself--that I could keep my hands off you much longer. The +actual details of how you stole the money to-day do not matter--NOW. A +little later perhaps in court--but not now. You were the last to leave +the bank, but before leaving you pretended to discover the theft of a +hundred thousand dollars--that, done up in a paper parcel, was even then +reposing in your desk. You brought the parcel home, put it in that safe +there--and notified the president of the bank by telephone from here of +the robbery, suggesting that police headquarters be advised at once. He +told you to go ahead and act as you saw best. You notified the police, +speciously directing suspicion to--the ex-convict in the bank's employ. +You knew Moyne was dining out to-night, you knew where--and at a hint +from you the police took up the trail. A little later in the evening, +you took these two packages of banknotes from the rest, and with this +steamship ticket--which you obtained yesterday while out at lunch by +sending a district messenger boy with the money and instructions in a +sealed envelope to purchase for you--you went up to the Moynes' flat in +Harlem for the purpose of secreting them somewhere there. You pretended +to be much disappointed at finding Moyne out--you had just come for a +little social visit, to get better acquainted with the home life of your +employees! Mrs. Moyne was genuinely pleased and grateful. She took you +in to see their little girl, who was already asleep in bed. She left +you there for a moment to answer the door--and you--you”--Jimmie Dale's +voice choked again--“you blot on God's earth, you slipped the money and +ticket under the child's mattress!” + +Carling came forward with a lurch in his chair--and his hands went out, +pawing in a wild, pleading fashion over Jimmie Dale's arm. + +Jimmie Dale flung him away. + +“You were safe enough,” he rasped on. “The police could only construe +your visit to Moyne's flat as zeal on behalf of the bank. And it +was safer, much more circumspect on your part, not to order the flat +searched at once, but only as a last resort, as it were, after you +had led the police to trail him all evening and still remain without +a clew--and besides, of course, not until you had planted the evidence +that was to damn him and wreck his life and home! You were even generous +in the amount you deprived yourself of out of the hundred thousand +dollars--for less would have been enough. Caught with ten thousand +dollars of the bank's money and a steamship ticket made out in a +fictitious name, it was prima-facie evidence that he had done the job +and had the balance somewhere. What would his denials, his protestations +of innocence count for? He was an ex-convict, a hardened criminal caught +red-handed with a portion of the proceeds of robbery--he had succeeded +in hiding the remainder of it too cleverly, that was all.” + +Carling's face was ghastly. His hands went out again--again his tongue +moistened his dry lips. He whispered: + +“Isn't--isn't there some--some way we can fix this?” + +And then Jimmie Dale laughed--not pleasantly. + +“Yes, there's a way, Carling,” he said grimly. “That's why I'm here.” He +picked up a sheet of writing paper and pushed it across the desk--then a +pen, which he dipped into the inkstand, and extended to the other. “The +way you'll fix it will be to write out a confession exonerating Moyne.” + +Carling shrank back into his chair, his head huddling into his +shoulders. + +“NO!” he cried. “I won't--I can't--my God!--I--I--WON'T!” + +The automatic in Jimmie Dale's hand edged forward the fraction of an +inch. + +“I have not used this--yet. You understand now why--don't you?” he said +under his breath. + +“No, no!” Carling pushed away the pen. “I'm ruined--ruined as it is. But +this would mean the penitentiary, too--” + +“Where you tried to send an innocent man in your place, you hound; where +you--” + +“Some other way--some other way!” Carling was babbling. “Let me out of +this--for God's sake, let me out of this!” + +“Carling,” said Jimmie Dale hoarsely, “I stood beside a little bed +to-night and looked at a baby girl--a little baby girl with golden hair, +who smiled as she slept.” + +Carling shivered, and passed a shaking hand across his face. + +“Take this pen,” said Jimmie Dale monotonously; “or--THIS!” The +automatic lifted until the muzzle was on a line with Carling's eyes. + +Carling's hand reached out, still shaking, and took the pen; and his +body, dragged limply forward, hung over the desk. The pen spluttered on +the paper--a bead of sweat spurting from the man's forehead dropped to +the sheet. + +There was silence in the room. A minute passed--another. Carling's pen +travelled haltingly across the paper then, with a queer, low cry as +he signed his name, he dropped the pen from his fingers, and, rising +unsteadily from his chair, stumbled away from the desk toward a couch +across the room. + +An instant Jimmie Dale watched the other, then he picked up the sheet of +paper. It was a miserable document, miserably scrawled: + + +“I guess it's all up. I guess I knew it would be some day. Moyne hadn't +anything to do with it. I stole the money myself from the bank to-night. +I guess it's all up. + +“THOMAS H. CARLING.” + + +From the paper, Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the figure by the +couch--and the paper fluttered suddenly from his fingers to the desk. +Carling was reeling, clutching at his throat--a small glass vial rolled +upon the carpet. And then, even as Jimmie Dale sprang forward, the other +pitched head long over the couch--and in a moment it was over. + +Presently Jimmie Dale picked up the vial--and dropped it back on the +floor again. There was no label on it, but it needed none--the strong, +penetrating odor of bitter almonds was telltale evidence enough. It was +prussic, or hydrocyanic acid, probably the most deadly poison and the +swiftest in its action that was known to science--Carling had provided +against that “some day” in his confession! + +For a little space, motionless, Jimmie Dale stood looking down at the +silent, outstretched form--then he walked slowly back to the desk, and +slowly, deliberately picked up the signed confession and the steamship +ticket. He held them an instant, staring at them, then methodically +began to tear them into little pieces, a strange, tired smile hovering +on his lips. The man was dead now--there would be disgrace enough for +some one to bear, a mother perhaps--who knew! And there was another way +now--since the man was dead. + +Jimmie Dale put the pieces in his pocket, went to the safe, opened it, +and took out a parcel, locked the safe carefully, and carried the parcel +to the desk. He opened it there. Inside were nearly two dozen little +packages of hundred-dollar bills. The other two packages that he had +brought with him he added to the rest. From his pocket he took out the +thin metal insignia case, and with the tiny tweezers lifted up one of +the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped paper seals. He moistened the +adhesive side, and, still holding it by the tweezers, dropped it on +his handkerchief and pressed the seal down on the face of the topmost +package of banknotes. He tied the parcel up then, and, picking up the +pen, addressed it in printed characters: + + +HUDSON-MERCANTILE NATIONAL BANK, + +NEW YORK CITY. + + +“District messenger--some way--in the morning,” he murmured. + +Jimmie Dale slipped his mask into his pocket, and, with the parcel under +his arm, stepped to the door and unlocked it. He paused for an instant +on the threshold for a single, quick, comprehensive glance around the +room--then passed on out into the street. + +At the corner he stopped to light a cigarette--and the flame of the +match spurting up disclosed a face that was worn and haggard. He threw +the match away, smiled a little wearily--and went on. + +The Gray Seal had committed another “crime.” + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE THIEF + + +Choosing between the snowy napery, the sparkling glass and silver, the +cozy, shaded table-lamps, the famous French chef of the ultra-exclusive +St. James Club, his own home on Riverside Drive where a dinner fit for +an epicure and served by Jason, that most perfect of butlers, awaited +him, and Marlianne's, Jimmie Dale, driving in alone in his touring car +from an afternoon's golf, had chosen--Marlianne's. + +Marlianne's, if such a thing as Bohemianism, or, rather, a concrete +expression of it exists, was Bohemian. A two-piece string orchestra +played valiantly to the accompaniment of a hoarse-throated piano; and +between courses the diners took up the refrain--and, as it was always +between courses with some one, the place was a bedlam of noisy riot. +Nevertheless, it was Marlianne's--and Jimmie Dale liked Marlianne's. He +had dined there many times before, as he had just dined in the person of +Jimmie Dale, the millionaire, his high-priced imported car at the curb +of the shabby street outside--and he had dined there, disreputable in +attire, seedy in appearance, with the police yelping at his heels, as +Larry the Bat. In either character Marlianne's had welcomed him with +equal courtesy to its spotted linen and most excellent table-d'hote with +VIN ORDINAIRE--for fifty cents. + +And now, in the act of reaching into his pocket for the change to pay +his bill, Jimmie Dale seemed suddenly to experience some difficulty in +finding what he sought, and his fingers went fumbling from one pocket +to another. Two men at the table in front of him were talking--their +voices, over a momentary lull in violin squeaks, talk, laughter, +singing, and the clatter of dishes, reached him: + +“Carling commit suicide! Not on your life! No; of course he didn't! It +was that cursed Gray Seal croaked him, just as sure as you sit in that +chair!” + +The other grunted. “Yes; but what'd the Gray Seal want to pinch a +hundred thousand out of the bank for, and then give it back again the +next morning?” + +“What's he done a hundred other things for to cover up the real object +of what he's after?” retorted the first speaker, with a short, vicious +laugh; then, with a thump of his fist on the table: “The man's a devil, +a fiend, and anywhere else but New York he'd have been caught and sent +to the chair where he belongs long ago, and--” + +A burst of ragtime drowned out the man's words. Jimmie Dale placed a +fifty-cent piece and a tip beside it on his dinner check, pushed +back his chair, and rose from the table. There was a half-tolerantly +satirical, half-angry glint in his dark, steady eyes. It was not only +the police who yelped at his heels, but every man, woman, and child in +the city. The man had not voiced his own sentiments--he had voiced the +sentiments of New York! And it was quite on the cards that if he, Jimmie +Dale, were ever caught his destination would not even be the death cell +and the chair at Sing Sing--his fellow citizens had reached a pitch +where they would be quite capable of literally tearing him to pieces if +they ever got their hands on him! + +And yet there were a few, a very few, a handful out of five millions, +who sometimes remembered perhaps to thank God that the Gray Seal +lived--that was his reward. That--and SHE, whose mysterious letters +prompted and impelled his, the Gray Seal's, acts! She--nameless, +fascinating in her brilliant resourcefulness, amazing in her power, a +woman whose life was bound up with his and yet held apart from him in +the most inexplicable, absorbing way; a woman he had never seen, save +for her gloved arm in the limousine that night, who at one unexpected +moment projected a dazzling, impersonal existence across his path, and +the next, leaving him battling for his life where greed and passion and +crime swirled about him, was gone! + +Jimmie Dale threaded the small, crowded rooms--the interior of +Marlianne's had never been altered from the days when the place had been +a family residence of some pretension--and, reaching the hall, received +his hat from the frowsy-looking boy in attendance. He passed outside, +and, at the top of the steps, paused as he took his cigarette case +from his pocket. It was nearly a week since Carling, the cashier of +the Hudson-Mercantile National Bank, had been found dead in his home, +a bottle that had contained hydrocyanic acid on the floor beside him; +nearly a week since Bookkeeper Bob, unaware that he had ever been under +temporary suspicion for the robbery of the bank, had, equally unknown +to himself, been cleared of any complicity in that affair--and yet, as +witness the conversation of a moment ago, it was still the topic of New +York, still the vital issue that filled the maw of the newspapers +with ravings, threats, and execrations against the Gray Seal, snarling +virulently the while at the police for the latter's ineptitude, +inefficiency, and impotence! + +Jimmie Dale closed his cigarette case with a snap that was almost human +in its irony, dropped it back into his pocket, and lighted a match--but +the flame was arrested halfway to the tip of his cigarette, as his eyes +fixed suddenly and curiously on a woman's form hurrying down the street. +She had turned the corner before he took his eyes from her, and the +match between his fingers had gone out. Not that there was anything very +strange in a woman walking, or even half running, along the street; nor +that there was anything particularly attractive or unusual about +her, and if there had been the street was too dark for him to have +distinguished it. It was not that--it was the fact that she had neither +passed by the house on whose steps he stood, nor come out of any of the +adjoining houses. It was as though she had suddenly and miraculously +appeared out of thin air, and taken form on a sidewalk a little way down +from Marlianne's. + +“That's queer!” commented Jimmie Dale to himself. “However--” He took +out another match, lighted his cigarette, jerked the match stub away +from him, and, with a lift of his shoulders, went down the steps. + +He crossed the pavement, walked around the front of his machine, since +the steering wheel was on the side next to the curb, and, with his hand +out to open the car door--stopped. Some one had been tampering with +it--it was not quite closed. There was no mistake. Jimmie Dale made +no mistakes of that kind, a man whose life hung a dozen times a day on +little things could not afford to make them. He had closed it firmly, +even with a bang, when he had got out. + +Instantly suspicious, he wrenched the door wide open, switched on +the light under the hood, and, with a sharp exclamation, bent quickly +forward. A glove, a woman's glove, a white glove lay on the floor of the +car. Jimmie Dale's pulse leaped suddenly into fierce, pounding beats. It +was HERS! He KNEW that intuitively--knew it as he knew that he breathed. +And that woman he had so leisurely watched as she had disappeared from +sight was, must have been--she! + +He sprang from the car with a jump, his first impulse to dash after +her--and checked himself, laughing a little bitterly. It was too late +for that now--he had already let his chance slip through his fingers. +Around the corner was Sixth Avenue, surface cars, the elevated, +taxicabs, a multitude of people, any one of a hundred ways in which +she could, and would, already have discounted pursuit from him--and, +besides, he would not even have been able to recognise her if he saw +her! + +Jimmie Dale's smile was mirthless as he turned back to the car, and +picked up the glove. Why had she dropped it there? It could not have +been intentional. Why had--he began to tear suddenly at the glove's +little finger, and in another second, kneeling on the car's step, his +shoulders inside, he was holding a ring close under the little electric +bulb. + +It was a gold seal ring, a small, dainty thing that bore a crest: +a bell, surmounted by a bishop's mitre--the bell, quaint in design, +harking the imagination back to some old-time belfry tower. And +underneath, in the scroll--a motto. It was a full minute before Jimmie +Dale could decipher it, for the lettering was minute and the words, of +course, reversed. It was in French: SONNEZ LE TOCSIN. + +He straightened up, the glove and ring in his hand, a puzzled expression +on his face. It was strange! Had she, after all, dropped the glove +there intentionally; had she at last let down the barriers just a little +between them, and given him this little intimate sign that she-- + +And then Jimmie Dale laughed abruptly, self-mockingly. He was only +trying to deceive himself, to argue himself into believing what, with +heart and soul, he wanted to believe. It was not like her--and neither +was it so! His eyes had fixed on the seat beside the wheel. He had not +used the lap rug all that day, he couldn't use a rug and drive, he had +left it folded and hanging on the rack in the tonneau--it was now neatly +folded and reposing on the front seat! + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, a sort of self-pity in his tones, “I might have +known.” + +He lifted the rug. Beneath it on the leather seat lay a white envelope. +Her letter! The letter that never came save with the plan of some grim, +desperate work outlined ahead--the call to arms for the Gray Seal. +SONNEZ LE TOCSIN! Ring the Tocsin! Sound the alarm! The Tocsin! +The words were running through his brain. 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. She would have been hurried in her movements, +of course, and in pulling off her glove to use the fountain pen the ring +had come with it. The rest was obvious. She had but just begun to write +when he had appeared on the steps. She had slipped instantly down to +the floor of the car, probably dropping the glove from her lap, hastily +inclosed the letter in the envelope which she had no time to seal, +thrust the envelope under the rug, and, forgetting her glove and fearful +of risking his attention by attempting to close the door firmly, +had stolen along the body of the car, only to be noticed by him too +late--when she was well down the street! + +And at that latter thought, once more chagrin seized Jimmie Dale--then +he turned impulsively to the letter. All this was extraneous, apart--for +another time, when every moment was not a priceless asset as it very +probably was now. + +“Dear Philanthropic Crook”--it always began that way, never any other +way. He read on more and more intently, crouched there close to the +light on the floor of his car, lips thinning as he proceeded--read it to +the end, absorbing, memorising it--and then the abortive postscript: + +“Look in the cupboard at the rear of the room. The man with the red wig +is--” + +For an instant, as mechanically he tore the letter into little shreds, +he held there hesitant--and the next, slamming the door tight, he flung +himself into the seat behind the wheel, and the big, sixty-horse-power, +self-starting machine was roaring down the street. + +The Tocsin! There was a grim smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The alarm! +Yes, it was always an alarm, quick, sudden, an emergency to face on the +instant--plans, decisions to be made with no time to ponder them, with +only that one fact to consider, staggering enough in itself, that a +mistake meant disaster and ruin to some one else, and to himself, if +the courts were merciful where he had little hope for mercy, the +penitentiary for life! + +And now to-night again, as it almost always was when these mysterious +letters came, every moment of inaction was piling up the odds against +him. And, too, the same problem confronted him. How, in what way, in +what role, must he play the night's game to its end? As Larry the Bat? + +The car was speeding forward. He was heading down Broadway now, lower +Broadway, that stretched before him, deserted like some dark, narrow +canyon where, far below, like towering walls, the buildings closed +together and seemed to converge into some black, impassable barrier. The +street lights flashed by him; a patrolman stopped the swinging of his +night-stick, and turned to gaze at the car that rushed by at a rate +perilously near to contempt of speed laws; street cars passed at +indifferent intervals; pedestrians were few and far between--it was the +lower Broadway of night. + +Larry the Bat? Jimmie Dale shook his head impatiently over the steering +wheel. No; that would not do. It would be well enough for this young +Burton, perhaps, but not for old Isaac, the East Side fence--for Isaac +knew him in the character of Larry the Bat. His quick, keen brain, +weaving, eliminating, devising, scheming, discarded that idea. The final +coup of the night, as yet but sensed in an indefinite, unshaped way, if +enacted in the person of Larry the Bat would therefore stamp Larry the +Bat and the Gray Seal as one--a contretemps but little less fatal, in +view of old Issac, than to bracket the Gray Seal and Jimmie Dale! Larry +the Bat was not a character to be assumed with impunity, nor one to +jeopardize--it was a bulwark of safety, at it were, to which more than +once he owed escape from capture and discovery. + +He lifted his shoulders with a sudden jerk of decision as the car +swerved to the left and headed for the East Side. There was only +one alternative then--the black silk mask that folded into such tiny +compass, and that, together with an automatic and the curious, thin +metal case that looked so like a cigarette case, was always in his +pocket for an emergency! + +The car turned again, and, approaching its destination, Jimmie Dale +slowed down the speed perceptibly. It was a strange case, not a pleasant +one--and the raw edges where they showed were ugly in their nakedness. +Old Isaac Pelina, young Burton, and Maddon--K. Wilmington Maddon, the +wall-paper magnate! Curious, that of the three he should already know +two--old Isaac and Maddon! Everybody in the East Side, every denizen +of the underworld, and many who posed on a far higher plane knew old +Isaac--fence to the most select clientele of thieves in New York, +unscrupulous, hand in glove with any rascality or crime that promised +profit, a money lender, a Shylock without even a Shylock's humanity as +a saving grace! Yes; as Larry the Bat he knew old Isaac, and he knew him +not only personally but by firsthand reputation--he had heard the man +cursed in blasphemous, whole-souled abandon by more than one crook who +was in the old fence's toils. They dealt with him, the crooks, while +they swore to “get” him because he was “safe,” but--Jimmie Dale's lips +parted in a mirthless smile--some day old Isaac would be found in that +spiders' den of his back of the dingy loan office with a knife in his +heart or a bullet through his head! And K. Wilmington Maddon--Jimmie +Dale's smile grew whimsical--he had known Maddon quite intimately for +years, had even dined with him at the St. James Club only a few nights +before. Maddon was a man in his own “set”--and Maddon, interfered with, +was likely to prove none too tractable a customer to handle. And young +Burton, the letter had said, was Maddon's private and confidential +secretary. Jimmie Dale's lips thinned again. Well, Burton's acquaintance +was still to be made! It was a curious trio--and it was dirty work, more +raw than cunning, more devilish than ingenious; blackmail in its most +hellish form; the stake, at the least calculation, a cool half million. +A heavy price for a single slip in a man's life! + +He brought the car abruptly to a halt at the edge of the curb, and +sprang out to the ground. He was in front of “The Budapest” restaurant, +a garish establishment, most popular of all resorts for the moment on +the East Side, where Fifth Avenue, in the fond belief that it was seeing +the real thing in “seamy” life, engaged its table a week in advance. +Jimmie Dale pushed a bill into the door attendant's hand, accompanied by +an injunction to keep an eye on the machine, and entered the cafe. + +But for a sort of tinselled ostentation the place might well have been +the Marlianne's that he had just left--it was crowded and riot was +at its height; a stringed orchestra in Hungarian costume played what +purported to be Hungarian airs; shouts, laughter, clatter of dishes, +and thump of steins added to the din. He made his way between the +close-packed tables to the stairs, and descended to the lower floor. +Here, if anything, the confusion was greater than above; but here, +too, was an exit through to the rear street--and a moment later he was +sauntering past the front of an unkempt little pawnshop, closed for +the night, over whose door, in the murk of a distant street lamp, three +balls hung in sagging disarray, tawny with age, and across whose dirty, +unwashed windows, letters missing, ran the legend: + + +IS AC PELINA Pawn brok r + + +The pawnshop made the corner of a very dark and narrow lane--and, with a +quick glance around him to assure himself that he was unobserved, Jimmie +Dale stepped into the alleyway, and, lost instantly in the blacker +shadows, stole along by the wall of the pawnshop. Old Isaac's business +was not all done through the front door. + +And then suddenly Jimmie Dale shrank still closer against the wall. Was +it intuition, premonition--or reality? There seemed an uncanny feeling +of PRESENCE around him, as though perhaps he were watched, as though +others beside himself were in the lane. Yes; ahead of him a shadow +moved--he could just barely distinguish it now that his eyes had grown +accustomed to the darkness. It, like himself, was close against the +wall, and now it slunk noiselessly down the length of the lane until he +lost sight of it. AND WHAT WAS THAT? He strained his ears to listen. It +seemed like a window being opened or closed, cautiously, stealthily, the +fraction of an inch at a time. And then he located the sound--it came +from the other side of the lane and very nearly opposite to where, on +the second floor, a dull, yellow glow shone out from old Isaac's private +den in the rear of the pawnshop's office. + +Jimmie Dale's brows were gathered in sharp furrows. There was evidently +something afoot to-night of which the Tocsin had NOT sounded the alarm. +And then the frown relaxed, and he smiled a little. Miraculous as was +the means through which she obtained the knowledge that was the basis of +their strange partnership, it was no more miraculous than her unerring +accuracy in the minutest details. The Tocsin had never failed him yet. +It was possible that something was afoot around him, quite probable, +indeed, since he was in the most vicious part of the city, in the heart +of gangland; but whatever it might be, it was certainly extraneous to +his mission or she would have mentioned it. + +The lane was empty now, he was quite sure of that--and there was +no further sound from the window opposite. He started forward once +more--only to halt again for the second time as abruptly as before, +squeezing if possible even more closely against the wall. Some one had +turned into the lane from the sidewalk, and, walking hurriedly, choosing +with evident precaution the exact centre of the alleyway, came toward +him. + +The man passed, his hurried stride a half run; and, a few feet beyond, +halted at old Isaac's side door. From somewhere inside the old building +Jimmie Dale's ears caught the faint ringing of an electric bell; a +long ring, followed in quick succession by three short ones--then the +repeated clicking of a latch, as though pulled by a cord from above, and +the man passed in through the door, closing it behind him. + +Jimmie Dale nodded to himself in the darkness. It was a spring lock; the +signal was one long ring and three short ones--the Tocsin had not missed +even those small details. Also, Burton was late for his appointment, for +that must have been Burton--business such as old Isaac had in hand +that night would have permitted the entrance of no other visitor but K. +Wilmington Maddon's private secretary. + +He moved down the lane to the door, and tried it softly. It was locked, +of course. The slim, tapering, sensitive fingers, whose tips were eyes +and ears to Jimmie Dale, felt over the lock--and a slender little steel +instrument slipped into the keyhole. A moment more and the catch was +released, and the door, under his hand, began to open. With it ajar, +he paused, his eyes searching intently up and down the lane. There was +nothing, no sign of any one, no moving shadows now. His gaze shifted to +the window opposite. Directly facing it now, with the dull reflection +upon it from the lighted window of old Isaac's den above his head, he +could make out that it was open--but that was all. + +Once more he smiled--a little tolerantly at himself this time. Some one +had been in the lane; some one had opened the window of his or her +room in that tenement house across from him--surely there was nothing +surprising, unnatural, or even out of the commonplace in that. He had +been a little bit on edge himself, perhaps, and the sudden movement of +that shadow, unexpected, had startled him for the moment, as, in all +probability, the opening of the window had startled the skulking figure +itself into action. + +The door was open now. He stepped noiselessly inside, and closed it +noiselessly behind him. He was in a narrow hall, where a few yards away, +a light shone down a stairway at right angles to the hall itself. + +“Rear door of pawnshop opens into hall, and exactly opposite very short +flight of stairs leading directly to doorway of Isaac's den above. +Ramshackle old place, low ceilings. Isaac, when sitting in his den, can +look down, and, by means of a transom over the rear door of the shop, +see the customers as they enter from the street, while he also keeps an +eye on his assistant. Latter always locks up and leaves promptly at six +o'clock--” Jimmie Dale was subconsciously repeating to himself snatches +from the Tocsin's letter, which, as subconsciously in reading, he had +memorised almost word for word. + +And now voices reached him--one, excited, nervous, as though the +speaker were labouring under mental strain that bordered closely on +the hysterical; the other, curiously mingling a querulousness with an +attempt to pacify, but dominantly contemptuous, sneering, cold. + +Jimmie Dale moved along the hall--very slowly--without a sound--testing +each step before he threw his body weight from one leg to the other. He +reached the foot of the stairs. The Tocsin had been right; it was a very +short flight. He counted the steps--there were eight. Above, facing him, +a door was open. The voices were louder now. It was a sordid-looking +room, what he could see of it, poverty-stricken in its appearance, +intentionally so probably for effect, with no attempt whatever at +furnishing. He could see through the doorway to the window that opened +on the alleyway, or, rather, just glimpse the top of the window at an +angle across the room--that and a bare stretch of floor. The two men +were not in the line of vision. + +Burton's voice--it was unquestionably Burton speaking--came to Jimmie +Dale now distinctly. + +“No, I didn't! I tell you, I didn't! I--I hadn't the nerve.” + +Jimmie Dale slipped his black silk mask over his face; and with extreme +caution, on hands and knees, began to climb the stairs. + +“So!” It was old Isaac now, in a half purr, half sneer. “And I was so +sure, my young friend, that you had. I was so sure that you were not +such a fool. Yes; I could even have sworn that they were in your pocket +now--what? It is too bad--too bad! It is not a pleasant thing to think +of, that little chair up the river in its horrible little room where--” + +“For God's sake, Isaac--not that! Do you hear--not that! My God, I +didn't mean to--I didn't know what I was doing!” + +Jimmie Dale crept up another step, another, and another. There was +silence for a moment in the room; then Burton again, hoarse-voiced: + +“Isaac, I'll make good to you some other way. I swear I will--I swear +it! If I'm caught at this I'll--I'll get fifteen years for it.” + +“And which would you rather have?” Jimmie Dale could picture the oily +smirk, the shrug of his shoulders, the outthrust hands, palms upward, +elbows in at the hips, the fingers curved and wide apart--“fifteen +years, or what you get--for murder? Eh, my friend, you have thought of +that--eh? It is a very little price I ask--yes?” + +“Damn you!” Burton's voice was shrill, then dropped to a half sob. “No, +no, Isaac, I didn't mean that. Only, for God's sake be merciful! It is +not only the risk of the penitentiary; it's more than that. I--I tried +to play white all my life, and until that cursed night there's no man +living could say I haven't. You know that--you know that, Isaac. I tell +you I couldn't do it this afternoon--I tell you I couldn't. I tried to +and--and I couldn't.” + +Jimmie Dale was lying flat on the little landing now, peering into the +room. Back a short distance from the doorway, a repulsive-looking +little man in unkempt clothes and soiled linen, with yellowish-skinned, +parchment face, out of which small black eyes shone cunningly and +shrewdly, sat at a bare deal table in a rickety chair; facing him across +the table stood a young man of not more than twenty-five, clean cut, +well dressed, but whose face was unnaturally white now, and whose hand, +as he extended it in a pleading gesture toward the other, trembled +visibly. Jimmie Dale's hand made its way quietly to his side pocket and +extracted his automatic. + +Old Isaac humped his shoulders, and leered at his visitor. + +“We talk a great deal, my young friend. What is the use? A bargain is +a bargain. A few rubies in exchange for your life. A few rubies and my +mouth is shut. Otherwise”--he humped his shoulders again. “Well?” + +Burton drew back, swept his hand in a dazed way across his eyes--and +laughed out suddenly in bitter mirth. + +“A few rubies!” he cried. “The most magnificent stones on this side of +the water--a FEW rubies! It's been Maddon's life hobby. Every child in +New York knows that! A few--yes, there's only a few--but those few are +worth a fortune. He trusts me, the man has been like a father to me, +and--” + +“So you are the very last to be suspected,” observed old Isaac suavely. +“Have I not told you that? There is nothing to fear. Did we not arrange +everything so nicely--eh, my young friend? See, it was to-night that +Maddon gives a little reception to his friends, and did you not say that +the rubies would be taken from the safe-deposit vault this afternoon +since his friends always clamoured to see them as a very fitting +conclusion to an evening's entertainment? And did you not say that you +very naturally had access to the safe in the library where you worked, +and that he would not notice they were gone until he came to look +for them some time this evening? I think you said all that. And what +suspicion let alone proof, would attach itself to you? You were out of +the room once when he, too, was absent for perhaps half an hour. It +is very simple. In that half hour, some one, somehow, abstracted them. +Certainly it was not you. You see how little I ask--and I pay well, do I +not? And so I gave you until to-night. Three days have gone, and I have +said nothing, and the body has not been found--eh? But to-night--eh--it +was understood! The rubies--or the chair.” + +Burton's lips moved, but it was a moment before he could speak. + +“You wouldn't dare!” he whispered thickly. “You wouldn't dare! I'd tell +the story of--of what you tried to make me do, and they'd send you up +for it.” + +Old Isaac shrugged with pitying contempt. + +“Is it, after all, a fool I am dealing with!” he sneered. “And I--what +should I say? That you had stolen the stones from your employer and +offered them as a bribe to silence me, and that I had refused. The very +act of handing you over to the police would prove the truth of what I +said and rob you of even a chance of leniency--FOR THAT OTHER THING. Is +it not so--eh? And why did I not hand you over at once three nights ago? +Believe me, my young friend, I should have a very good reason ready, a +dozen, if necessary, if it came to that. But we are borrowing trouble, +are we not? We shall not come to that--eh?” + +For a moment it seemed to Jimmie Dale, as he watched, that Burton would +hurl himself upon the other. White to the lips, the muscles of his face +twitching, Burton clenched his fists and leaned over the table--and +then, with sudden revulsion of emotion, he drew back once more, and once +more came that choked sob: + +“You'll pay for this, Isaac--your turn will come for this! + +“I have been threatened very often,” snapped the other contemptuously. +“Bah, what are threats! I laugh at them--as I always will.” Then, with +a quick change of front, his voice a sudden snarl: “Well, we have +talked enough. You have your choice. The stones or--eh? And it is +to-night--NOW!” + +The old pawnbroker sprawled back in his chair, a cunning leer on his +vicious face, a gleam of triumph, greed, in the beady, ratlike eyes that +never wavered from the other. Burton, moisture oozing from his forehead, +stood there, hesitant, staring back at old Isaac, half in a fascinated +gaze, half as though trying to read some sign of weakness in the bestial +countenance that confronted him. And then, very slowly, in an automatic, +machine-like way, his hand groped into the inside pocket of his +vest--and old Isaac cackled out in derision. + +“So! You thought you could bluff me, eh--you thought you could fool old +Isaac! Bah! I read you like a book! Did I not tell you a while back that +you had them in your pocket? I know your kind, my young friend; I know +your kind very well indeed--it is my business. You would not have +dared to come here to-night without the price. So! You took them this +afternoon as we agreed. Yes, yes; you did well. You will not regret it. +And now let me see them”--his voice rose eagerly--“let me see them now, +my young friend.” + +“Yes, I took them.” Burton spoke listlessly. “God help me!” + +Old Isaac, quivering, excited, like a different creature now, sprang +from his chair, and, as Burton drew a long, flat, leather case from +his pocket, snatched it from the other's hand. His fingers in their +rapacious haste could not at first manipulate the catch, and then +finally, with the case open, he bent over the table feverishly. The +light reflected back as from some living mass of crimson fire, now +shading darkly, now glowing into wondrous, colourful transparency as he +moved the case to and fro with jerky motions of his hands--and he was +babbling, crooning to himself like one possessed. + +“Ah, the little beauties! Ah, the pretty little things! Yes, yes; these +are the ones! This is the great Aracon--see, see, the six-sided prism +terminated by the six-sided pyramid. But it must be cut--it must be cut +to sell it, eh? Ah, it is too bad--too bad! And this, this one here, I +know them all, this is--” + +But his sentence was never finished--it was Jimmie Dale, on his feet +now, leaning against the jamb of the door, his automatic covering the +two men at the table, who spoke. + +“Quite so, Isaac,” he said coolly; “you know them all! Quite so, +Isaac--but be good enough to DROP them!” + +The case fell from Isaac's hand, the flush on his cheeks died to a +sickly pallor, and, his mouth half open, he stood like a man turned to +stone, his hands with curved fingers still outstretched over the table, +over the crimson gems that, spilled from the case, lay scattered now +on the tabletop. Burton neither spoke nor moved--a little whiter, the +misery in his face almost apathetic, he moistened his lips with the tip +of his tongue. + +Jimmie Dale walked across the room, halted at the end of the table, +and surveyed the two men grimly. And then, while one hand with revolver +extended rested easily on the table, the other gathered up the stones, +placed them in the case, and, the case in his pocket, Jimmie Dale's lips +parted in an uninviting smile. + +“I guess I'm in luck to-night, eh, Isaac?” he drawled. “Between you and +your young friend, as I believe you call him, it would appear as though +I had fallen on my feet. That Aracon's worth--what would you say?--a +hundred, two hundred thousand alone, eh? A very famous stone, that--had +your eye on it for quite a time, Isaac, you miserable blood leech, eh?” + +Isaac did not answer; but, while he still held back from the table, he +seemed to be regaining a little of his composure--burglars of whatever +sort were no novelty to him--and was staring fixedly at Jimmie Dale. + +“Can't place me--though there's not many in the profession you don't +know? Is that it?” inquired Jimmie Dale softly. “Well, don't try, Isaac; +it's hardly worth your while. I'VE got the stones now, and--” + +“Wait! Wait! Listen!” It was Burton, speaking for the first time, his +words coming in a quick, nervous rush. “Listen! You don't--” + +“Hold your tongue!” cried old Isaac, with sudden fierceness. “You are a +fool!” He leaned toward Jimmie Dale, a crafty smile on his face, quite +in control of himself once more. “Don't listen to him--listen to me. +You're right. I can't place you, and it doesn't make any difference”--he +took a step forward--“but--” + +“Not too close, Isaac!” snapped Jimmie Dale sharply. “I know YOU!” + +“So!” ejaculated old Isaac, rubbing his hands together. “So! That is +good! That is what I want. Listen, we will make a bargain. We are birds +of a feather, eh? All thieves, eh? You've got the drop on us who did all +the work, but you'll give us our share--eh? Listen! You couldn't get rid +of those stones alone. You know that; you're not so green at the game, +eh? You'd have to go to some one. You know me; you know old Isaac, you +say. Well, then, you know there isn't another man in New York could +dispose of those rubies and play SAFE doing it except me. I'll make a +good bargain with you.” + +“Isaac,” said Jimmie Dale pensively, “you've made a good many 'good' +bargains. I wonder when you'll make your last! There's more than one +looking for 'interest' on those bargains in a pretty grim sort of way.” + +“Bah!” ejaculated old Isaac. “It is an old story. They are all alike. I +am afraid of none of them. I hold them all like--THAT!” His hand opened +and closed like a taloned claw. + +“And you'd add me to the lot, eh?” said Jimmie Dale. He lifted the +revolver, its muzzle on old Isaac, examined the mechanism thoughtfully, +and lowered it again. “Very well, I'll make a bargain with +you--providing it is agreeable to your young friend here.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed old Isaac shrilly. “So! That is good! It is done then.” + He chuckled hoarsely. “Any bargain I make he will agree to. Is it not +so?” He fixed his eyes on Burton. “Well, is it not so? Speak up! Say--” + +He stopped--the words cut short off on his lips. It came without +warning--a crash, a pound on the door below--another. + +Burton shrank back against the wall. + +“My God! The police!” he gasped. “Maddon's found out! We're--we're +caught!” + +Jimmie Dale's eyes, on old Isaac, narrowed. The pounding in the alleyway +grew louder, more insistent. And then his first suspicion passed--it +was no “game” of Isaac's. Crafty though the old fox was, the other's +surprise and agitation was too genuine to be questioned. + +Still the pounding continued--some one was kicking viciously at the +door, and banging a tattoo on the panels with his fists. + +Old Isaac's clawlike hands doubled suddenly. + +“It is some drunken sot,” he snarled out, “that knows no better than to +come here and rouse the whole neighbourhood! It is true, in a moment we +will have the police running in from the street. But wait--wait--I'll +teach the fool a lesson!” He dashed around the table, ran for the +window, wrenched the catch up, flung the window open, and, snarling +again, leaned out--and instantly the knocking ceased. + +And instantly then, with a sharp cry, as the whole ghastly meaning of it +swept upon him, Jimmie sprang after the other--too late! Came the +roar of a revolver shot, a stream of flame cutting the darkness of the +alleyway from the window in the house opposite--and, without a sound, +old Isaac crumpled up, hung limply for a moment over the sill, and slid +in a heap to the floor. + +On his hands and knees, protected from the possibility of another bullet +by the height of the sill, Jimmie Dale, quick in every movement now, +dragged the inert form toward the table away from the window, and bent +hurriedly over the other. A minute perhaps he stayed there--and then +rose slowly. + +Burton, horror-stricken, unmanned, beside himself, was hanging, +clutching with both hands at the table edge. + +“He's dead,” said Jimmie Dale laconically. + +Burton flung out his hands. + +“Dead!” he whispered hoarsely. “I--I think I'm going mad. Three days of +hell--and now this. We'd--we'd better get out of here quick--they'll get +us if--” + +Jimmie Dale's hand fell with a tight grip on Burton's shoulder. + +“There won't be any more shots fired--pull yourself together!” + +Burton stared at him in a demented way. + +“What's--what's it mean?” he stammered. + +“It means that I didn't put two and two together,” said Jimmie Dale a +little bitterly. “It means that there's a dozen crooks been dancing +old Isaac's tune for a long time--and that some of them have got him at +last.” + +Burton reached out suddenly and clutched Jimmie Dale's arm. + +“Then I'm safe!” He mumbled the words, but there was dawning hope, +relief in his white face. “Safe! I'm safe--if you'll only give me back +those stones. Give them back to me, for God's sake give them back to me! +You don't know--you don't understand. I stole them because--because he +made me--because I--it was the only chance I had. Oh, my God, you don't +know what the last three days have been! Give them back to me, won't +you--won't you? You--you don't know!” + +“Don't lose your nerve!” said Jimmie Dale sharply. “Sit down!” He pushed +the other into the chair. “There's no one will disturb us here for some +time at least. What is it that I don't know? That three nights ago +you were in a gambling hell, Sagosto's, to be exact, one of the most +disreputable in New York--and you went there on the invitation of a +stray acquaintance, a man named Perley--shall I describe him for you? A +short, slim-built man, black eyes, red hair, beard, and--” + +“YOU know that!” The misery, the hopelessness was back in Burton's face +again--and suddenly he bent over the table and buried his head in his +outflung arms. + +There was silence for a moment. Tight-lipped, Jimmie Dale's eyes +travelled from Burton's shaking shoulders to the motionless form on the +floor. Then he spoke again: + +“You're a bit of a rounder, Burton, but I think you've had a lesson that +will last you all your life. You were half-drunk when you and Perley +began to hobnob over a downtown bar. He said he'd show you some real +life, and you went with him to Sagosto's. He gave you a revolver before +you went in, and told you the place wasn't safe for an unarmed man. He +introduced you to Sagosto, the proprietor, and you were shown to a +back room. You drank quite a little there. You and Perley were alone, +throwing dice. You got into a quarrel. Perley tried to draw his +revolver. You were quicker. You drew the one he had given you--and +fired. He fell to the floor--you saw the blood gush from his breast just +above the heart--he was dead. In a panic you rushed from the place and +out into the street. I don't think you went home that night.” + +Burton raised his head, showing his haggard face. + +“I guess it's no use,” he said dully. “If you know, others must. I +thought only Isaac and Sagosto knew. Why haven't I been arrested? I wish +to God I had--I wouldn't have had to-day to answer for.” + +“I am not through yet,” said Jimmie Dale gravely. “The next day old +Isaac here sent for you. He said Sagosto had told him of the murder, and +had offered to dispose of the corpse and keep his mouth shut for fifty +thousand dollars--that no one in his place knew of it except himself. +Isaac, for his share, wanted considerably more. You told him you had no +such sums, that you had no money. He told you how you could get it--you +had access to Maddon's safe, you were Maddon's confidential +secretary, fully in your employer's trust, the last man on earth to be +suspected--and there were Maddon's famous, priceless rubies.” + +Jimmie Dale paused. Burton made no answer. + +“And so,” said Jimmie Dale presently, “to save yourself from the death +penalty you took them.” + +“Yes,” said Burton, scarcely above his breath. “Are you an officer? If +you are, take me, have done with it! Only for Heaven's sake end it! If +you're not--” + +Jimmie Dale was not listening. “The cupboard at the rear of the room,” + she had said. He walked across to it now, opened it, and, after a little +search, found a small bundle. He returned with it in his hand, and, +kneeling beside the dead man on the floor, his back to Burton, untied +it, took out a red wig and beard, and slipped them on to old Isaac's +head and face. + +“I wonder,” he said grimly, as he stood up, “if you ever saw this man +before?” + +“My God--PERLEY!” With a wild cry, Burton was on his feet, straining +forward like a man crazed. + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale, “Perley! Sort of an ironic justice in his end +as far as you are concerned, isn't there? I think we'll leave him like +that--as Perley. It will provide the police with an interesting little +problem--which they will never solve, and--STEADY!” + +Burton was rocking on his feet, the tears were streaming down his face. +He lurched heavily--and Jimmie Dale caught him, and pushed him back into +the chair again. + +“I thought--I thought there was blood on my hands,” said Burton brokenly; +“that--that I had taken a man's life. It was horrible, horrible! I've +lived through three days that I thought would drive me mad, while I--I +tried to do my work, and--and talk to people, just as if nothing had +happened. And every one that spoke to me seemed so carefree and happy, +and I would have sold my soul to have changed places with them.” He +stared at the form on the floor, and shivered suddenly. “It--it was like +that I saw him last!” he whispered. “But--but I do not understand.” + +Jimmie Dale smiled a little wearily. + +“It was simple enough,” he said. “Old Isaac had had his eyes on those +rubies for a long time. The easiest way of getting them was through you. +The revolver he gave you before you entered Sagosto's was loaded with +blank cartridges, the blood you saw was the old, old trick--a punctured +bladder of red pigment concealed under the vest.” + +“Let us get out of here!” Burton shuddered again. “Let us get out of +here--at once--now. If we're found here, we'll be accused of--THAT!” + +“There is no hurry,” Jimmie Dale answered quietly. “I have told you that +no one is liable to come here to-night--and whoever did this certainly +will not raise an alarm. And besides, there is still the matter of the +rubies--Burton.” + +“Yes,” said Burton, with a quick intake of his breath. + +“Yes--the rubies--what are you going to do with them? I--I had forgotten +them. You'll--” He stopped, stared at Jimmie Dale, and burst into a +miserable laugh. “I'm a fool, a blind fool!” he moaned. “It does not +matter what you do with them. I forgot Sagosto. When they find Isaac +here, Sagosto will either tell his story, which will be enough to +convict me of this night's work, the REAL murder, even though I'm +innocent; or else he'll blackmail me just as Isaac did.” + +Jimmie Dale shook his head. + +“You are doing Isaac's cunning an injustice,” he said grimly. “Sagosto +was only a tool, one of many that old Isaac had in his power--and, for +that matter, as likely as any one else to have had a hand in Isaac's +murder to-night. Sagosto saw you once when Isaac brought you into his +place--not because Isaac wanted Sagosto to see you, but because he +wanted YOU to see Sagosto. Do you understand? It would make the story +that Sagosto came to him with the tale of the murder the next day ring +true. Sagosto, however, did not go to old Isaac the next day to tell +about any fake murder--naturally. Sagosto would not know you again +from Adam--neither does he know anything about the rubies, nor what old +Isaac's ulterior motives were. He was paid for his share in the game in +old Isaac's usual manner of payment probably--by a threat of exposure +for some old-time offence, that Isaac held over him, if he didn't keep +his mouth shut.” + +Burton's hand brushed his eyes. + +“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes--I see it now.” + +Jimmie Dale stooped down, picked up the paper from the floor in which +the wig and beard had been wrapped, walked back with it, and replaced +it in the cupboard. And then, with his back to Burton again, he took +the case of gems from his pocket, opened it, and laid it on the cupboard +shelf. Also from his pocket came that thin metal case, and from the +case, with a pair of tweezers that obviated the possibility of telltale +finger prints, a gray, diamond-shaped piece of paper, adhesive on +one side that, cursed by the distracted authorities in every police +headquarters on both sides of the Atlantic, and raved at by a virulent +press whose printed reproductions had made it familiar in every +household in the land--was the insignia of the Gray Seal. He moistened +the adhesive side, dropped it from the tweezers to his handkerchief, and +pressed it down firmly on the inside of the cover of the jewel case. He +put both cases back in his pockets, and returned to Burton. + +“Burton,” he said a little sharply, “while I was outside that doorway +there, I heard you beg old Isaac to let you keep the rubies, and three +times already you have asked the same of me. What would you do with them +if I gave them back to you?” + +Burton did not reply for a moment--he was gazing at the masked face in a +half-eager, half-doubtful way. + +“You--you mean you will give them back!” he burst out finally. + +“Answer my question,” prompted Jimmie Dale. + +“Do with them?” Burton repeated slowly. “Why, I've told you. They'd go +back to Mr. Maddon--I'd take them back.” + +“Would you?” Jimmie Dale's voice was quizzical. + +A puzzled expression came to Burton's face. + +“I don't know what you mean by that,” he said. “Of course, I would!” + +“How?” asked Jimmie Dale. “Do you know the combination of Mr. Maddon's +safe?” + +“No,” said Burton + +“And the safe would be locked, wouldn't it?” + +“Yes.” + +“Quite so,” said Jimmie Dale musingly. “Then, granted that Mr. Maddon +has not already discovered the theft, how would you replace the stones +before he does discover it? And if he already knows that they are gone, +how would you get them back into his hands?” + +“Yes, I know,” Burton answered a little listlessly. “I've thought of +that. There's only one way--to take them back to him myself, and make a +clean breast of it, and--” He hesitated. + +“And tell him you stole them,” supplied Jimmie Dale. + +Burton nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. + +“And then?” prodded Jimmie Dale. “What will Maddon do? From what I've +heard of him, he's not a man to trifle with, nor a man to take an overly +complacent view of things--not the man whose philosophy is 'all's well +that ends well.'” + +“What does it matter?” Burton's voice was low. “It isn't that so much. +I'm ready for that. It's the fact that he trusted me implicitly, and +I--well, I played the fool, or I'd never have got into a mess like +this.” + +For an instant Jimmie Dale looked at the other searchingly, and then, +smiling strangely, he shook his head. + +“There's a better way than that, Burton,” he said quietly. + +“I think, as I said before, you've had a lesson to-night that will last +you all your life. I'm going to give you another chance--with Maddon. +Here are the stones.” He reached into his pocket and laid the case on +the table. + +But now Burton made no effort to take the case--his eyes, in that +puzzled way again, were on Jimmie Dale. + +“A better way?” he repeated tensely. “What do you mean? What way?” + +“Well, say at the expense of another man's reputation--of mine,” + suggested Jimmie Dale, with his whimsical smile. “You need only say that +a man came to you this evening, told you that he stole these rubies from +Mr. Maddon during the afternoon, and asked you, as Mr. Maddon's private +secretary, to restore them with his compliments to their owner.” + +A slow flush of disappointment, deepening to one of anger dyed Burton's +cheeks. + +“Are you trying to make a fool of me?” he cried out. “Go to Maddon with +a childish tale like that! There's no man living would believe such a +cock-and-bull story!” + +“No?” inquired Jimmie Dale softly. “And yet I am inclined to think there +are a good many--that even Maddon would, hard-headed as he is. You +might say that when the man handed you the case you thought it was some +practical joke being foisted on you, until you opened the case”--Jimmie +Dale pushed it a little farther across the table, and Burton, +mechanically, his eyes still on Jimme Dale, loosened the catch with his +thumb nail--“until you opened the case, saw the rubies, and--” + +“The Gray Seal!” Burton had snatched the case toward him, and was +straining his eyes at the inside cover. “You--the Gray Seal!” + +“Well?” said Jimmie Dale whimsically. + +Motionless, the case held open in his hands, Burton stood there. + +“The Gray Seal!” he whispered. Then, with a catch in his voice: “You +mean this? You mean to let me have these back--you mean--you mean all +you've said? For God's sake, don't play with me--the Gray Seal, the most +notorious criminal in the country, to give back a fortune like this! +You--you--” + +“Dog with a bad name,” said Jimmie Dale, with a wry smile; then, a +little gruffly: “Put it in your pocket!” + +Slowly, almost as though he expected the case to be snatched back from +him the next instant, Burton obeyed. + +“I don't understand--I CAN'T understand!” he murmured. “They say that +you--and yet I believe you now--you've saved me from a ruined life +to-night. The Gray Seal! If--if every one knew what you had done, +they--” + +“But every one won't,” Jimmie Dale broke in bluntly, “Who is to tell +them? You? You couldn't very well, when you come to think of it--could +you? Well, who knows, perhaps there have been others like you!” + +“You mean,” said Burton excitedly, “you mean that all these crimes of +yours that have seemed without motive, that have been so inexplicable, +have really been like to-night to--” + +“I don't mean anything at all,” interposed Jimmie Dale a little +hurriedly. “Nothing, Burton--except that there is still one little thing +more to do to bolster up that 'childish' story of mine--and then get +out of here.” He glanced sharply, critically around the room, his eyes +resting for a moment at the last on the form on the floor. Then tersely: +“I am going to turn out the light--we will have to pass the window to +get to the door, and we will invite no chances. Are you ready?” + +“No; not yet,” said Burton eagerly. “I haven't said what I'd like to say +to you, what I--” + +“Walk straight to the door,” said Jimmie Dale curtly. There was the +click of an electric-light switch, and the room was in darkness. “Now, +no noise!” he instructed. + +And Burton, perforce, made his way across the room--and at the door +Jimmie Dale joined him and led him down the short flight of stairs. At +the bottom, he opened the door leading into the rear of the pawnshop +itself, and, bidding Burton follow, entered. + +“We can't risk even a match; it could be seen from the street,” he said +brusquely, as he fumbled around for a moment in the darkness. “Ah--here +it is!” He lifted a telephone receiver from its hook, and gave a number. + +Burton caught him quickly by the arm. + +“Good Lord, man, what are you doing?” he protested anxiously. “That's +Mr. Maddon's house!” + +“So I believe,” said Jimmie Dale complacently. “Hello! Is Mr. Maddon +there? . . . I beg pardon? . . . Personally, yes, if you please.” + +There was a moment's wait. Burton's hand was still nervously clutching +at Jimmie Dale's sleeve. Then: + +“Mr. Maddon?” asked Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Yes? . . . I am very sorry +to trouble you, but I called you up to inquire if you were aware that +your rubies, and among them your Aracon, had been stolen? . . . I beg +pardon! . . . Rubies--yes. . . . You weren't. . . . Oh, no, I am quite +in my right mind; if you will take the trouble to open your safe you +will find they are gone--shall I hold the line while you investigate? +. . . What? . . . Don't shout, please--and stand a little farther away +from the mouthpiece.” Jimmie Dale's tone was one of insolent composure +now. “There is really no use in getting excited. . . . I beg pardon? . . . +Certainly, this is the Gray Seal speaking. . . . What?” Jimmie Dale's +voice grew plaintive, “I really can't make out a word when you yell like +that. . . . Yes. . . . I had occasion to use them this afternoon, and I +took the liberty of borrowing them temporarily--are you still there, Mr. +Maddon? . . . Oh, quite so! Yes, I hear you NOW. . . . No, that is +all, only I am returning them through your private secretary, a very +estimable young man, though I fear somewhat excitable and shaky, who is +on his way to you with them now. . . . WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? You repeat +that,” snapped Jimmie Dale suddenly, icily, “and I'll take them +from under your nose again before morning! . . . Ah! That is better! +Good-night--Mr. Maddon.” + +Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver and shoved Burton toward the door. + +“Now then, Burton, we'll get out of her--and the sooner you reach Fifth +Avenue and Mr. Maddon's house the better. No; not that way!” They had +reached the hall, and Burton had turned toward the side door that opened +on the alleyway. “Whoever they were who settled their last account with +Isaac may still be watching. They've nothing against any one else, +but they know some one was in here at the time, and, if the police +are clever enough ever to get on their track, they might find it +very convenient to be able to say WHO was in the room when Isaac was +murdered--there's nothing to show, since Isaac so obligingly opened the +window for them, that the shot was fired THROUGH the window and not from +the inside of the room. And even if they have already taken to their +heels”--Jimmie Dale was leading Burton up the stairs again as he +talked--“it might prove exceedingly inconvenient for us if some +passer-by should happen to recollect that he saw two men of our general +appearance leaving the premises. Now keep close--and follow me.” + +They passed the door of Isaac's den, turned down a narrow corridor that +led to the rear of the house--Jimmie Dale guiding unerringly, working +from the mental map of the house that the Tocsin had drawn for +him--descended another short flight of stairs that gave on the kitchen, +crossed the kitchen, and Jimmie Dale opened a back door. He paused here +for a moment to listen; then, cautioning Burton to be silent, moved on +again across a small back yard and through a gate into a lane that +ran at right angles to the alleyway by which both had entered the +house--and, a minute later, they were crouched against a building, a +half block away, where the lane intersected the cross street. + +Here Jimmie Dale peered out cautiously. There was no one in sight. He +touched Burton's shoulder, and pointed down the street. + +“That's your way, Burton--mine's the other. Hurry while you've got the +chance. Good-night.” + +Burton's hand reached out, caught Jimmie Dale's, and wrung it. + +“God bless you!” he said huskily. “I--” + +And Jimmie Dale pushed him out on to the street. + +Burton's steps receded down the sidewalk. Jimmie Dale still crouched +against the wall. The steps grew fainter in the distance and died +finally away. Jimmie Dale straightened up, slipped the mask from his +face to his pocket, stepped out on the street--and five minutes later +was passing through the noisy bedlam of the Hungarian restaurant on his +way to the front door and his car. + +“SONNEZ LE TOCSIN,” Jimmie Dale was saying softly to himself. “I wonder +what she'll do when she finds I've got the ring?” + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE MAN HIGHER UP + + +The Tocsin! By neither act, sign, nor word had she evidenced the +slightest interest in that ring--and yet she must know, she certainly +must know that it was now in his possession. Jimmie Dale was +disappointed. Somehow, he had counted more than he had cared to admit on +developments from that ring. + +He pulled a little viciously at his cigarette, as he stared out of the +St. James Club window. That was how long ago? Ten days? Yes; this would +be the eleventh. Eleven days now and no word from her--eleven days since +that night at old Isaac's, since she had last called him, the Gray Seal, +to arms. It was a long while--so long a while even that what had come +to be his prerogative in the newspapers, the front page with three-inch +type recounting some new exploit of that mysterious criminal the Gray +Seal, was being usurped. The papers were howling now about what they, +for the lack of a better term, were pleased to call a wave of crime that +had inundated New York, and of which, for once, the Gray Seal was not +the storm centre, but rather, for the moment, forgotten. + +He drew back from the window, and, settling himself again in the big +leather lounging chair, resumed the perusal of the evening paper. His +eye fell on what was common to every edition now, a crime editorial--and +the paper crackled suddenly under the long, slim, tapering fingers, +so carefully nurtured, whose sensitive tips a hundred times had made +mockery of the human ingenuity squandered on the intricate mechanism +of safes and vaults. No; he was wrong--the Gray Seal had not been +forgotten. + +“We should not be surprised,” wrote the editor virulently, “to discover +at the bottom of these abominable atrocities that the guiding spirit, +in fact, was the Gray Seal--they are quite worthy even of his diabolical +disregard for the laws of God and man.” + +Jimmie Dale's lips straightened ominously, and an angry glint crept into +his dark, steady eyes. There was nothing then, nothing too vile that, +in the public's eyes, could not logically be associated with the Gray +Seal--even this! A series of the most cold-blooded, callous murders +and robberies, the work, on the face of it, of a well-organized band +of thugs, brutal, insensate, little better than fiends, though clever +enough so far to have evaded capture, clever enough, indeed, to have +kept the police still staggering and gasping after a clew for one +murder--while another was in the very act of being committed! The Gray +Seal! What exquisite irony! And yet, after all, the papers were not +wholly to blame for what they said; he had invited much of it. Seeming +crimes of the Gray Seal had apparently been genuine beyond any question +of doubt, as he had intended them to appear, as in the very essence of +their purpose they had to be. + +Yes; he had invited much--he and she together--the Tocsin and himself. +He, Jimmie Dale, millionaire, clubman, whose name for generations in +New York had been the family pride, was “wanted” as the Gray Seal for so +many “crimes” that he had lost track of them himself--but from any one +of which, let the identity of the Gray Seal be once solved, there was +and could be no escape! What exquisite irony--yet full, too, of the most +deadly consequences! + +Once more Jimmie Dale's eyes sought the paper, and this time scanned the +headlines of the first page: + + +BRUTAL MURDER OF MILL PAYMASTER. + +THE CRIME WAVE STILL AT ITS HEIGHT. + +HERMAN ROESSLE FOUND DEAD NEAR HIS CAR. + +ASSASSINS ESCAPE WITH $20,000. + + +Jimmie Dale read on--and as he read there came again that angry set to +his lips. The details were not pleasant. Herman Roessle, the paymaster +of the Martindale-Kensington Mills, whose plant was on the Hudson, had +gone that morning in his runabout to the nearest town, three miles away, +for the monthly pay roll; had secured the money from the bank, a sum of +twenty-odd thousand dollars; and had started back with it for the +mill. At first, it being broad daylight and a well-frequented road, his +nonappearance caused no apprehension; but as early afternoon came and +there was still no sign of Roessle the mill management took alarm. +Discovering that he had left the bank for the return journey at a few +minutes before eleven, and that nothing had been seen of him at his +home, the police were notified. Followed then several hours of fruitless +search, until finally, with the whole countryside aroused and the +efforts of the police augumented by private search parties, the car was +found in a thicket at the edge of a crossroad some four miles back from +the river, and, a little way from the car, the body of Roessle, dead, +the man's head crushed in where it had been fiendishly battered by some +blunt, heavy object. There was no clew--no one could be found who had +seen the car on the crossroad--the murderer, or murderers, and the +twenty-odd thousand dollars in cash had disappeared leaving no trace +behind. + +There were several columns of this, which Jimmie Dale skimmed through +quickly; but at the end he stared for a long time at the last paragraph. +Somehow, strange, to relate, the paper had neglected to turn its “sob” + artist loose, and the few words, added almost as though they were +an afterthought, for once rang true and full of pathos in their very +simplicity--at the Roessle home, where Mrs. Roessle was prostrated, +two little tots of five and seven, too young to understand, had gravely +received the reporter and told him that some bad man had hurt their +daddy. + +“Mr. Dale, sir!” + +Jimmie Dale lowered his paper. A club attendant was standing before him, +respectfully extending a silver card tray. From the man, Jimmie Dale's +eyes fixed on a white envelope on the tray. One glance was enough--it +was HERS, that letter. The Tocsin again! His brain seemed suddenly to be +afire, and he could feel his pulse quicken, the blood begin to pound +in fierce throbs at his heart. Life and death lay in that white, +innocent-looking, unaddressed envelope, danger, peril--it was always +life and death, for those were the stakes for which the Tocsin played. +But, master of many things, Jimmie Dale was most of all master of +himself. Not a muscle of his face moved. He reached nonchalantly for the +letter. + +“Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale. + +The man bowed and started away. Jimmie Dale laid the envelope on the +arm of the lounging chair. The man had reached the door when Jimmie Dale +stopped him. + +“Oh, by the way,” said Jimmie Dale languidly, “where did this come +from?” + +“Your chauffeur, sir,” replied the other. “Your chauffeur gave it to the +hall porter a moment ago, sir.” + +“Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale again. + +The door closed. + +Jimmie Dale glanced around the room. It was the caution of habit, that +glance; the habit of years in which his life had hung on little things. +He was alone in one of the club's private library rooms. He picked up +the envelope, tore it open, took out the folded sheets inside, and began +to read. At the first words he leaned forward, suddenly tense in his +chair. He read on, turning the pages hurriedly, incredulity, amazement, +and, finally, a strange menace mirroring itself in turn upon his face. + +He stood up--the letter in his hand. + +“My God!” whispered Jimmie Dale. + +It was a call to arms such as the Gray Seal had never received +before--such as the Tocsin had never made before. And if it were true +it--True! He laughed aloud a little gratingly. True! Had the Tocsin, +astounding, unbelievable, mystifying as were the means by which she +acquired her knowledge not only of this, but of countless other affairs, +ever by so much as the smallest detail been astray. If it were true! + +He pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine. Benson, his chauffeur, +had sent the letter into the club. Benson had been waiting outside +there ever since dinner. Jimmie Dale, for the first time since the +first communication that he had ever received from the Tocsin, did not +immediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket--and +stepped quickly from the room. + +In the cloakroom downstairs he secured his hat and overcoat, and, +though it was a warm evening, put on the latter since he was in evening +clothes, then walked leisurely out of the club. + +At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and, touching +his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine. + +Jimmie Dale shook his head. + +“I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson,” he said. “You may +take the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night.” + +“Very good, sir,” replied the chauffeur. + +“You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?” observed Jimmie Dale +casually, opening his cigarette case. + +“Yes, sir,” said Benson. “I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it was +important, and that you were to have it at once.” + +“He?” Jimmie Dale was lighting his cigarette now. + +“A boy, sir,” Benson amplified. “I couldn't get anything out of him. He +just said he'd been told to give it to me, and tell me to see that you +got it at once. I hope, sir, I haven't--” + +“Not at all, Benson,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “It's quite all +right. Good-night, Benson.” + +“Good-night, sir,” Benson answered, climbing back to his seat. + +There was a queer little smile on Jimmie Dale's lips, as he watched the +great car swing around in the street and glide noiselessly away--a queer +little smile that still held there even after he himself had started +briskly along the avenue in a downtown direction. It was invariably the +same, always the same--the letters came unexpectedly, when least +looked for, now by this means, now by that, but always in a manner that +precluded the slightest possibility of tracing them to their source. Was +there anything, in his intimate surroundings, in his intimate life, +that she did not know about him--who knew absolutely nothing about her! +Benson, for instance--that the man was absolutely trustworthy--or else +she would never for an instant have risked the letter in his possession. +Was there anything that she did not--yes, one thing--she did not know +him in the role he was going to play to-night. That at least was one +thing that surely she did not know about him; the role in which, many +times, for weeks on end, he had devoted himself body and soul in an +attempt to solve the mystery with which she surrounded herself; the +role, too, that often enough had been a bulwark of safety to him when +hard pressed by the police; the role out of which he had so carefully, +so painstakingly created a now recognised and well-known character of +the underworld--the role of Larry the Bat. + +Jimmie Dale turned from Fifth Avenue into Broadway, continued on down +Broadway, across to the Bowery, kept along the Bowery for several more +blocks--and finally headed east into the dimly lighted cross street on +which the Sanctuary was located. + +And now Jimmie Dale became cautious in his movements. As he approached +the black alleyway that flanked the miserable tenement, he glanced +sharply behind and about him; and, at the alleyway itself, without +pause, but with a curious lightning-like side step, no longer Jimmie +Dale now, but the Gray Seal, he disappeared from the street, and was +lost in the deep shadows of the building. + +In a moment he was at the side door, listening for any sound from +within--none had ever seen or met the lodger or the first floor either +ascending or descending, except in the familiar character of Larry +the Bat. He opened the door, closed it behind him, and in the utter +blackness went noiselessly up the stairs--stairs so rickety that it +seemed a mouse's tread alone would have set them creaking. There seemed +an art in the play of Jimmie Dale's every muscle; in the movements, +lithe, balanced, quick, absolutely silent. On the first landing he +stopped before another door, there was the faint click of a key turning +in the lock; and then this door, too, closed behind him. Sounded the +faint click of the key as it turned again, and Jimmie Dale drew a long +breath, stepped across the room to assure himself that the window blind +was down, and lighted the gas jet. + +A yellow, murky flame spurted up, pitifully weak, almost as though it +were ashamed of its disreputable surroundings. Dirt, disorder, squalour, +the evidence of low living testified eloquently enough to any one, +the police, for instance, in times past inquisitive until they were +fatuously content with the belief that they knew the occupant for what +he was, that the place was quite in keeping with its tenant, a mute +prototype, as it were, of Larry the Bat, the dope fiend. + +For a little space, Jimmie Dale, immaculate in his evening clothes, +stood in the centre of the miserable room, his dark eyes, keen, alert, +critical, sweeping comprehensively over every object about him--the +position of a chair, of a cracked drinking glass on the broken-legged +table, of an old coat thrown with apparent carelessness on the floor at +the foot of the bed, of a broken bottle that had innocently strewn some +sort of white powder close to the threshold, inviting unwary foot tracks +across the floor. And then, taking out the Tocsin's letter, he laid it +upon the table, placed what money he had in his pockets beside it, and +began rapidly to remove his clothes. The Sanctuary had not been invaded +since his last visit there. + +He turned back the oilcloth in the far corner of the room, took up the +piece of loose flooring, which, however, strangely enough, fitted +so closely as to give no sign of its existence even should it +inadvertently, by some curious visitor again be trod upon; and from the +aperture beneath lifted out a bundle of clothes and a small box. + +Undressed now, he carefully folded the clothes he had taken off, laid +them under the flooring, and began to dress again, his wardrobe supplied +by the bundle he had taken out in exchange--an old pair of shoes, the +laces broken; mismated socks; patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms; a +soiled shirt, collarless, open at the neck. Attired to his satisfaction, +he placed the box upon the table, propped up a cracked mirror, sat down +in front of it, and, with a deft, artist's touch, began to apply stain +to his hands, wrists, neck, throat, and face--but the hardness, the grim +menace that now grew into the dominant characteristic of his features +was not due to the stain alone. + +“Dear Philanthropic Crook”--his eyes were on the Tocsin's letter that +lay before him. He read on--for once, even to Jimmie Dale's keen, facile +mind, a first reading had failed to convey the full significance of what +she had written. It was too amazing, almost beyond belief--the series of +crimes, rampant for the past few weeks, at which the community had +stood aghast, the brutal murder of Roessle but a few hours old, lay bare +before his eyes. It was all there, all of it, the details, the hellish +cleverness, the personnel even of the thugs, all, everything--except the +proof. + +“Get him, Jimmie--the man higher up. Get him, Jimmie--before another +pays forfeit with his life”--the words seemed to leap out at him from +the white page in red, dancing lines--“Get him--Jimmie--the man higher +up.” + +Jimmie Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it again +for the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments. His fingers delved +into the box again, and the transformation of Jimmie Dale, member of New +York's most exclusive social set, into a low, vicious-featured denizen +of the underworld went on--a little wax applied skilfully behind the +ears, in the nostrils and under the upper lip. + +It was all there--all except the proof. And the proof--he laughed aloud +suddenly, unpleasantly. There seemed something sardonic in it; ay, more +than that, all that was grim in irony. The proof, in Stangeist's own +writing, sworn to before witnesses in the presence of a notary, the +text of the document, of course, unknown to both witnesses and notary, +evidence, absolute and final, that would be admitted in any court, for +Stangeist was a lawyer, and would see to that, was in Stangeist's own +safe, for Stangeist's own protection--Stangeist, who was himself the +head and brains of this murder gang--Stangeist, who was the man higher +up! + +It was amazing, without parallel in the history of crime--and yet +ingenious, clever, full of the craft and cunning that had built up the +shyster lawyer's reputation below the dead line. + +Jimmie Dale's lips were curiously thin now. So it was Stangeist! A +Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with a vengeance! He knew Stangeist--not +personally; not by the reputation Stangeist held, low even as that was, +among his brother members of the profession; but as the man was known +for what he really was among the crooks and criminals of the underworld, +where, in that strange underground exchange, whispered confidences +passed between those whose common enemy was the law, where Larry the Bat +himself was trusted in the innermost circles. + +Stangeist was a power in the Bad Lands. There were few among that unholy +community that Stangeist, at one time or another, in one way or another, +had not rescued from the clutches of the law, resorting to any trick or +cunning, but with perjury, that he could handle like the master of +it that he was, employed as the most common weapon of defence for his +clients--provided he were paid well enough for it. The man had become +more than the attorney for the crime world--he had become part of +it. Cunning, shrewd, crafty, conscienceless, cold-blooded--that was +Stangeist. + +The form and features of the man pictured themselves in Jimmie Dale's +mind--the six-foot muscular frame, that was invariably clothed in attire +of the most fashionable cut; the thin lips with their oily, plausible +smile, the straight black hair that straggled into pin point, little +black eyes, the dark face with its high cheek bones, which, with the +pronounced aquiline nose and the persistent rumour that he was a +quarter caste, had led the underworld, prejudiced always in favour of a +“monaker,” to dub the man the “Indian Chief.” + +Jimmie Dale laughed again--still unpleasantly. So Stangeist had taken +the plunge at last and branched out into a wider field, had he? Well, +there was nothing surprising in that--except that he had not done it +before! The irony of it lay in the fact that at last he had been TOO +clever, overstepped himself in his own cleverness, that was all. It was +Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane that Stangeist had gathered +around him, the Tocsin had said--and there were none worse in Larry the +Bat's wide range of acquaintanceship than those three. Stangeist had +made himself master of Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane--and +he had driven them a little too hard on the division of the spoils--and +laughed at them, and cracked the whip much after the fashion that the +trainer in the cage handles the growling beasts around him. + +A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York they had +committed under his leadership; and then, it seemed, they had quarrelled +furiously, the three pitted against Stangeist, threatening him, +demanding a more equitable share of the proceeds. None was better aware +than Stangeist that threats from men of their calibre were likely to +result in a grim aftermath--and Stangeist, yesterday, the Tocsin said, +had answered them as no other man than Stangeist would either have +thought of or have dared to do. One by one, at separate times, covering +the other with a revolver, Stangeist had permitted them to read +a document that was addressed to the district attorney. It was a +confession, complete in every detail, of every crime the four together +had committed, implicating Stangeist as fully and unreservedly as it +did the other three. It required no commentary! If anything happened +to Stangeist, a stab in the dark, for instance, a bullet from some dark +alleyway, a blackjack deftly wielded, as only Australian Ike, The Mope +or Clarie Deane knew how to wield it--the document automatically became +a DEATH SENTENCE for Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane! + +It was very simple--and, evidently, it had been effective, as witness +the renewal of their operations in the murder of Roessle that afternoon. +Fear and avarice had both probably played their part; fear of the man +who would with such consummate nerve fling his life into the balance +to turn the tables upon them, while he jeered at them; avarice that +prompted them to get what they could out of Stangeist's brains and +leadership, and to be satisfied with what they COULD get--since they +could get no more! + +Satisfied? Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; that was hardly the +word--cowed, perhaps, for the moment, would be better. But afterward, +with a document like that in existence, when they would never be safe +for an instant--well, beasts in the cages had been known to get the +better of the man with the whip, and beasts were gentle things compared +with Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane! Some day they would +reverse the tables on the Indian Chief--if they could. And if they +couldn't it would not be for the lack of trying. + +There would be another act in that drama of the House Divided before the +curtain fell! And there would be a sort of grim, poetic justice in it, a +temptation almost to let the play work itself out to its own inevitable +conclusion, only--Jimmie Dale, the final touches given to his features, +stood up, and his hands clenched suddenly, fiercely--it was not just the +man higher up alone, there were the other three as well, the whole +four of them, all of them, crimes without number at their door, brutal, +fiendish acts, damnable outrages, murder to answer for, with which the +public now was beginning to connect the name of the Gray Seal! The Gray +Seal! + +Jimmie Dale's hands, whose delicate fingers were artfully grimed and +blackened now beneath the nails, clenched still tighter--and then, with +a quick shrug of his shoulders, a thinning of the firmly compressed +lips, he picked up the coat from where it lay upon the floor, put it on, +put the money that was on the table in his pocket, and replaced the box +under the flooring. + +In quick succession, from the same hiding place, an automatic, a black +silk mask, an electric flashlight, that thin metal box like a cigarette +case, and a half dozen vicious-looking little blued-steel burglar's +tools were stowed away in his pockets, the flooring carefully replaced, +the oilcloth spread back again; and then, pulling a slouch hat well down +over his eyes, he reached up to turn off the gas. + +For an instant his hand held there, while his eyes, sweeping around the +apartment, took in every single detail about him in that same alert, +comprehensive way as when he had entered--then the room was in darkness, +and the Gray Seal, as Larry the Bat, a shuffling, unkempt creature +of the underworld, alias Jimmie Dale, the lionised of clubs, the +matrimonial target of exclusive drawing-rooms, closed the door of the +Sanctuary behind him, shuffled down the stairs, shuffled out into the +lane, and shuffled along the street toward the Bowery. + +A policeman on the corner accosted him familiarly. + +“Hello, Larry!” grinned the officer. + +“'Ello!” returned Jimmie Dale affably through the side of his mouth. +“Fine night, ain't it?”--and shuffled on along the street. + +And now Jimmie Dale began to hurry--still with that shuffling tread, but +covering the ground nevertheless with amazing celerity. He had lost +no time since receiving the Tocsin's letter, it was true, but, for all +that, it was now after ten o'clock. Stangeist's house was “dark” that +evening, she had said, meaning that the occupants, Stangeist as well +as whatever servants there might be, for Stangeist had no family, were +out--the servants in town for a theatre or picture show probably--and +Stangeist himself as yet not back, presumably from that Roessle affair. +The stub of an old cigar, unlighted, shifted with a sudden, savage twist +of the lips from one side of Jimmie Dale's mouth to the other. There was +need for haste. There was no telling when Stangeist might get back--as +for the servants, that did not matter so much; servants in suburban +homes had a marked affinity for “last trains!” + +Jimmie Dale boarded a cross-town car, effected a transfer, and in +a quarter of an hour after leaving the Sanctuary was huddled, an +inoffensive heap, like a tired-out workingman, in a corner seat of a +Long Island train. From here, there was only a short run ahead of him, +and, twenty minutes later, descending from the train at Forest Hills, he +had passed through the more thickly settled portion of the little place, +and was walking briskly out along the country road. + +Stangeist's house lay, approximately, a mile and a half from the +station, quite by itself, and set well back from the road. Jimmie Dale +could have found it with his eyes blindfolded--the Tocsin's directions +had lacked none of their usual explicit minuteness. The road was quite +deserted. Jimmie Dale met no one. Even in the houses that he passed the +lights were in nearly every instance already out. + +Something, merciless in its rage, swept suddenly over Jimmie Dale, as, +unbidden, of its own volition, the last paragraph he had read in that +evening's paper began to repeat itself over and over again in his mind. +The two little kiddies--it seemed as though he could see them standing +there--and from Jimmie Dale's lips, not given to profanity, there came +a bitter oath. It might possibly be that, even if he were successful in +what was before him to-night, the authors of the Roessle murder would +never be known. That confession of Stangeist's was written prior to what +had happened that afternoon, and there would be no mention, naturally, +of Roessle. And, for a moment, that seemed to Jimmie Dale the one thing +paramount to all others, the one thing that was vital; then he shook +his head, and laughed out shortly. After all, it did not matter--whether +Stangeist and the blood wolves he had gathered around him paid the +penalty specifically for one particular crime or for another could make +little difference--they would PAY, just as surely, just as certainly, +once that paper was in his possession! + +Jimmie Dale was counting the houses as he passed--they were more +infrequent now, farther apart. Stangeist was no fool--not the fool that +he would appear to be for keeping a document like that, once he had had +the temerity to execute it, in his own safe; for, in a day or two, the +Tocsin had hinted at this, after holding it over the heads of Australian +Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane again to drive the force of it a little +deeper home, he would undoubtedly destroy it--and the SUPPOSITION that +it was still in existence would have equally the same effect on the +minds of the other three! Stangeist was certainly alive to the peril +that he ran with such a thing in his possession, only the peril had not +appealed to him as imminent either from the three thugs with whom he had +allied himself, or, much less, from any one else, that was all. + +Jimmie Dale halted by a low, ornamental stone fence, some three feet +high, and stood there for a moment, glancing about him. This was +Stangeist's house--he could just make out the building as it loomed up a +shadowy, irregular shape, perhaps two hundred yards back from the fence. +The house was quite dark, not a light showed in any window. Jimmie Dale +sat down casually on the fence, looked carefully again up and down +the road--then, swinging his legs over, quick now in every action, he +dropped to the other side, and stole silently across the grass to the +rear of the house. + +Here he stopped again, reached up to a window that was about on a level +with his shoulders, and tested its fastenings. The window--it was the +window of Stangeist's private sanctum, according to the plan in +her letter--was securely locked. Jimmie Dale's hands went into his +pocket--and the black silk mask was slipped over his face. He listened +intently--then a little steel instrument began to gnaw like a rat. + +A minute passed--two of them. Again Jimmie Dale listened. There was not +a sound save the night sounds--the light breeze whispering through +the branches of the trees; the far-off rumble of a train; the whir of +insects; the hoarse croaking of a frog from some near-by creek or pond. +The window sash was raised an inch, another, and gradually to the top. +Like a shadow, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up to the sill, and, poised +there, his hand parted the heavy portieres that hung within. It was too +dark to distinguish even a single object in the room. He lowered himself +to the floor, and slipped cautiously between the portieres. + +From somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike. Jimmie Dale +counted the strokes. Eleven o'clock. It was getting late--TOO late! +Stangeist was likely to be back at any moment. The flashlight, in Jimmie +Dale's hand now, circled the room with its little round white ray, +lingering an instant in a queer, inquisitive sort of way here and there +on this object and that--and went out. Jimmie Dale nodded--the flat desk +in the centre of the floor, the safe in the corner by the rear wall, the +position of everything in the room, even to the chairs, was photographed +on his mind. + +He stepped from the portieres to the safe, and the flashlight played +again--this time reflecting back from the glistening nickelled knobs. +Jimmie Dale's lips tightened. It was a small safe, almost ludicrously +small; but to such height as the art of safe design had been carried, +that design was embodied in the one before him. + +“Type K-four-two-eight-Colby,” muttered Jimmie Dale. “A nasty little +beggar--and it's eleven o'clock now! I'd use 'soup' for once, if it +weren't that it would put Stangeist wise, and give him a chance to make +his get-away before the district attorney got the nippers on the four of +them.” + +The light went out. Jimmie Dale dropped to his knees; and, while his +left hand passed swiftly, tentatively over dials and handle, he rubbed +the fingers of his right hand rapidly to and fro over the carpet. +Wonderful finger tips were those of Jimmie Dale, sensitive to an +abnormal degree; and now, tingling with the friction, the nerves +throbbing at the skin surface, they closed in a light, delicate touch +upon the knob of the dial--and Jimmie Dale's ear pressed close against +the face of the safe. + +Time passed. The silence grew heavy--seemed to palpitate through the +room. Then a deep breath, half like a sigh, half like a fluttering sob +as of a strong man taxed to the uttermost of his endurance, came from +Jimmie Dale, and his left hand swept away the sweat beads that had +spurted to his forehead. + +“Eight--thirteen--twenty-two,” whispered Jimmie Dale. + +There was a click, a low metallic thud as the bolts slid back, and the +door swung open. + +And now the flashlight again, searching the mechanism of the inner +door--then darkness once more. + +Five minutes, ten minutes went by. The clock struck again--and the +single stroke seemed to boom out through the house in a weird, raucous, +threatening note, and seemed to linger, throbbing in the air. + +The inner door was open--the flashlight's ray was flooding a nest +of pigeonholes and little drawers. The pigeonholes were crammed with +papers, as, presumably, too, were the drawers. Jimmie Dale sucked in his +breath. He had already been there well over half an hour--every minute +now, every second was counting against him, and to search that mass of +papers before Stangeist returned was-- + +“Ah!”--it came in a fierce little ejaculation from Jimmie Dale. From +the centre pigeonhole, almost the first paper he had touched, he drew +a long, sealed envelope and at a single swift glance had read the +inscription upon it, written in longhand: + + +TO THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY, NEW YORK CITY. + +IMPORTANT. URGENT. + + +The words in the corners were underscored three times. + +Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale's hands rolled the rounded end of one of +his collection of the legal instruments under the flap of the envelope, +turned the sheets over and drew out the folded document inside. There +were eight sheets of legal foolscap, neatly fastened together at the top +left-hand corner with green tape. He opened them out, read a few words +here and there, and turned the pages hurriedly over to scrutinise +the last one--and nodded grimly. Three witnesses had testified to the +signature of Stangeist, and a notary's seal, accompanied by the usual +legal formula, was duly affixed. + +Jimmie Dale slipped the document into his pocket, and, with the envelope +in his hand, moved to the desk. He opened first one drawer and then +another, and finally discovering a pile of blank foolscap, took out four +sheets, folded them, and placed them in the envelope, sealing the +flap of the latter again. That it did not seal very well now brought a +quizzical twitch to Jimmie Dale's lips. Sealed or unsealed, perhaps, it +made little difference; but, for all that, he was not through with it +yet. Apart from bringing the four to justice, there was, after all, a +chance to vindicate the Gray Seal in this matter at least, and repudiate +the newspaper theory which the public, to whom the Gray Seal was already +a monster of iniquity, would seize upon with avidity. + +There was no further need of light now. Jimmie Dale replaced the +flashlight in his pocket, took out the thin, metal case, opened it, and +with the tiny pair of tweezers that likewise nestled there, lifted out +one of the gray, diamond-shaped paper seals. There was no question but +that, once under arrest, Stangeist's effects would be immediately +and thoroughly searched by the authorities! Jimmie Dale's smile from +quizzical became ironic. It would afford the police another little, +bewildering reminder of the Gray Seal, and give Carruthers, good old +Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, so innocently ignorant that the +Gray Seal was his old college pal, yet the one editor of them all who +was not forever barking and yelping at the Gray Seal's heels, a chance +to vindicate himself a little, too! Jimmie Dale moistened the adhesive +side of the gray seal, and, still mindful of tell-tale finger prints, +laid it with the tweezers on the flap of the envelope, and pressed it +firmly into place with his elbow. + +And then, suddenly, every faculty instantly on the alert, he snatched up +the envelope from the desk, and listened. Was it imagination, a trick +of nerves, or--no, there it was again!--a footfall on the gravel walk at +the front of the house. The sound became louder, clearer--two footfalls +instead of one. It was Stangeist, and somebody was with him. + +In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room and kneeling again before +the safe. His fingers were flying now. The envelope shot back into the +pigeonhole from which he had taken it--the inner door of the safe closed +silently and swiftly. + +A dry chuckle came from Jimmie Dale's lips. It was just like fiction, +just precisely time enough to have accomplished what he had come for +before he was interrupted, not a second more or less, the villain foiled +at the psychological moment! The key was rattling in the front door +now--they were in the hall--he could hear Stangeist's voice--there came +a dull glow from the hallway, following the click of an electric-light +switch. The outer door of the safe swung shut, the bolts slid into +place, the dial whirled under Jimmie Dale's fingers. It was only a +step to the portieres, the open window--and escape. He straightened up, +stepped back, the portieres closed behind him--and the chuckle died on +Jimmie Dale's lips. + +He was trapped--caught without so much as a corner in which to turn! +Stangeist was even then coming into the room--and OUTSIDE, darkly +outlined, two forms stood just beneath the window. Instinctively, quick +as a flash, Jimmie Dale crouched below the sill. Who were they? What did +it mean? Questions swept in swift sequence through his brain. Had they +seen him? It would be very dark against the background of the portieres, +but yet if they were watching--he drew a breath of relief. He had not +been seen. Their voices reached him in low, guarded whispers. + +“Say, youse, Ike, pipe it! Dere's a window open in the snitch's room. +Come on, we'll get in dere. It'll make the hair stand up on the back of +his neck fer a starter.” + +“Aw, ferget it!” replied another voice. “Can the tee-ayter stunt! +Clarie leaves the front door unfastened, don't he? An' dey'll be in dere +in a minute now. Wotcher want ter do? Crab the game? He might hear us +an' fix Clarie before we had a chanst, the skinny old fox! An' dere's +the light now--see! Beat it on yer toes fer the front of the house!” + +The room was flooded with light. Through the portieres, that Jimmie Dale +parted by the barest fraction of an inch, he could see Stangeist and +another man, a thick-set, ugly-faced-looking customer--Clarie Deane, +according to that brief, whispered colloquy that he had heard outside. +He looked again through the window. The two dark forms had disappeared +now, but they had disappeared just a few seconds too late--with the two +other men now in the room, and one of them so close that Jimmie Dale +could almost have reached out and touched him, it was impossible to +get through the window without being detected, when the slightest sound +would attract instant attention and equally instant suspicion. It was a +chance to be taken only as a last resort. + +Jimmie Dale's face grew hard, as his fingers closed around his automatic +and drew the weapon from his pocket. It was all plain enough. That last +act in the drama which he had speculatively anticipated was being staged +with little loss of time--and in a grim sort of way the thought flashed +across his mind that, perilous as his own position was, Stangeist at +that moment was in even greater peril than himself. Australian Ike, The +Mope, and Clarie Deane, given the chance, and they seemed to have made +that chance now, were not likely to deal in half measures--Clarie Deane +had dropped into a chair beside the desk; and The Mope and Australian +Ike were creeping around to the front door! + +The parting in the portieres widened a little more, a very little more, +slowly, imperceptibly, until Jimmie Dale, by the simple expedient of +moving his head, could obtain an unobstructed view of the entire room. + +Stangeist tossed a bag he had been carrying on the desk, pulled up a +chair opposite to Clarie Deane, and sat down. Both men were side face to +Jimmie Dale. + +“You tell the boys,” said Stangeist abruptly, “to fade away after this +for a while. Things are getting too hot. And you tell The Mope I dock +him five hundred for that extra crunch on Roessle's skull. That sort +of thing isn't necessary. That's the kind of stunt that gets the public +sore--the man was dead enough as it was. See?” + +“Sure!” Clarie Deane's ejaculation was a grunt. + +Stangeist opened the bag, and dumped the contents on the desk--pile +after pile of banknotes, the pay roll of the Martindale-Kensington +Mills. + +“Some haul!” observed Clarie Deane, with a hoarse chuckle. “The papers +said over twenty thousand.” + +“You can't always believe what the papers say,” returned Stangeist +curtly; and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check up +the packages. + +Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in his +mouth, and leaned forward. + +The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the murdered +paymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper bands in +packages of one hundred notes each, save for a small bundle of loose +bills which latter, with the rolls of silver, Stangeist swept to one +side of the desk. + +Package by package, Stangeist went on jotting the amounts down on the +pad. + +“Nix!” growled Clarie Deane suddenly. “Cut that out! Them's fivers in +that wad. Make that five hundred instead of one--I'm onter yer!” + +“Mistake,” said Stangeist suavely, changing the figures with his pencil. +“You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't you, Clarie?” + +“Oh, I dunno!” responded Clarie Deane gruffly. “Not so very!” + +Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and, +with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with the +rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane. + +“That's a little extra for you,” he said. “The trouble with you fellows +is that you don't know when you're well off--but the sooner you find it +out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday.” He made +the addition on the pad. “Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars,” he +announced softly. “That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of +you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope.” + +Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by the +desk. + +“There's more'n twenty there,” he said sullenly--and drew a match across +the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise. + +Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about +to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned +sharply toward the door. + +“What's that!” he said hoarsely. “It's not the servants, they wouldn't +dare to--” + +Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of a +heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under the +desk. + +“You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!” said Clarie Deane, with a +sudden leer. + +It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details; +before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere. The door burst open, +two men rushed in--and one, with a bound, flung himself at Stangeist. +The man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended +on Stangeist's head--and Stangeist went down in a limp heap, crashed +into the chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor. + +There was an oath from Clarie Deane. He jumped from his seat, and with a +violent shove sent the man reeling half across the room. + +“Blast you, Mope!” he snarled. “You're too blamed fly! D'ye wanter queer +the whole biz?” + +“Aw, wot's the matter wid youse!” The Mope, purple-faced with rage, +little black eyes glittering, mouth working under a flattened nose that +some previous encounter had broken and bent over the side of his face, +advanced belligerently. + +Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back. + +“Ferget it!” he flung out. “Clarie's dealin' the deck. Ferget it!” + +The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at Stangeist +on the floor. + +“Youse two make me sick!” he sneered. “Wot's the use of waitin' all +night? We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn't we? Dat's wot youse said +yerselves, 'cause wot was ter stop him writin' out another paper if we +didn't fix him fer keeps?” + +“That's all right,” rejoined Clarie Deane; “but that's the second act, +you bonehead, see! We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say, take a look +at that safe! It's easier ter scare him inter openin' it than ter crack +it, ain't it?” + +Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet +slowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the +least sound. His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressed +over the automatic in his hand. There was not room for him between the +portieres and the window; and, do what he could, the hangings bulged a +little. Let one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush against +the portieres, and his life would not be worth an instant's purchase. + +They were lifting Stangeist up now, propping him up in the chair. +Stangeist moaned, opened his eyes, stared in a dazed way at the three +faces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came, and his +face, that had been white before, took on a pasty, grayish pallor. + +“You--the three of you!” he mumbled. “What's this mean?” + +And then Clarie Deane laughed in a low, brutal way. + +“Wot d'ye think it means? We want that paper, an' we want it damn +quick--see! D'ye think we was goin' ter stand fer havin' a trip ter Sing +Sing an' the wire chair danglin' over our heads!” + +Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of the +old-time craftiness was in his face. + +“Well, what are you going to do about it?” he inquired, almost sharply. +“You know what will happen to you, if anything happens to me.” + +“Don't youse kid yerself!” retorted Clarie Deane. “D'ye think we're +fools? This ain't like it was yesterday--see! We GETS the paper this +time--so there won't nothin' happen to us. You come across with it +blasted quick now, or The Mope'll give you another on the bean that'll +put you to sleep fer keeps!” + +The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from his +eyes. + +“It's not here,” he said innocently. “It's in my box in the +safety-deposit vaults.” + +“Aw,” blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, “youse can't +work dat crawl on--” + +“Cut it out, Ike!” snapped Clarie Dane. “I'm runnin' this! So it's in +the vaults, eh?” He shoved his face toward Stangeist's. + +“Yes,” said Stangeist easily. “You see--I was looking for something like +this.” + +Clarie Deane's fist clenched. + +“You lie!” he choked. “The Mope, here, was the last of us you showed +the paper to yesterday afternoon, an' the vaults was closed then--an' you +ain't been there to-day, 'cause you've been watched. That's why we fixed +it fer to-night after the divvy that you've just tried ter do us on +again, 'cause we knew you had it here.” + +“I tell you, it's not here,” said Stangeist evenly. + +“You lie!” said Clarie Deane again. “It's in that safe. The Mope heard +you tell the girl in yer office that if anything happened to you she was +ter wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in your safe +at home fer him that was important. Now then, you beat it over ter that +safe, an' open it up--we'll give you a minute ter do it in.” + +“The paper's not there, I tell you,” said Stangeist once more. + +“That's all right,” submitted Clarle Deane grimly. “There's a quarter of +that minute gone.” + +“I won't!” Stangeist flashed out violently. + +“That's all right,” repeated Clarie Deane. “There's half of that minute +gone.” + +Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist. The +man's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his forehead, +as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him--and +then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair. + +“My God!” he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice “What do you mean +to do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will be back in +a minute.” + +“Two skirts!” jeered Clarie Deane. “We ain't goin' ter run away from +them. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's up!” + +Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue. + +“Suppose--suppose I refuse?” he said hoarsely. + +“You can suit yerself,” said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. “We know +the paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here--see? You can +take yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an' opens it yerself, +or else”--he paused and produced a small bottle from his pocket--“this +is nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you with this. Only if we does +the job we does it proper. We ties you up and sets you against the door +of the safe before we touches off the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a good +guesser you can guess the rest.” + +There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope. + +Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and +stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips +again--none was in a better position than himself to know that there +would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out +the threat. + +“Suppose,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “suppose I open the +safe--what then--afterward?” + +“We ain't got the safe open yet,” countered Clarie Deane +uncompromisingly. “An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it, +either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike ties +you up! One--” + +Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for the +second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room to +the safe. + +He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the others +crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver again +club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, and +Jimmie Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath--a +smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The end was not far +off now; and then--WHAT? + +Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now--and now the inner +door swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out the +envelope--and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet. + +“My God!” he screamed out. “What's--what's this!” + +Clarie Deane snatched the envelope from him. + +“THE GRAY SEAL!”--the words came with a jerk from his lips. He ripped +the envelope open frantically--and like a man stunned gazed at the four +blank sheets, while the colour left his face. “IT'S GONE!” he cried out +hoarsely. + +“Gone!” There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. “Gone! Den we're +nipped--de lot of us!” + +The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist. + +“Sure!” he croaked. “But youse gets yers first, youse--” + +With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward--into +the portieres--and with a rip and tear the hangings were wrenched apart. + +It came instantaneously--a yell of mingled surprise and fury from the +three--the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired one shot +at the floor to stop their rush--then he flung himself at the window, +through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground. + +A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by his +head--another--and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, and +running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud behind +him, still another, and yet a third--they were dropping through the +window after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of the bullet closer +than before--then the pound of racing feet. + +Jimmie Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top speed. +Something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and seared along the +side of his head just above the ear. He reeled, staggered, recovered +himself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that stinging in his head, +and all at once seemed to be draining his strength away. The shouts, the +shots, the running feet became like a curious buzzing in his ears. It +seemed strange that they should have hit him, that he should be wounded! +If he could only reach the low stone wall by the road, he could at least +make a fight for his life on the other side! + +Red streaks swam before Jimmie Dale's eyes. The wall was such a long way +off--a yard or two was a very long way more to go--the weakness +seemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No, here was the +wall--they hadn't hit him again--he laughed in a demented way--and +rolled his body over, and fell to the other side. + +“JIMMIE!” + +The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send the +blood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her--HERS! The +Tocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in the +road. He won to his feet--dark, rushing forms were almost at the wall. +He fired--once--twice--fired again--and turned, staggering for the car. + +“Jimmie! Jimmie--QUICK!” + +Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped forward, +yells filled the air--but only one thing was dominant in Jimmie Dale's +reeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet, and leaned over the +back of the seat, reaching for the slim figure that was bent over the +wheel. + +“It's you--you at last!” he cried. “Your face--let me lee your face!” + +A bullet split the back panel of the car--little spurting flames were +dancing out from the roadway behind. + +“Are you mad!” she shouted back at him. “Let me steer--do you want them +to hit me!” + +“No-o,” said Jimmie Dale, in a queer singsong sort of way, and his +head seemed to spin dizzily around. “No--I guess--” He choked. “The +paper--it's in--my pocket”--and he went down unconscious on the floor of +the car. + +When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainly +furnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmerish +looking, was bending over him. + +“Where am I?” he demanded finally, propping himself up on his elbow. + +“You're all right,” replied the man. “She said you'd come around in a +little while.” + +“Who said so?” inquired Jimmie Dale. + +“She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago. She +said she ran you down with her car.” + +“Oh!” said Jimmie Dale. He felt his head--it was bandaged, and it was +bandaged, he was quite sure, with a piece of torn underskirt. He looked +at the man again. “You haven't told me yet where I am.” + +“Long Island,” the other answered. “My name's Hanson. I keep a bit of a +truck garden here.” + +“Oh,” said Jimmie Dale again. + +The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and came +back to Jimmie Dale. + +“She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked us +to put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and paid +us for it, too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to hold the +accident up against her, she was mighty sorry about it. And now I'll go +and see if the old lady's got your room ready while you're readin' your +letter.” + +The man left the room. + +Jimmie Dale sat up on the couch, and tore the envelope open. The note, +scrawled in pencil, began abruptly: + + +“You were quite a problem. I couldn't take you HOME--could I? I couldn't +take you to what you call the Sanctuary could I? I couldn't take you to +a hospital, nor call in a doctor--the stain you use wouldn't stand it. +But, thank God! I know it's only a flesh wound, and you are all right +where you are for the day or two that you must keep quiet and take care +of yourself. By the time you read this the paper will be on the way to +the proper hands, and by morning the four where they should be. There +were a few articles in your clothes I thought it better to take charge +of in case--well, in case of ACCIDENT.” + + +Jimmie Dale tore the note up, and smiled wryly at the door. He felt +in his pockets. Mask, revolver, burglar's tools, and the thin metal +insignia case were gone. + +“And I had the sublime optimism,” murmured Jimmie Dale, “to spend months +trying to find her as Larry the Bat!” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE + + +The bullet wound along the side of his head and just above his ear would +have been a very awkward thing indeed, in more ways than one, for Jimmie +Dale, the millionaire, to have explained at his club, in his social set, +or even to his servants, and of these latter to Jason the Solicitous +in particular; but for Jimmie Dale as Larry the Bat it was a matter of +little moment. There was none to question Larry the Bat, save in a most +casual and indifferent way; and a bandage of any description, primarily +and above all one that he could arrange himself, with only himself to +take note of the incongruous hues of skin where the stain, the grease +paint, and the make-up was washed off, would excite little attention +in that world where daily affrays were common-place happenings, and a +wound, for whatever reason, had long since lost the tang of novelty. Why +then should it arouse even a passing interest if Larry the Bat, credited +as the most confirmed of dope fiends, should have fallen down the +dark, rickety stairs of the tenement in one of his orgies, and, in the +expressive language of the Bad Lands, cracked his bean! + +And so Jimmie Dale had been forced to maintain the role of Larry the Bat +for a far longer period than he had anticipated when, ten days before, +he had assumed it for the night's work that had so nearly resulted +fatally for himself, though it had placed Roessle's murderers behind +the bars. For, the next day, unwilling to court the risk of remaining +in that neighbourhood, he had left Hanson's, the farmer's, house on +Long Island where the Tocsin had carried him in an unconscious state, +telephoned Jason that he had been unexpectedly called out of town for +a few days, and returned to the Sanctuary in New York. And here, to his +grim dismay, he had found the underworld in a state of furious, angry +unrest, like a nest of hornets, stirred up, seeking to wreak vengeance +on an unseen assailant. + +For years, as the Gray Seal, Jimmie Dale had lived with the slogan of +the police, “The Gray Seal dead or alive--but the Gray Seal!” sounding +in his ears; with the newspapers screaming their diatribes, arousing +the people against him, nagging the authorities into sleepless, frenzied +efforts to trap him; with a price upon his head that was large enough to +make a man, not too pretentious, rich for life--but in the underworld, +until then, the name of the Gray Seal had been one to conjure with, for +the underworld had sworn by the unknown master criminal, and had +spoken his name with a reverence that was none the less genuine even if +pungently tainted with unholiness. But now it was different. Up and down +through the Bad Lands, in gambling hells, in vicious resorts, in the +hiding places where thugs and crooks burrowed themselves away from +the daylight, through the heart and the outskirts of the underworld +travelled the fiat, whispered out of mouths crooked to one side--DEATH +TO THE GRAY SEAL! + +Gangland differences were forgotten in the larger issue of the common +weal. The gang spirit became the spirit of a united whole, and the crime +fraternity buzzed and hummed poisonously, spurred on by hatred, thirst +for revenge, fear, and, perhaps most potent of all, a hideous suspicion +now of each other. + +The underworld had received a shock at which it stood aghast, and which, +with its terrifying possibilities, struck consternation into the soul +of every individual of that brotherhood whose bond was crime, who was +already “wanted” for some offence or other, whether it ranged from +murder in the first degree to some petty piece of sneak thievery. +Stangeist, the Indian chief, the lawyer whose cunning brain had stood as +a rampart between the underworld and a prison cell, was himself now in +the Tombs with the certainty of the electric chair before him; and with +him, the same fate equally assured, were Australian Ike, The Mope, and +Clarie Deane! Aristocrats of the Bad Lands, peers of that inglorious +realm were those four--and the blow had fallen with stunning force, +a blow that in itself would have been enough to have stirred the +underworld to its depths. But that was not all--from the cells in the +Tombs, from the four came the word, and passed from mouth to mouth in +that strange underground exchange until all had heard it, that the Gray +Seal had “SQUEALED.” The Gray Seal who, though unknown, they had counted +the most eminent among themselves, had squealed! Who was the Gray Seal? +It he had held the secrets of Stangeist and his band, what else might +he not know? Who else might not fall next? The Gray Seal had become +a snitch, a menace, a source of danger that stalked among them like a +ghastly spectre. Who was the Gray Seal? None knew. + +“Death to the Gray Seal! Run him to earth!” went the whisper from lip +to lip; and with the whisper men stared uncertainly into each other's +faces, fearful that the one to whom they spoke might even be--the Gray +Seal! + +Jimmie Dale's lips twisted queerly as he looked around him at the +squalid appointments of the Sanctuary. The police were bad enough, the +papers were worse; but this was a still graver peril. With every denizen +of the underworld below the dead line suspicious of each other, their +lives, the penitentiary, or a prison sentence the stakes against which +each one played, the role of Larry the Bat, clever as was the make-up +and disguise, was fraught now more than ever before with danger and +peril. It seemed as though slowly the net was beginning at last to +tighten around him. + +The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as though +in acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmie Dale's +shoulders--and Jimmie Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror that +was propped up on the broken-legged table, knotted his dress tie almost +fastidiously. The hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar on +his head now, the wound no longer required a bandage, and Larry the Bat, +for the time being at least, had disappeared. Across the foot of the +bed, neatly folded, lay his dress coat and overcoat, but little creased +for all that they had lain in that hiding-place under the flooring since +the night when, hurrying from the club, he had placed them there to +assume instead the tatters of Larry the Bat. It was Jimmie Dale in his +own person again who stood there now in Larry the Bat's disreputable +den, an incongruous figure enough against the background of his +miserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, the +broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in the +poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet. + +Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound for +many days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork--it was not far +from eight o'clock--and replaced it in his pocket. Carefully then, one +at a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim, sensitive, tapering +fingers, magical masters of safes and locks and vaults of the most +intricate and modern mechanism--no single trace of grime remained, +they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat. He +nodded in satisfaction; and picked up the mirror for a final inspection +of himself, that, this time, did not miss a single line in his face or +neck. Again Jimmie Dale nodded. As though he had vanished into thin +air, as though he had never existed, not a trace of Larry the Bat +remained--except the heap of rags upon the floor, the battered slouch +hat, the frayed trousers, the patched boots with their broken laces, the +mismated socks, the grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he had +just discarded. + +The mirror was replaced on the table; and, pushing the heap of clothes +before him with his foot, Jimmie Dale knelt down in the corner of the +room where the oilcloth had been turned up and the loose planking of the +floor removed, and began to pack the articles away in the hole. Jimmie +Dale rolled the trousers of Larry the Bat into a compact little bundle, +and stuffed them under the flooring. The gas jet seemed to blink again +in a sort of confidential approval, as though the secret lay inviolate +between itself and Jimmie Dale. Through the closed window, shade tightly +drawn, came, low and muffled, the sound of distant life from the Bowery, +a few blocks away. The gas jet, suffering from air somewhere within the +pipes, hissed angrily, the yellow flame died to a little blue, forked +spurt--and Jimmie Dale was on his feet, his face suddenly hard and white +as marble. + +SOME ONE WAS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR! + +For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale stood motionless. Found as +Jimmie Dale in the den of Larry the Bat, and the consequences required +no effort of the imagination to picture them; police or denizen of the +underworld who was knocking there, it was all the same, the method of +death would be a little different, that was all--one legalised, the +other not. Jimmie Dale, Larry the Bat, the Gray Seal, once uncovered, +could expect as much quarter as would be given to a cornered rat. His +eyes swept the room with a swift, critical glance--evidences of Larry +the Bat, the clothes, were still about, even if he in the person of +Jimmie Dale, alone damning enough, were not standing there himself. +And he was even weaponless--the Tocsin had taken the revolver from +his pocket, together with those other telltale articles, the mask, the +flashlight, the little blued-steel tools, before she had intrusted him +that night, wounded and unconscious, to Hanson's care. + +Jimmie Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched up +the old coat and hat from the pile, put them on, and, without a +sound, reached the gas jet and turned it off. A second had gone by--no +more--the knocking still sounded insistently on the door. It was dark +now, perfectly black. He started across the room, his tread absolutely +silent as the trained muscles, relaxing, threw the body weight gradually +upon one foot before the next step was taken. It was like a shadow, +a little blacker in outline than the surrounding blackness, stealing +across the floor. + +Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had ceased. He listened +intently. It was not repeated. Instead, his ear caught a guarded step +retreating outside in the hall. Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief. +He went on again to the door, still listening. Was it a trap--that step +outside? + +At the door now, tense, alert, he lowered his ear to the keyhole. There +came the faintest creak from the stairs. Jimmie Dale's brows gathered. +It was strange! The knocking had not lasted long. Whoever it was was +going away--but it required the utmost caution to descend those stairs, +rickety and tumble-down as they were, with no more sound than that! +Why such caution? Why not a more determined and prolonged effort at his +door--the visitor had been easily satisfied that Larry the Bat was not +within. TOO easily satisfied! Jimmie Dale turned the key noiselessly in +the lock. He opened the door cautiously--half inch--an inch, there was +no sound of footsteps now. Occasionally a lodger moved about on the +floor above; occasionally from somewhere in the tenement came the murmur +of voices as from behind closed door--that was all. All else was silence +and darkness now. + +The door, on its well-oiled hinges, swung wide open. Jimmie Dale thrust +out his head into the hall--and something fell upon the threshold with +a little thud--but for a moment Jimmie Dale did not move. Listening, +trying to pierce the darkness, he was as still as the silence around +him; then he stooped and groped along the threshold. His hand closed +upon what seemed like a small box wrapped in paper. He picked it up, +closed and locked the door again, and retreated back across the room. It +was strange--unpleasantly strange--a box propped stealthily against the +door so that it would fall to the threshold when the door was opened! +And why the stealth? What did it mean? Had the underworld with its +thousand eyes and ears already succeeded in a few days where the police +had failed signally for years--had they sent him this, whatever it was, +as some grim token that they had run Larry the Bat to earth? He shook +his head. No; gangland struck more swiftly, with less finesse than +that--the “cat-and-mouse” act was never one it favoured, for the mouse +had been known to get away. + +Jimmie Dale lighted the gas again, and turned the package over in his +hands. It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box; and it was +wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. He untied the string, +and still suspicious, as a man is suspicious in the knowledge that he is +stalked by peril at every turn, removed the wrapper a little gingerly. +It was still without sign or marking upon it, just an ordinary cardboard +box. He lifted off the cover, and, with a short, sudden laugh, stared, a +little out of countenance, at the contents. + +On the top lay a white, unaddressed envelope. HERS! Beneath--he emptied +the box on the table--his black silk mask, his automatic revolver, the +kit of fine, small blued-steel burglar's tools, his pocket flashlight, +and the thin metal insignia case. The Tocsin! Impulsively Jimmie Dale +turned toward the door--and stopped. His shoulders lifted in a shrug +that, meant to be philosophical, was far from philosophical. He could +not, dared not venture far through the tenement dressed as he was; and +even if he could there were three exits to the Sanctuary, a fact that +now for the first time was not wholly a source of unmixed satisfaction +to him; and besides--she was gone! + +Jimmie Dale opened the letter, a grim smile playing on his lips. He had +forgotten for the moment that the illusion he had cherished for years +in the belief that she did not know Larry the Bat as an alias of +Jimmie Dale was no more than--an illusion. Well, it had been a piece of +consummate egotism on his part, that was all. But, after all, what did +it matter? He had had his innings, tried in the role of Larry the Bat +to solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the attempt--and failed. +Some day, perhaps, his turn would come; some day, perhaps, she would no +longer be able to elude him, unless--the letter crackled suddenly in +his fingers--unless the house that they had built on such strange +and perilous foundations crashed at some moment, without an instant's +warning, in disaster and ruin to the ground. Who knew but that this +letter now, another call to the Gray Seal to act, another peril invited, +would be the LAST? There must be an end some day; luck and nerve had +their limitations--it had almost ended last week! + + +“Dear Philanthropic Crook”--it was the same inevitable beginning. “You +are well enough again, aren't you, Jimmie?--I am sending these little +things back to you, for you will need them to-night.”--Jimmie Dale read +on, muttering snatches of the letter aloud: “Michael Breen prospecting +in Alaska--map of location of rich mining claim--Hamvert, his former +partner, had previously fleeced him of fifteen thousand dollars--his +share of a deal together--Breen was always a very poor man--Breen later +struck a claim alone; but, taking sick, came back home--died on +arrival in New York after giving map to his wife--wife in very +needy circumstances--lives with little daughter of seven in New +Rochelle--works out by the day at Henry Mittel's house on the +Sound near-by--wife intrusted map for safe-keeping and advice to +Mittel--Hamvert after map--telephone wires cut--room one hundred +and forty-eight, corner, right, first floor, Palais-Metropole +Hotel, unoccupied--connecting doors--quarter past nine to-night--the +Weasel--Mittel's house later--the police--look out for both the Weasel +and the police, Jimmie--” + + +There was more, several pages of it, explanations, specific details down +to a minute description of the locality and plan of the house on the +Sound. Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on silently. At the +end he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly, as his face hardened. +Then his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds, tearing it +over and over again, tearing the shreds into tiny particles. He had not +been far wrong. From what the night promised now, this might well be the +last letter. Who knew? There would be need of all the wit and luck and +nerve to-night that the Gray Seal had ever had before. + +With a jerk, Jimmie Dale roused himself from the momentary reverie into +which he had fallen; and, all action now, stuffed the torn pieces of the +letter into his trousers pocket to be disposed of later in the street; +took off the old coat and slouch hat again, and resumed the disposal of +Larry the Bat's effects under the flooring. + +This accomplished, he replaced the planking and oilcloth, stood up, put +on his dress coat and light overcoat, and, from the table, stowed the +black silk mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools, the flashlight, +and the thin metal case away in his pockets. + +Jimmie Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture, circled the room with a +glance that missed no single detail--then the light went out, the door +closed behind him, locked, a dark shadow crept silently down the stairs, +out through the side door into the alleyway, along the alleyway close to +the wall of the tenement where it was blackest, and, satisfied that +for the moment there were no passers-by, emerged on the street, walking +leisurely toward the Bowery. + +Once well away from the Sanctuary, however, Jimmie Dale quickened his +steps; and twenty minutes later, having stopped but once to telephone to +his home on Riverside Drive for his touring car, he was briskly mounting +the steps of the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue. Another twenty minutes +after that, and he had dismissed Benson, his chauffeur, and, at +the wheel of his big, powerful machine, was speeding uptown for the +Palais-Metropole Hotel. + +It was twelve minutes after nine when he drew up at the curb in front of +the side entrance of the hotel--his watch, set by guesswork, had been a +little slow, and he had corrected it at the club. He was replacing the +watch in his pocket as he sauntered around the corner, and passed in +through the main entrance to the big lobby. + +Jimmie Dale avoided the elevators--it was only one flight up, and +elevator boys on occasions had been known to be observant. At the top +of the first landing, a long, wide, heavily carpeted corridor was before +him. “Number one hundred and forty-eight, the corner room on the right,” + the Tocsin had said. Jimmie Dale walked nonchalantly along--past No. +148. At the lower end of the hall a group of people were gathered around +the elevator doors; halfway down the corridor a bell boy came out of a +room and went ahead of Jimmie Dale. + +And then Jimmie Dale stopped suddenly, and began to retrace his steps. +The group had entered the elevator, the bell boy had disappeared around +the farther end of the hall into the wing of the hotel--the corridor +was empty. In a moment he was standing before the door of No. 148; +in another, under the persuasion of a little steel instrument, deftly +manipulated by Jimmie Dale's slim, tapering fingers, the lock clicked +back, the door opened, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the +door again behind him. + +It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in the +connecting room--the fanlight next door had been dark as he passed. His +flashlight swept about him, located the connecting door--and went out. +He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked. Again the little +steel instrument came into play, released the lock, and Jimmie Dale +opened the door. Again the flashlight winked. The door opened into a +bathroom that, obviously, at will, was either common to the two rooms or +could, by the simple expedient of locking one door or the other, be used +by one of the rooms alone. In the present instance, the occupant of the +adjoining apartment had taken “a room with a bath.” + +Jimmie Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door. This was +already three-quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom, near +the lower end of the room by the window. Through the crack of the door +by the hinges, Jimmie Dale flashed his light, testing the radius of +vision, pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it again with +the flashlight--and retreated back into No. 148, closing the door on his +side until it was just ajar. + +He stood there then silently waiting. It was Hamvert's room next door, +and Hamvert and the Weasel were already late. A step sounded outside in +the corridor. Jimmie Dale straightened intently. The step passed on +down the hallway and died away. A false alarm! Jimmie Dale smiled +whimsically. It was a strange adventure this that confronted him, quite +the strangest in a way that the Tocsin had ever planned--and the night +lay before him full of peril in its extraordinary complications. To win +the hand he must block Hamvert and the Weasel without allowing them an +inkling that his interference was anything more than, say, the luck of +a hotel sneak thief at most. The Weasel was a dangerous man, one of the +slickest second-story workers in the country, with safe cracking as one +of his favourite pursuits, a man most earnestly desired by the police, +provided the latter could catch him “with the goods.” As for Hamvert, +he did not know Hamvert, who was a stranger in New York, except that +Hamvert had fleeced a man named Michael Breen out of his share in a +claim they had had together when Breen had first gone to Alaska to try +his luck, and now, having discovered that Breen, when prospecting alone +somewhere in the interior a month or so ago, had found a rich vein and +had made a map or diagram of its location, he, Hamvert, had followed +the other to New York for the purpose of getting it by hook or crook. +Breen's “find” had been too late; taken sick, he had never worked his +claim, had barely got back home before he died, and only in time to hand +his wife the strange legacy of a roughly scrawled little piece of paper, +and--Jimmie Dale straightened up alertly once more. Steps again--and +this time coming from the direction of the elevator; then voices; then +the opening of the door of the next room; then a voice, distinctly +audible: + +“Pull up a chair, and we'll get down to business. You're late, as it is. +We haven't any time to waste, if we're going to wash pay-dirt to-night.” + +“Aw, dat's all right!” responded another voice--quite evidently the +Weasel's. “Don't youse worry--de game's cinched to a fadeaway.” + +There was the sound of chairs being moved across the floor. Jimmie Dale +slipped the black silk mask over his face, opened the door on his side +of the bathroom cautiously, and, without a sound, stepped into the +bathroom that was lighted now, of course, by the light streaming in +through the partially opened door of Hamvert's room. The two were +talking earnestly now in lower tones. Jimmie Dale only caught a word +here and there--his faculties for the moment were concentrated on +traversing the bathroom silently. He reached the farther door, crouched +there, peered through the crack--and the old whimsical smile flickered +across his lips again. + +The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel for +once looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret face, +not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings--else he would never +have got farther than the lobby. The other was a short, thickset, +heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and small black eyes +that looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy eyebrows. + +“Well,” Hamvert was saying, “the details are your concern. What I +want is results. We won't waste time. You're to be back here by +daylight--only see that there's no come-back.” + +“Leave it to me!” returned the Weasel, with assurance. “How's dere +goin' ter be any come-back? Mittel keeps it in his safe, don't he? Well, +gentlemen's houses has been robbed before--an' dis job'll be a good one. +De geographfy stunt youse wants gets pinched wid de rest, dat's all. It +disappears--see? Who's ter know youse gets yer claws on it? It's just +lost in de shuffle.” + +“Right!” agreed Hamvert briskly--and from his inside pocket produced +a package of crisp new bills, yellow-backs, and evidently of large +denominations. “Half down and half on delivery--that's our deal.” + +“Dat's wot!” assented the Weasel curtly. + +Hamvert began to count the bills. + +Jimmie Dale's hand stole into his pocket, and came out with his +handkerchief and the thin metal insignia case. From the latter, with its +little pair of tweezers, he took out one of the adhesive gray seals. +His eyes warily on the two men, he dropped the seal on his handkerchief, +restored the thin metal case to his pocket--and in its stead the +blue-black ugly muzzle of his automatic peeped from between his fingers. + +“Five thousand down,” said Hamvert, pushing a pile of notes across the +table, and tucking the remainder back into his pocket; “and the other +five's here for you when you get back with the map. Ordinarily, I +wouldn't pay a penny in advance, but since you want it that way and +the map's no good to you while the rest of the long green is, I--” He +swallowed his words with a startled gulp, clutched hastily at the money +on the table, and began to struggle up from his chair to his feet. + +With a swift, noiseless side-step through the open door, Jimmie Dale was +standing in the room. + +Jimmie Dale's tones were conversational. “Don't get up,” said Jimmie +Dale coolly. “And take your hand off that money!” + +The Weasel, whose back had been to the door, squirmed around in his +chair--and in his turn stared into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's revolver, +while his jaw dropped and sagged. + +“Good-evening, Weasel,” observed Jimmie Dale casually. “I seem to be in +luck to-night. I got into that room next door, but an empty room is slim +picking. And then it seemed to me I heard some one in here mention five +thousand dollars twice, which makes ten thousand, and which happens to +be just exactly the sum I need at the present moment--if I can't get any +more! I haven't the honour of your wealthy friend's acquaintance, but +I am really charmed to meet him. You--er--understand, both of you, that +the slightest sound might prove extremely embarrassing.” + +Hamvert's face was white, and he stirred uneasily in his chair; but +into the Weasel's face, the first shock of surprised dismay past, came +a dull, angry red, and into the eyes a vicious gleam--and suddenly he +laughed shortly. + +“Why, youse damned fool,” jeered the Weasel, “d'youse t'ink youse can +get away wid dat! Say, take it from me, youse are a piker! Say, youse +make me tired. Wot d'youse t'ink youse are? D'youse t'ink dis is a +tee-ayter, an' dat youse are a cheap-skate actor strollin' acrost de +stage? Aw, beat it, youse make me sick! Why, say, youse pinch dat money, +an' youse have got de same chanst of gettin' outer dis hotel as a guy +has of breakin' outer Sing Sing! By de time youse gets five feet from de +door of dis room we has de whole works on yer neck.” + +“Do you think so, Weasel?” inquired Jimmie Dale politely. He carried his +handkerchief to his mouth to cloak a cough--and his tongue touched +the adhesive side of the little diamond-shaped gray seal. Hand and +handkerchief came back to the table, and Jimmie Dale leaned his weight +carelessly upon it, while the automatic in his right hand still covered +the two men. “Do you think so, Weasel?” he repeated softly. “Well, +perhaps you are right; and yet; somehow, I am inclined to disagree with +you. Let me see, Weasel--it was Tuesday night, two nights ago; wasn't +it, that a trifling break in Maiden Lane at Thorold and Sons disturbed +the police? It was a three-year job for even a first offender, ten +for one already on nodding terms with the police and fifteen to twenty +for--well, say, for a man like you, Weasel--IF HE WERE CAUGHT! Am I +making myself quite plain?” + +The colour in the Weasel's cheeks faded a little--his eyes were holding +in sudden fascination upon Jimmie Dale. + +“I see that I am,” observed Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “I said, 'if he were +caught,' you will remember. I am going to leave this room in a moment, +Weasel, and leave it entirely to your discretion as to whether you will +think it wise or not to stir from that chair for ten minutes after +I shut the door. And now”--Jimmie Dale nonchalantly replaced his +handkerchief in his pocket, nonchalantly followed it with the banknotes +which he picked up from the table--and smiled. + +With a gasp, both men had strained forward, and were staring, wild-eyed, +at the gray seal stuck between them on the tabletop. + +“The Gray Seal!” whispered the Weasel, and his tongue circled his lips. + +Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. + +“That WAS a bit theatrical, Weasel,” he said apologetically; “and yet +not wholly unnecessary. You will recall Stangeist, The Mope, Australian +Ike, and Clarie Deane, and can draw your own inference as to what might +happen in the Thorold affair if you should be so ill-advised as to force +my hand. Permit me”--the slim, deft fingers, like a streak of lightning, +were inside Hamvert's coat pocket and out again with the remainder of +the banknotes--and Jimmie Dale was backing for the door--not the door +of the bathroom by which he had entered, but the door of the room itself +that opened on the corridor. There he stopped, and his hand swept around +behind his back and turned the key in the locked door. He nodded at the +two men, whose faces were working with incongruously mingled expressions +of impotent rage, bewilderment, fear, and fury--and opened the door a +little. “Ten minutes, Weasel,” he said gently. “I trust you will not +have to use heroic measures to restrain your friend for that length of +time, though if it is necessary I should advise you for your own sake to +resort almost--to murder. I wish you good evening, gentlemen.” + +The door opened farther; Jimmie Dale, still facing inward, slipped +between it and the jamb, whipped the mask from his face, closed the door +softly, stepped briskly but without any appearance of haste along the +corridor to the stairs, descended the stairs, mingled with a crowd in +the lobby for an instant, walked, seemingly a part of it, with a group +of ladies and gentlemen down the hall to the side entrance, passed +out--and a moment later, after drawing on a linen dust coat which he +took from under the seat, and exchanging his hat for a tweed cap, the +car glided from the curb and was lost in a press of traffic around the +corner. + +Jimmie Dale laughed a little harshly to himself. So far, so good--but +the game was not ended yet for all the crackle of the crisp notes in +his pocket. There was still the map, still the robbery at Mittel's +house--the ten-thousand-dollar “theft” would not in any way change that, +and it was a question of time now to forestall any move the Weasel might +make. + +Through the city Jimmie Dale alternately dodged, spurted, and dragged +his way, fuming with impatience; but once out on the country roads and +headed toward New Rochelle, the big machine, speed limits thrown to the +winds, roared through the night--a gray streak of road jumping under the +powerful lamps; a village, a town, a cluster of lights flashing by him, +the steady purr of his sixty-horse-power engines; the gray thread of +open road again. + +It was just eleven o'clock when Jimmie Dale, the road to himself for the +moment at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle, extinguished his lights, +and very carefully ran his car off the road, backing it in behind a +small clump of trees. He tossed the linen dust coat back into the car, +and set off toward where, a little distance away, the slap of waves from +the stiff breeze that was blowing indicated the shore line of the Sound. +There was no moon, and, while it was not particularly dark, objects and +surroundings at best were blurred and indistinct; but that, after all, +was a matter of little concern to Jimmie Dale--the first house beyond +was Mittel's. He reached the water's edge and kept along the shore. +There should be a little wharf, she had said. Yes; there it was--and +there, too, was a gleam of light from the house itself. + +Jimmie Dale began to make an accurate mental note of his surroundings. +From the little wharf on which he now stood, a path led straight to the +house, bisecting what appeared to be a lawn, trees to the right, the +house to the left. At the wharf, beside him, two motor boats were +moored, one on each side. Jimmie Dale glanced at them, and, suddenly +attracted by the familiar appearance of one, inspected it a little more +closely. His momentarily awakened interest passed as he nodded his head. +It had caught his attention, that was all--it was the same type and +design, quite a popular make, of which there were hundreds around New +York, as the one he had bought that year as a tender for his yacht. + +He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him--the +light that flooded the lawn came from a side window. Jimmie Dale was +figuring the time and distance from New York as he crept cautiously +along. How quickly could the Weasel make the journey? The Weasel would +undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove a +close race--but in his own favour was the fact that it would probably +take the Weasel quite some little time to recover his equilibrium from +his encounter with the Gray Seal in the Palais-Metropole, also the +further fact that, from the Weasel's viewpoint, there was no desperate +need of haste. Jimmie Dale crossed the lawn, and edged along in the +shadows of the house to where the light streamed out from what now +proved to be open French windows. It was a fair presumption that he +would have an hour to the good on the Weasel. + +The sill was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and, +from a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmie Dale +raised himself slowly and peered guardedly inside. The room was empty. +He listened a moment--the black silk mask was on his face again--and +with a quick, agile, silent spring he was in the room. + +And then, in the centre of the room, Jimmie Dale stood motionless, +staring around him, an expression, ironical, sardonic, creeping into his +face. THE ROBBERY HAD ALREADY BEEN COMMITTED! At the lower end of the +room everything was in confusion; the door of a safe swung wide, the +drawers of a desk had been wrenched out, even a liqueur stand, on which +were well-filled decanters, had been broken open, and the contents of +safe and desk, the thief's discards as it were, littered the floor in +all directions. + +For an instant Jimmie Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed the +scene; then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he stepped +forward to examine the safe--and suddenly darted behind the desk +instead. Steps sounded in the hall. The door opened--a voice reached +him: + +“The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven't dast to go in. +And he'll be back with the police in a minute now. Come on in with me, +Minnie.” + +“Lord!” exclaimed another voice. “Ain't it a good thing the missus is +away. She'd have highsteericks!” + +Steps came somewhat hesitantly across the floor--from behind the desk, +Jimmie Dale could see that it was a maid, accompanied by a big, rawboned +woman, sleeves rolled to the elbows over brawny arms, presumably the +Mittels' cook. + +The maid closed the French windows, there were no others in the room, +and bolted them; and, having gained a little confidence, gazed about +her. + +“My, but wasn't he cute!” she ejaculated. “Cut the telephone wires, he +did. And ain't he made an awful mess! But the master said we wasn't to +touch nothing till the police saw it.” + +“And to think of it happening in OUR house!” observed the cook heavily, +her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo. “It'll all be in the papers, and +mabbe they'll put our pictures in, too.” + +“I won't get over it as long as I live!” declared the maid. “The yell +Mr. Mittel gave when he came downstairs and put his head in here, +and then him shouting and using the most terrible language into +the telephone, and then finding the wires cut. And me following him +downstairs half dead with fright. And he shouts at me. 'Bella,' he +shouts, 'shut those windows, but don't you touch a thing in that room. +I'm going for the police.' And then he rushes out of the house.” + +“I was going to bed,” said the cook, picking up her cue for what was +probably the twentieth rehearsal of the scene, “when I heard Mr. Mittel +yell, and--Lord, Bella, there he is now!” + +Jimmie Dale's hands clenched. He, too, had caught the scuffle of +footsteps, those of three or four men at least, on the front porch. +There was one way, only one, of escape--through the French windows! +It was a matter of seconds only before Mittel, with the police at his +heels, would be in the room--and Jimmie Dale sprang to his feet. There +was a wild scream of terror from the maid, echoed by another from the +cook--and, still screaming, both women fled for the door. + +“Mr. Mittel! Mr. Mittel!” shrieked the maid--she had flung herself out +into the hall. “He's--he's back again!” + +Jimmie Dale was at the French windows, tearing at the bolts. They +stuck. Shouts came from the front entryway. He wrenched viciously at the +fastenings. They gave now. The windows flew open. He glanced over his +shoulder. A man, Mittel presumably, since he was the only one not in +uniform, was springing into the room. There was a blur of forms and +brass buttons behind Mittel--and Jimmie Dale leaped to the lawn, +speeding across it like a deer. + +But quick as he ran, Jimmie Dale's brain was quicker, pointing the +single chance that seemed open to him. The motor boat! It seemed like a +God-given piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his own; there +would be no blind, and that meant fatal, blunders in the dark over its +mechanism, and he could start it up in a moment--just the time to cast +her off, that was all he needed. + +The shouts swelled behind him. Jimmie Dale was running for his life. He +flung a glance backward. One form--Mittel, he was certain--was perhaps a +hundred yards in the rear. The others were just emerging from the +French windows--grotesque, leaping things they looked, in the light that +streamed out behind them from the room. + +Jimmie Dale's feet pounded the planking of the wharf. He stooped and +snatched at the mooring line. Mittel was almost at the wharf. It seemed +an age, a year to Jimmie Dale before the line was clear. Shouts rang +still louder across the lawn--the police, racing in a pack, were more +than halfway from the house. He flung the line into the boat, sprang in +after it--and Mittel, looming over him, grasped at the boat's gunwhale. + +Both men were panting from their exertions. + +“Let go!” snarled Jimmie Dale between clenched teeth. + +Mittel's answer was a hoarse, gasping shout to the police to hurry--and +then Mittel reeled back, measuring his length upon the wharf from a blow +with a boat hook full across the face, driven with a sudden, untamed +savagery that seemed for the moment to have mastered Jimmie Dale. + +There was no time--not a second--not the fraction of a second. +Desperately, frantically he shoved the boat clear of the wharf. +Once--twice--three times he turned the engine over without success--and +then the boat leaped forward. Jimmie Dale snatched the mask from his +face, and jumped for the steering wheel. The police were rushing out +along the wharf. He could just faintly discern Mittel now--the man was +staggering about, his hands clapped to his face. A peremptory order to +halt, coupled with a threat to fire, rang out sharply--and Jimmie Dale +flung himself flat in the bottom of the boat. The wharf edge seemed to +open in little, crackling jets of flame, came the roar of reports like a +miniature battery in action, then the FLOP, FLOP, FLOP, as the lead tore +up the water around him, the duller thud as a bullet buried its nose in +the boat's side, and the curious rip and squeak as a splinter flew. Then +Mittel's voice, high-pitched, as though in pain: + +“Can't any of you run a motor boat? He's got me bad, I'm afraid. That +other one there is twice as fast.” + +“Sure!” another voice responded promptly. “And if that's right, he's run +his head into a trap. Cast loose, there, MacVeay, and pile in, all of +you! You go back to the house, Mr. Mittel, and fix yourself up. We'll +get him!” + +Jimmie Dale's lips thinned. It was true! If the other boat had any speed +at all, it was only a question of time before he would be overtaken. +The only point at issue was how much time. It was dark--that was in his +favour--but it was not so dark but that a boat could be distinguished on +the water for quite a distance, for a longer distance than he could hope +to put between them. There was no chance of eluding the police that +way! The keen, facile brain that had saved the Gray Seal a hundred times +before was weaving, planning, discarding, eliminating, scheming a way +out--with death, ruin, disaster the price of failure. His eyes swept +the dim, irregular outline of the shore. To his right, in the opposite +direction from where he had left his car, and perhaps a mile ahead, as +well as he could judge, the land seemed to run out into a point. Jimmie +Dale headed for it instantly. If he could reach it with a little lead to +the good, there was a chance! It would take, say, six minutes, granting +the boat a speed of ten miles an hour--and she could do that. The others +could hardly overtake him in that time--they hadn't got started yet. He +could hear them still shouting and talking at the wharf. And Mittel's +“twice as fast” was undoubtedly an exaggeration, anyhow. + +A minute more passed, another--and then, astern, Jimmie Dale caught the +racket from the exhaust of a high-powered engine, and a white streak +seemed to shoot out upon the surface of the water from where, obscured +now, he placed the wharf. A quarter-mile lead, roughly four hundred +yards; yes, he had as much as that--but that, too, was very little. + +He bent over his engine, coaxing it, nursing it to its highest +efficiency; his eyes strained now upon the point ahead, now upon his +pursuers behind. He was running with the wind, thank Heaven! or the +small boat would have had a further handicap--it was rolling up quite a +sea. + +The steering gear, he found, was corded along the side of the boat, +permitting its manipulation from almost any position, and, abruptly now, +Jimmie Dale left the engine to rummage through the little locker in the +stern of the boat. But as he rummaged, his eyes held speculatively on +the boat astern. She was gaining unquestionably, steadily, but not as +fast as he had feared. He would still have a hundred yards' lead, at +least, abreast the point--and, he was smiling grimly now, a hundred +yards there meant life to the Gray Seal! The locker was full of a +heterogeneous collection of odds and ends--a suit of oilskins, tools, +tins, and cans of various sizes and descriptions. Jimmie Dale emptied +the contents, some sort of powder, of a small, round tin box overboard, +and from his pocket took out the banknotes, crammed them into the box, +crammed his watch in on top of them, and screwed the cover on tightly. +His fingers were flying now. A long strip torn from the trousers' leg of +the oilskins was wrapped again and again around the box--and the box was +stuffed into his pocket. + +The flash of a revolver shot cut the blackness behind him, then another, +and another. They were firing in a continuous stream again. It was +fairly long range, but there was always the chance of a stray bullet +finding its mark. Jimmie Dale, crouching low, made his way to the bow of +the boat again. + +The point was looming almost abreast now. He edged in nearer, to hug +it as closely as he dared risk the depth of the water. Behind, +remorselessly, the other boat was steadily closing the gap; and the +shots were not all wild--one struck, with a curious singing sound, on +some piece of metal a foot from his elbow. Closer to the shore, running +now parallel with the head of the point, Jimmie Dale again edged in the +boat, his jaws, clamped, working in little twitches. + +And then suddenly, with a swift, appraising glance behind him, he +swerved the boat from her course and headed for the shore--not directly, +but diagonally across the little bay that, on the farther side of the +point, had now opened out before him. He was close in with the edge of +the point, ten yards from it, sweeping past it--the point itself came +between the two boats, hiding them from each other--and Jimmie Dale, +with a long spring, dove from the boat's side to the water. + +The momentum from the boat as he sank robbed him for an instant of all +control over himself, and he twisted, doubled up, and rolled over and +over beneath the water--but the next moment his head was above the +surface again, and he was striking out swiftly for the shore. It was +only a few yards--but in a few SECONDS the pursuing boat, too, would +have rounded the point. His feet touched bottom. It was haste now, +nothing else, that counted. The drum of the racing engines, the +crackling roar of the exhaust from the oncoming boat was in his ears. He +flung himself upon the shore and down behind a rock. Around the point, +past him, tore the police boat, dark forms standing clustered in the +bow--and then a sudden shout: + +“There she is! See her? She's heading into the bay for the shore!” + +Jimmie Dale's lips relaxed. There was no doubt that they had sighted +their quarry again--a perfect fusillade of revolver shots directed at +the now empty boat was quite sufficient proof of that! With something +that was almost a chuckle, Jimmie Dale straightened up from behind the +rock and began to run back along the shore. The little motor boat would +have grounded long before they overtook her, and, thinking naturally +enough, that he had leaped ashore from her, they would go thrashing +through the woods and fields searching for him! + +It was a longer way back by the shore, a good deal longer; now over +rough, rocky stretches where he stumbled in the darkness, now through +marshy, sodden ground where he sank as in a quagmire time and again over +his ankles. It was even longer than he had counted on, and time, with +the Weasel on one hand and the return of the police on the other, was +a factor to be reckoned with again, as, a half hour later, Jimmie Dale +stole across the lawn of Mittel's house for the second time that night, +and for the second time crouched beneath the open French windows. + +Masked again, the water still dripping from what were once immaculate +evening clothes but which now sagged limply about him, his collar a +pasty string around his neck, the mud and dirt splashed to his knees, +Jimmie Dale was a disreputable and incongruous-looking object as he +crouched there, shivering uncomfortably from his immersion in spite of +his exertions. Inside the room, Mittel passed the windows, pacing the +floor, one side of his face badly cut and bruised from the blow with the +boat hook--and as he passed, his back turned for an instant, Jimmie Dale +stepped into the room. + +Mittel whirled at the sound, and, with a suppressed cry, instinctively +drew back--Jimmie Dale's automatic was dangling carelessly in his right +hand. + +“I am afraid I am a trifle melodramatic,” observed Jimmie Dale +apologetically, surveying his own bedraggled person; “but I assure you +it is neither intentional nor for effect. As it is, I was afraid I would +be late. Pardon me if I take the liberty of helping myself; one gets a +chill in wet clothes so easily”--he passed to the liqueur stand, poured +out a generous portion from one of the decanters, and tossed it off. + +Mittel neither spoke nor moved. Stupefaction, surprise, and a very +obvious regard for Jimmie Dale's revolver mingled themselves in a +helpless expression on his face. + +Jimmie Dale set down his glass and pointed to a chair in front of the +desk. + +“Sit down, Mr. Mittel,” he invited pleasantly. “It will be quite +apparent to you that I have not time to prolong our interview +unnecessarily, in view of the possible return of the police at any +moment, but you might as well be comfortable. You will pardon me again +if I take another liberty”--he crossed the room, turned the key in the +lock of the door leading into the hall, and returned to the desk. “Sit +down, Mr. Mittel!” he repeated, a sudden rasp in his voice. + +Mittel, none too graciously, now seated himself. + +“Look here, my fine fellow,” he burst out, “you're carrying things with +a pretty high hand, aren't you? You seem to have eluded the police for +the moment, somehow, but let me tell you I--” + +“No,” interrupted Jimmie Dale softly, “let ME tell you--all there is +to be told.” He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the bruise on +Mittel's face. “Rather a nasty crack, that,” he remarked. + +Mittel's fists clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks. + +“I'd have made it a good deal harder,” said Jimmie Dale, with sudden +insolence, “if I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business and +so precluding the possibility of this little meeting. Now then”--the +revolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with Mittel's eyes-- +“I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan claim that belongs to +Mrs. Michael Breen!” + +Mittel, staring fascinated into the little, round, black muzzle of the +automatic, edged back in his chair. + +“So--so that's what you're after, is it?” he jerked out. “Well”--he +laughed unnaturally and waved his hand at the disarray of the +room--“it's been stolen already.” + +“I know that,” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “By--YOU!” + +“Me!” Mittel started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into his +face. “Me! I--I--” + +“Sit down!” Jimmie Dale's voice rang out ominously cold. “I haven't any +time to spare. You can appreciate that. But even if the police return +before that map is in my possession, they will still be TOO LATE as +far as you are concerned. Do you understand? Furthermore, if I am +caught--you are ruined. Let me make it quite plain that I know +the details of your little game. You are a curb broker, Mr. +Mittel--ostensibly. In reality, you run what is nothing better than an +exceedingly profitable bucket shop. The Weasel has been a customer +and also a stool for you for years. How Hamvert met the Weasel is +unimportant--he came East with the intention of getting in touch with a +slick crook to help him--the Weasel is the coincidence, that is all. I +quite understand that you have never met Hamvert, nor Hamvert you, nor +that Hamvert was aware that you and the Weasel had anything to do +with one another and were playing in together--but that equally is +unimportant. When Hamvert engaged the Weasel for ten thousand dollars +to get the map from you for him, the Weasel chose the line of least +resistance. He KNEW you, and approached you with an offer to split the +money in return for the map. It was not a question of your accepting his +offer--it was simply a matter of how you could do it and still protect +yourself. The Weasel was well qualified to point the way--a fake robbery +of your house would answer the purpose admirably--you could not be held +either legally or morally responsible for a document that was placed, +unsolicited by you, in your possession, if it were stolen from you.” + +Mittel's face was ashen, colourless. His hands were opening and shutting +with nervous twitches on the top of the desk. + +Jimmie Dale's lips curled. + +“But”--Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words now viciously--“neither +you nor the Weasel were willing to trust the other implicitly--perhaps +you know each other too well. You were unwilling to turn over the map +until you had received your share of the money, and you were equally +unwilling to turn it over until you were SAFE; that is, until you had +engineered your fake robbery even to the point of notifying the police +that it had been committed; the Weasel, on the other hand, had some +scruples about parting with any of the money without getting the map in +one hand before he let go of the banknotes with the other. It was very +simply arranged, however, and to your mutual satisfaction. While you +robbed your own house this evening, he was to get half the money in +advance from Hamvert, giving Hamvert to understand that HE had planned +to commit the robbery himself to-night. He was to come out here then, +receive the map from you in exchange for your share of the money, return +to Hamvert with the map, and receive in turn his own share. I might +say that Hamvert actually paid down the advance--and it was perhaps +unfortunate for you that you paid such scrupulous attention to details +as to cut your own telephone wires! I had not, of course, an exact +knowledge of the hour or minute in which you proposed to stage your +little play here. The object of my first visit a little while ago was +to forestall your turning the diagram over to the Weasel. Circumstances +favoured you for the moment. I am back again, however, for the same +purpose--the map!” + +Mittel, in a cowed way, was huddled back in his chair. He smiled +miserably at Jimmie Dale. + +“QUICK!” Jimmie Dale flung out the word in a sharp, peremptory bark. “Do +you need to be told that the CARTRIDGES are dry?” + +Mittel's hand, trembling, went into his pocket and produced an envelope. + +“Open it!” commanded Jimmie Dale. “And lay it on the desk, so that I can +read it--I am too wet to touch it.” + +Mittel obeyed--like a dog that has been whipped. + +A glance at the paper, and Jimmie Dale's eyes lifted again--to sweep the +floor of the room. He pointed to a pile of books and documents in one +corner that had been thrown out of the safe. + +“Go over there and pick up that check book!” he ordered tersely. + +“What for?” Mittel made feeble protest. + +“Never mind what for!” snapped Jimmie Dale. “Go and get it--and HURRY!” + +Once more Mittel obeyed--and dropped the book hesitantly on the desk. + +Jimmie Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the other. + +Mittel stirred uneasily, sat down, shifted his feet, and his fingers +fumbled aimlessly over the top of the desk. + +“Compared with you,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice, “the Weasel, ay, +and Hamvert, too, crooks though they are, are gentlemen! Michael Breen, +as he died, told his wife to take that paper to some one she could +trust, who would help her and tell her what to do; and, knowing no one +to go to, but because she scrubbed your floors and therefore thought +you were a fine gentleman, she came timidly to you, and trusted you--you +cur!” + +Jimmie Dale laughed suddenly--not pleasantly. Mittel shivered. + +“Hamvert and Breen were partners out there in Alaska when Breen first +went out,” said Jimmie Dale slowly, pulling the tin can wrapped in +oilskin from his pocket. “Hamvert swindled Breen out of the one strike +he made, and Mrs. Breen and her little girl back here were reduced to +poverty. The amount of that swindle was, I understand, fifteen thousand +dollars. I have ten of it here, contributed by the Weasel and Hamvert; +and you will, I think, recognise therein a certain element of poetic +justice--but I am still short five thousand dollars.” + +Jimmie Dale removed the cover from the tin can. Mittel gazed at the +contents numbly. + +“You perhaps did not hear me?” prompted Jimmie Dale coldly. “I am still +short five thousand dollars.” + +Mittel circled his lips with the tip of his tongue. + +“What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely. + +“The balance of the amount.” There was an ominous quiet in Jimmie +Dale's voice. “A check payable to Mrs. Michael Breen for five thousand +dollars.” + +“I--I haven't got that much in the bank,” Mittel fenced, stammering. + +“No? Then I should advise you to see that you have by ten o'clock +to-morrow morning!” returned Jimmie Dale curtly. “Make out that check!” + +Mittel hesitated. The revolver edged insistently a little farther across +the desk--and Mittel, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly. He tore the +check from its stub, and, with a snarl, pushed it toward Jimmie Dale. + +“Fold it!” instructed Jimmie Dale, in the same curt tones. “And fold +that diagram with it. Put them both in this box. Thank you!” He wrapped +the oilskin around the box again, and returned the box to his pocket. +And again with that insolent, contemptuous stare, he surveyed the man at +the desk--then he backed to the French windows. “It might be as well to +remind you, Mittel,” he cautioned sternly, “that if for any reason this +check is not honoured, whether through lack of funds or an attempt by +you to stop payment, you'll be in a cell in the Tombs to-morrow for this +night's work--that is quite understood, isn't it?” + +Mittel was on his feet--sweat glistened on his forehead. + +“My God!” he cried out shrilly. “Who are you?” + +And Jimmie Dale smiled and stepped out on the lawn. + +“Ask the Weasel,” said Jimmie Dale--and the next instant, lost in the +shadows of the house, was running for his car. + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE ALIBI + + +DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!”--through the underworld, in dens and dives that +sheltered from the law the vultures that preyed upon society, prompted +by self-fear, by secret dread, by reason of their very inability +to carry out their purpose, the whispered sentence grew daily more +venomous, more insistent. THE GRAY SEAL, DEAD OR ALIVE--BUT THE GRAY +SEAL!” It was the “standing orders” of the police. Railed at by a +populace who angrily demanded at its hands this criminal of criminals, +mocked at and threatened by a virulent press, stung to madness by the +knowledge of its own impotence, flaunted impudently to its face by this +mysterious Gray Seal to whose door the law laid a hundred crimes, for +whom the bars of a death cell in Sing Sing was the certain goal could +he but be caught, the police, to a man, was like an uncaged beast that, +flicked to the raw by some unseen assailant and murderous in its fury, +was crouched to strike. Grim paradox--a common bond that linked the +hands of the law with those that outraged it! + +Death to the Gray Seal! Was it, at last, the beginning of the end? +Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat, unkempt, disreputable in appearance, +supposed dope fiend, a figure familiar to every denizen below the dead +line, skulked along the narrow, ill-lighted street of the East Side +that, on the corner ahead, boasted the notorious resort to which Bristol +Bob had paid the doubtful, if appropriate, compliment of giving his +name. From under the rim of his battered hat, Jimmie Dale's eyes, veiled +by half-closed, well-simulated drug-laden lids, missed no detail either +of his surroundings or pertaining to the passers-by. Though already late +in the evening, half-naked children played in the gutters; hawkers of +multitudinous commodities cried their wares under gasoline banjo torches +affixed to their pushcarts; shawled women of half a dozen races, and men +equally cosmopolitan, loitered at the curb, or blocked the pavement, +or brushed by him. Now a man passed him, flinging a greeting from +the corner of his mouth; now another, always without movement of the +lips--and Jimmie Dale answered them--from the corner of his mouth. + +But while his eyes were alert, his mind was only subconsciously attune +to his surroundings. Was it indeed the beginning of the end? Some day, +he had told himself often enough, the end must come. Was it coming +now, surely, with a sort of grim implacability--when it was too late to +escape! Slowly, but inexorably, even his personal freedom of action +was narrowing, being limited, and, ironically enough, through the very +conditions he had himself created as an avenue of escape. + +It was not only the police now; it was, far more to be feared, the +underworld as well. In the old days, the role of Larry the Bat had been +assumed at intervals, at his own discretion, when, in a corner, he had +no other way of escape; now it was forced upon him almost daily. The +character of Larry the Bat could no longer be discarded at will. He had +flung down the gauntlet to the underworld when, as the Gray Seal, he had +closed the prison doors behind Stangeist, The Mope, Australian Ike, and +Clarie Deane, and the underworld had picked the gauntlet up. Betrayed, +as they believed, by the one who, though unknown to them; they had +counted the greatest among themselves, and each one fearful that his own +betrayal might come next, every crook, every thug in the Bad Lands +now eyed his oldest pal with suspicion and distrust, and each was a +self-constituted sleuth, with the prod of self-preservation behind him, +sworn to the accomplishment of that unhallowed slogan--death to the Gray +Seal. Almost daily now he must show himself as Larry the Bat in some +gathering of the underworld--a prolonged absence from his haunts was not +merely to invite certain suspicion, where all were suspicious of each +other, it was to invite certain disaster. He had now either to carry +the role like a little old man of the sea upon his back, or renounce it +forever. And the latter course he dared not even consider--the Sanctuary +was still the Sanctuary, and the role of Larry the Bat was still a +refuge, the trump card in the lone hand he played. + +He reached the corner, pushed open the door of Bristol Bob's, and +shuffled in. The place was a glare of light, a hideous riot of noise. On +a polished section of the floor in the centre, a turkey trot was in +full swing; laughter and shouting vied raucously with an impossible +orchestra. + +Jimmie Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables, that, +ranged around the sides, were packed with occupants who thumped their +glasses in tempo with the music and clamoured at the rushing waiters +for replenishment. A dozen, two dozen, men and women greeted him. Jimmie +Dale indifferently returned their salutes. What a galaxy of crooks--the +cream of the underworld! His eyes, under half-closed lids, swept the +faces--lags, dips, gatmen, yeggs, mob stormers, murderers, petty sneak +thieves, stalls, hangers-on--they were all there. He knew them all; he +was known to all. + +He shuffled on to the far end of the room, his leer a little arrogant, +a certain arrogance, too, in the tilt of his battered hat. He also +was quite a celebrity in that gathering--Larry the Bat was of the +aristocracy and the elite of gangland. Well, the show was over; he had +stalked across the stage, performed for his audience--and in another +hour now, free until he must repeat the same performance the next day in +some other equally notorious dive, he would be sitting in for a rubber +of bridge at that most exclusive of all clubs, the St. James, where none +might enter save only those whose names were vouched for in the highest +and most select circles, and where for partners he would possibly have +a justice of the supreme court, or mayhap an eminent divine! He looked +suddenly around him, as though startled. It always startled him, that +comparison. There was something too stupendous to be simply ironical in +the incongruity of it. If--if he were ever run to earth! + +His eyes met those of a heavy-built, coarse-featured man, the chewed end +of a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tin +tray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol Bob, ex-pugilist, the +proprietor. + +“How're you, Larry?” grunted the man, with what he meant to be a smile. + +Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway of a passage that prefaced a +rear exit to the lane. He moved aside to allow the other to pass. + +“'Ello, Bristol,” he returned dispassionately. + +Bristol Bob went on along down the passage, and Jimmie Dale shuffled +slowly after him. He had intended to leave the place by the rear +door--it obviated the possibility of an undesirable acquaintance joining +company with him if he went out by the main entrance. But now his +eyes were fixed on the proprietor's back with a sort of speculative +curiosity. There was a private room off the passage, with a window on +the lane; but they must be favoured customers indeed that Bristol Bob +would condescend to serve personally--any one who knew Bristol Bob knew +that. + +Jimmie Dale slowed his shuffling gait, then quickened it again. Bristol +Bob opened the door and passed into the private room--the door was just +closing as Jimmie Dale shuffled by. He had had only a glance inside--but +it was enough. They were favoured customers indeed! It was no wonder +that Bristol Bob himself was on the job! Two men were in the room: +Lannigan of headquarters, rated the smartest plain-clothes man in the +country--and, across the table from Lannigan, Whitey Mack, as clever, +finished and daring a crook as was to be found in the Bad Lands, whose +particular “line” was diamonds, or, in the vernacular of his ilk, “white +stones,” that had earned him the sobriquet of “Whitey.” Lannigan of +headquarters, Whitey Mack of the underworld, sworn enemies those two--in +secret session! Bristol Bob might well play the part of outer guard. If +a choice few of those outside in the dance hall could get a glimpse into +that private room it would be “good-night” to Whitey Mack. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes were narrowed a little as he shuffled on down the +passage. Lannigan and Whitey Mack with their heads together! What was +the game? There was nothing in common between the two men. Lannigan, it +was well known, could not be “reached.” Whitey Mack, with his ingenious +cleverness, coupled with a cold-blooded fearlessness that had made him +an object of unholy awe and respect in the eyes of the underworld, was a +thorn that was sore beyond measure in the side of the police. +Certainly, it was no ordinary thing that had brought these two together; +especially, since, with the unrest and suspicion that was bubbling +and seething below the dead line, and with which there was none more +intimate than Whitey Mack, Whitey Mack was inviting a risk in “making +up” with the police that could only be accounted for by some urgent and +vital incentive. + +Jimmie Dale pushed open the door that gave on the lane. Behind him, +Bristol Bob closed the door of the private room and retreated back along +the passage. Jimmie Dale stepped out into the lane--and instinctively +his eyes sought the window of the private room. The shade was drawn, +only a yellow murk filtered out into the black, unlighted lane, but +suddenly he started noiselessly toward it. The window was open a bare +inch or so at the bottom! + +The sill was just shoulder high, and, placing his ear to the opening, +he flattened himself against the wall. He could not see inside, for the +shade was drawn well to the bottom; but he could hear as distinctly as +though he were at the table beside the two men--and at the first words, +the loose, disjointed frame of Larry the Bat seemed to tauten curiously +and strain forward lithe and tense. + +“This Gray Seal dope listens good, Whitey; but, coming from you, I'm +leery. You've got to show me.” + +“Don't you want him?” There was a nasty laugh from Whitey Mack. + +“You BET I want him!” returned the headquarters man with a suppressed +savagery that left no doubt as to his earnestness. “I want him fast +enough, but--” + +“Then, blast him, so do I!” Whitey Mack rapped out with a vicious snarl. +“So does every guy in the fleet down here. We got it in for him. You +get that, don't you? He's got Stangeist and his gang steered for the +electric chair now; he put a crimp in the Weasel the other night--get +that? He's like a blasted wizard with what he knows. And who'll he deal +the icy mitt to next? Me--damn him--me, for all I know!” + +“That's all right,” observed Lannigan coolly. “I'm not questioning your +sincerity for a minute; I know all about that; but that doesn't land the +Gray Seal. I'll work with you if you've anything to offer, but we've had +enough 'tips' and 'information' handed us at headquarters in the last +few years to make us a trifle skeptical. Show me what you've got, +Whitey?” + +“Show you!” echoed Whitey Mack passionately. “Sure, I'll show you! +That's what I'm going to do--show you. I'll show you the Gray Seal! I +ain't handing you any tips. I'VE FOUND OUT WHO THE GRAY SEAL IS!” + +There was a tense silence. It seemed to Jimmie Dale as though cold +fingers were clutching at his heart, stifling its beat--then the blood +came bursting to his forehead. He could not see into the room, but +that silence was eloquent. It seemed as though he could picture the two +men--Lannigan leaning suddenly forward--Lannigan and Whitey Mack staring +tensely into each other's eyes. + +“You--WHAT!” It came low and grim from Lannigan. + +“That's what!” asserted Whitey Mack bluntly. “You heard me! That's what +I said! I know who the Gray Seal is--and I'm the only guy that's wise to +him. Am I letting you in right?” + +“You're sure?” demanded Lannigan hoarsely. “You're sure? Who is he, +then?” + +There was a half laugh, half snarl from Whitey Mack. + +“Oh, no, you don't!” he growled. “Nix on that! What do you take me +for--a fool? You beat it out of here and round him up--eh--while I suck +my thumbs? Say, forget it! Do you think I'm doing this because I love +you? Why, blame you, you've been aching for a year to put the bracelets +on me yourself! Say, wake up! I'm in on this myself.” + +Again that silence. Then Lannigan spoke slowly, in a puzzled way. + +“I don't get you, Whitey,” he said. “What do you mean?” Then, a little +sharply: “You're quite right; you've got some reputation yourself, and +you're badly 'wanted' if we could get the 'goods' on you. If you're +trying to plant something, look out for yourself, or--” + +“Can that!” snapped Whitey Mack threateningly. “Can that sort of spiel +right now--or quit! I ain't telling you his name--yet. BUT I'LL TAKE +YOU TO HIM TO-NIGHT--and you and me nabs him together. Is that straight +enough goods for you?” + +“Don't get sore,” said Lannigan, more pacifically. “Yes, if you'll do +that it's good enough for any man. But lay your cards on the table face +up, Whitey--I want to see what you opened the pot on.” + +“You've seen 'em,” Whitey Mack answered ungraciously. “I've told you +already. The Gray Seal goes out for keeps--curse him for a snitch! If +I bumped him off, or wised up any of the guys to it, and we was caught, +we'd get the juice for it even if it was the Gray Seal, wouldn't we? +Well, what's the use! If one of you dicks get him, he gets bumped off +just the same, only regular, up in the wire parlour at Sing Sing. I +ain't looking for that kind of trouble when I can duck it. See?” + +“Sure,” said Lannigan. + +“Besides, and moreover,” continued Whitey Mack, “there's SOME reward +hung out for him that I'm figuring to born in on. I'd swipe it all +myself, don't you make any mistake about that, and you'd never get a +look-in, only, sore as the mob is on the Gray Seal, it ain't healthy for +any guy around these parts to get the reputation of being a snitch, no +matter who he snitches on. Bump him off--sure! Snitching--well, you get +the idea, eh? I'm ducking that too. Get me?” + +“I get you,” said Lannigan, with a short, pleased laugh. + +“Well, then,” announced Whitey Mack, “here's my proposition, and it's my +turn to hand out the 'look-out-for-your-self' dope. I'm busting the game +wide open for you to play, but you throw me down, and”--his voice sank +into a sullen snarl again--“you can take it from me, I'll get you for +it!” + +“All right,” responded Lannigan soberly. “Let's hear it. If I agree to +it, I'll stick to it.” + +“I believe you,” said Whitey Mack curtly. “That's why I picked you out +for the medal they'll pin on you for this. And here's getting down to +tacks! I'll lead you to the Gray Seal to-night and help you nab him and +stay with you to the finish, but there's to be nobody but you and me on +the job. When it's done I fade away, and nobody's to know I snitched, +and no questions asked as to how I found out about the Gray Seal. +I ain't looking for any of the glory--you can fix that up to suit +yourself. The cash is different--you come across with half the reward +the day they pay it.” + +“You'll get it!” There was savage elation in Lannigan's voice, the +emphatic smash of a fist on the table. “You're on, Whitey. And if we get +the Gray Seal to-night, I'll do better by you than that.” + +“We'll get him!” said Whitey Mack, with a vicious oath. “And--” + +Jimmie Dale crouched suddenly low down, close against the wall. The +crunch of a footstep sounded from the end of the lane. Some one had +turned in from the cross street, some fifty yards away, and was heading +evidently for the back entrance to Bristol Bob's. Jimmie Dale edged +noiselessly, cautiously back past the doorway, kept on, pressed close +against the wall, and finally paused. He had not been seen. The back +door of Bristol Bob's opened and closed. The man had gone in. + +For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant. There was a wild surging in his +brain, something like a myriad batteries of trip hammers seemed to be +pounding at his temples. Then, almost blindly, he kept on down the lane +in the same direction in which he had started to retreat--as well one +cross street as another. + +He turned into the cross street, went along it--and presently emerged +into the full tide of the Bowery. It was garishly lighted; people +swarmed about him. Subconsciously, there were crowded sidewalks; +subconsciously, he was on the Bowery--that was all. + +Ruin, disaster, peril faced him--faced him, and staggered him with the +suddenness of the shock. Was it true? No; it could not be true! It was +a bluff--Whitey Mack was bluffing. Jimmie Dale's lips grew thin in a +mirthless smile as he shook his head. Neither Whitey Mack nor any other +man would dare to bluff like that. It was too straight, too open-handed, +Whitey Mack had laid his cards too plainly on the table. Whitey Mack's +words rang in his ears: “I'll LEAD you to the Gray Seal to-night and +help you nab him and stay with you to the finish.” The man meant what he +said, meant what he said, too, about the “finish” of the Gray Seal; not +a man in the Bad Lands but meant--death to the Gray Seal! But how, by +what means, when, where had Whitey Mack got his information? “I'm the +only one that's wise,” Whitey Mack had said. It seemed impossible. It +WAS impossible! Whitey Mack was sincere enough probably in what he had +said, but the man simply could not know. Whitey Mack could only have +spotted some one that, for some reason or other, he IMAGINED was the +Gray Seal. That was it--must be it! Whitey Mack had made a mistake. What +clew could he have obtained to-- + +Over the unwashed face of Larry the Bat a gray pallor spread slowly. His +fingers were plucking at the frayed edge of his inside vest pocket. +The dark eyes seemed to turn coal-black. A laugh, like the laugh of one +damned, rose to his lips, and was choked back. It was gone! GONE! That +thin metal case, like a cigarette case, that, between the little sheets +of oil paper, held those diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, adhesive seals, +the insignia of the Gray Seal--was gone! Clew! It seemed as though there +were an overpowering nausea upon him. CLEW! That little case was not a +clew--it was a death warrant! + +His hands clenched fiercely. If he could only think for a moment! The +lining of his pocket had given away. The case had dropped out. But there +was nothing about the case to identify any one as the Gray Seal unless +it were found in one's actual possession. Therefore Whitey Mack, to have +solved his identity, must have seen him drop the case. There could be no +question about that. It was equally obvious then that Whitey Mack would +know the Gray Seal as Larry the Bat. Did he also know him as Jimmie +Dale? Yes, or no? It was a vital question. His life hung on it. + +That keen, facile brain, numbed for the moment, was beginning to work +with lightning speed. It was four o'clock that afternoon when he had +assumed the character of Larry the Bat--some time between four o'clock +and the present, it was now well after eleven, the case had dropped from +his pocket. There had been ample time then for Whitey Mack to have +made that appointment with Lannigan--and ample time to have made a +surreptitious visit to the Sanctuary. Had Whitey Mack gone there? Had +Whitey Mack found that hiding place in the flooring under the oilcloth? +Had Whitey Mack discovered that the Gray Seal was not only Larry the +Bat--but Jimmie Dale? + +Jimmie Dale swept his hand across his forehead. It was damp from +little clinging beads of moisture. Should he go to the Sanctuary and +change--become Jimmie Dale again? Was it the safest thing to do--or the +most dangerous? Even if Whitey Mack had been there and discovered the +dual personality of Larry the Bat, how would he, Jimmie Dale, know it? +The man would have been crafty enough to have left no sign behind him. +Was it to the Sanctuary that Whitey Mack meant to lead Lannigan that +evening--or did Whitey Mack know him as Jimmie Dale, and to make it +the more sensational, plan to carry out the coup, say, at the St. James +Club? Whitey Mack and Lannigan were still at Bristol Bob's; he had +probably time, if he so elected, to reach the Sanctuary, change, and get +away again. But every minute was priceless now. What should he do? Run +from the city as he was for cover--or take the gambler's chance? Whitey +Mack knew him as Larry the Bat--it was not certain that Whitey Mack knew +him as Jimmie Dale. + +He had halted, absorbed, in front of a moving-picture theatre. Great +placards, at first but a blur of colour, suddenly forced themselves in +concrete form upon his consciousness. Letters a foot high leaped out at +him: “THE DOUBLE LIFE.” There was the picture of a banker in his private +office hastily secreting a forged paper as the hero in the guise of a +clerk entered; the companion picture was the banker in convict stripes +staring out from behind the barred doors of a cell. There seemed a +ghastly augury in the coincidence. Why should a thing like that be +thrust upon him to shake his nerve when he needed nerve now more than he +had ever needed it in his life before? + +He raised his hand to jerk aimlessly at the brim of his hat, dropped +his hand abruptly to his side again, and started quickly, hurriedly away +through the throng around him. A sort of savagery had swept upon him. +In a flash he had made his decision. He would take the gambler's chance! +And afterward--Jimmie Dale's lips were like a thin, straight line--it +was Whitey Mack's life or his own! Whitey Mack had said he was the only +one that was wise--and Whitey Mack had not told Lannigan yet, wouldn't +tell Lannigan until the show-down. If he, Jimmie Dale, got to the +Sanctuary, became Jimmie Dale and got away again, even if Whitey Mack +knew him as Jimmie Dale, there was still a chance. It was his life or +Whitey Mack's--Whitey Mack, with his lean-jawed, clean-shaven wolf's +face! If he could get Whitey Mack before the other was ready to tell +Lannigan! Surely he had the right of self-preservation! Surely his life +was as valuable as Whitey Mack's, as valuable as a man's who, as those +in the secrets of the underworld knew well enough, had blood upon his +hands, who lived by crime, who was a menace to the community! Had he not +the right to preserve his own life at the expense of one such as that? +He had never taken life--the thought was abhorrent! But was there any +other way in event of Whitey Mack knowing him as Jimmie Dale? His +back was against the wall; he was trapped; certain death, and, worse, +dishonour stared him in the face. Lannigan and Whitey Mack would be +together--the odds would be two to one against him--and he had no +quarrel with Lannigan--somehow he must let Lannigan out of it. + +The other side of the street was less crowded. He crossed over, and, +still with the shuffling tread that dozens around him knew as the +characteristic gait of Larry the Bat, but covering the ground with +amazing celerity, he hurried along. It was only at the end of the block, +that cross street from the Bowery that led to the Sanctuary. How much +time had he? He turned the corner into the darker cross street. Whitey +Mack would have learned from Bristol Bob that Larry the Bat had just +been there; that is, that Larry the Bat was not at the Sanctuary. Whitey +Mack would probably be in no hurry--he and Lannigan might wait until +later, until Whitey Mack should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gone +home. It was the line of least resistance; they would not attempt to +scour the city for him. They might even wait in that private room at +Bristol Bob's until they decided that it was time to sally out. He might +perhaps still find them there when he got back; at any rate, from there +he must pick up their trail again. On the other hand--all this was but +supposition--they might make at once for the Sanctuary to lie in wait +for him. In any case there was need, desperate need, for haste. + +He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement house +now that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift, gliding +motion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness. It was the +Sanctuary, that room on the first floor of the tenement, the tenement +that had three entrances, three exits--a passageway through to the +saloon on the next street that abutted on the rear, the usual front +door, and the side door in the alleyway. Gone was the shuffling gait. +Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reached +the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equal +caution, and, in the dark entry, stood motionless, listening intently. + +There was no sound. He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs; +and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them creak out in +blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body +weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny. There +was need of silence, as there was need of haste. He was not so sure +now of the time at his disposal--that he had even reached the Sanctuary +FIRST. How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the Bowery? +He did not know--perhaps longer than he had imagined. There was the +possibility that Whitey Mack and Lannigan were already above, waiting +for him; but, even if they were not already there and he got away before +they came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat +had come and gone. + +He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a vicious +muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, thrown +a little forward. It was black, utterly black, around him. Again that +stealthy, catlike tread--and his ear was at the keyhole of the Sanctuary +door. A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfied +that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and +those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody +all the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently it had been +undisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been there +after finding the metal case. Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a +lock--clever enough for that, anyhow. + +He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always oiled, +silently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. He +closed the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach him +from without--and, whipping off his coat, began to undress swiftly. + +There was no light. He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from the +alleyway. He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and there. +It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than the +surrounding darkness, flitting about the room. The oilcloth in the +corner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of Jimmie +Dale taken out, the rags of Larry the Bat put in. The minutes flew by. +It was not the change of clothing that took long--it was the eradication +of Larry the Bat's make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, and +hands. Occasionally his head was turned in a tense, listening attitude; +but always the fingers were busy, working with swift deftness. + +It was done at last. Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place +stood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York, +immaculate in well-tailored tweeds. He stooped to the hole in the +flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, took +out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight--his automatic was +already in his possession. His lips parted grimly. Who knew what part +a flashlight might not play--and he would need the mask for Lannigan's +benefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mack. Had he left +any telltale evidence of his visit? It was almost worth the risk of a +light to make sure. He hesitated, then shook his head, and, stooping +again, carefully replaced the flooring and laid the oilcloth over it--he +dared not show a light at any cost. + +But now even more caution than before was necessary. At times, the +lodgers had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the Bat, +enter and leave the tenement--none had ever seen Jimmie Dale either +leave or enter. He stole across the room to the door, halted to assure +himself that the hall was empty, slipped out into the hall, and locked +the door behind him. Again that trained, long-practiced, silent tread +upon the stairs. It seemed as though an hour passed before he reached +the bottom, and his brain was shrieking at him to hurry, hurry, +HURRY! The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath of +relief--and he was on the cross street. + +A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery--and he was bending +down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic, from his side pocket, +concealed in his hand. WAS THAT SOME ONE THERE? He could have sworn he +saw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps of the house on +the opposite side of the street as he had emerged from the alleyway. +In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his eyes swept +sharply up and down the other side of the ill-lighted street. Nothing! +There was not even a pedestrian in sight on the block from there to the +Bowery. + +Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantly +again, as though the lace were still proving refractory. Again that +sharp, searching glance. Again--nothing! He went forward now in apparent +unconcern; but his right hand, instead of being buried in his coat +pocket, swung easily at his side. + +It was strange! His ineffective ruse to the contrary, he was certain +that he had not been mistaken. Was it Whitey Mack? Was the question +answered? Was the Gray Seal known, too, as Jimmie Dale? Were they +trailing him now, with the climax to come at the club, at his own +palatial home, wherever the surroundings would best lend themselves +to assuaging that inordinate thirst for the sensational that was so +essentially a characteristic of the confirmed criminal? What a headline +in the morning's papers it would make! + +At the corner he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette--still not a +soul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except a couple +of Italians who had just passed by. Strange again! The intuition, if it +were only intuition, was still strong. He swung abruptly on his heel, +mingled with the passers-by on the Bowery, walked a rapid half dozen +steps until the building hid the cross street, then ran across the road +to the opposite side of the Bowery, and, in a crowd now, came back to +the corner. He crossed from curb to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringe +of people that, however, in no way obstructed his view down the side +street. And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He had evidently +been mistaken, after all. He was overexcited; his nerves were raw--that, +perhaps, was the solution. Meanwhile, every minute was counting, if +Whitey Mack and Lannigan should still be at Bristol Bob's. + +He kept on down the Bowery, hurrying with growing impatience through the +crowds that massed in front of various places of amusement. He had not +intended to come along the Bowery, and, except for what had occurred, +would have taken a less frequented street. He would turn off at the next +block. + +He was in front of that moving-picture theatre again. “THE DOUBLE +LIFE”--his eyes were attracted involuntarily to the lurid, overdone +display. It seemed to threaten him; it seemed to dangle before him a +premonition as it were, of what the morning held in store; but now, too, +it seemed to feed into flame that smouldering fury that possessed him. +His life--or Whitey Mack's! Men, women, and the children who turned +night into day in that quarter of the city were clustered thick around +the signs, hiving like bees to the bald sensationalism. Almost savagely +he began to force his way through the crowd--and the next instant, like +a man stunned, had stopped in his tracks. His fingers had closed in a +fierce, spasmodic clutch over an envelope that had been thrust suddenly +into his hand. + +“JIMMIE!” from somewhere came a low, quick voice. “Jimmie, it is +half-past eleven now--HURRY.” + +He whirled, scanning wildly this face, then that. It was her voice--HER +voice! The Tocsin! The sensitive fingers were telegraphing to his brain, +as they always did, that the texture of the envelope, too, was hers. +Her voice; yes, anywhere, out of a thousand voices, he would distinguish +hers--but her face, he had never seen that. Which, out of all the crowd +around him, was hers? Surely he could tell her by her dress; she would +be different; her personality alone must single her out. She-- + +“Say, have youse got de pip, or do youse t'ink youse owns de earth!” a +man flung at him, heaving and pushing to get by. + +With a start, though he scarcely heard the man, Jimmie Dale moved on. +His brain was afire. All the irony of the world seemed massed in a +sudden, overwhelming attack upon him. It was useless--intuitively he +had known it was useless from the instant he had heard her voice. It was +always the same--always! For years she had eluded him like that, come +upon him without warning and disappeared, but leaving always that +tangible proof of her existence--a letter, the call of the Gray Seal to +arms. But to-night it was as it had never been before. It was not alone +baffled chagrin now, not alone the longing, the wild desire to see her +face, to look into her eyes--it was life and death. She had come at the +very moment when she, perhaps alone of all the world, could have pointed +the way out, when life, liberty, everything that was common to them both +was at stake, in deadly peril--and she had gone, ignorant of it all, +leaving him staggered by the very possibility of the succour that was +held up before his eyes only to be snatched away without power of his to +grasp it. His intuition had not been at fault--he had made no mistake +in that shadow across the street from the Sanctuary. It had been the +Tocsin. He had been followed; and it was she who had followed him, +until, in a crowd, she had seized the opportunity of a moment ago. +Though ultimately, perhaps, it changed nothing, it was a relief in a way +to know that it was she, not Whitey Mack, who had been lurking there; +but her persistent, incomprehensible determination to preserve the +mystery with which she surrounded herself was like now to cost them both +a ghastly price. If he could only have had one word with her--just one +word! + +The letter in his hand crackled under his clenched fist. He stared at +it in a half-blind, half-bitter way. The call of the Gray Seal to arms! +Another coup, with its incident danger and peril, that she had planned +for him to execute! He could have laughed aloud at the inhuman mockery +of it. The call of the Gray Seal to arms--NOW! When with every faculty +drained to its last resource, cornered, trapped, he was fighting for his +very existence! + +“Jimmie, it is half-past eleven now--HURRY!” The words were jangling +discordantly in his brain. + +And now he laughed outright, mirthlessly. A young girl hanging on her +escort's arm, passing, glanced at him and giggled. It was a different +Jimmie Dale for the moment. For once his immobility had forsaken him. He +laughed again--a sort of unnatural, desperate indifference to everything +falling upon him. What did it matter, the moment or two it would take to +read the letter? He looked around him. He was on the corner in front +of the Palace Saloon, and, turning abruptly, he stepped in through the +swinging doors. As Larry the Bat, he knew the place well. At the rear of +the barroom and along the side of the wall were some half dozen +little stalls, partitioned off from each other. Several of these were +unoccupied, and he chose the one farthest from the entrance. It was +private enough; no one would disturb him. + +From the aproned individual who presented himself he ordered a drink. +The man returned in a moment, and Jimmie Dale tossed a coin on the +table, bidding the other keep the change. He wanted no drink; the +transaction was wholly perfunctory. The waiter was gone; he pushed the +glass away from him, and tore the envelope open. + +A single sheet, closely written on both sides of the paper, was in his +hand. It was her writing; there was no mistaking that, but every word, +every line bore evidence of frantic haste. Even that customary formula, +“dear philanthropic crook,” that had prefaced every line she had ever +written him before, had been omitted. His eyes traversed the first few +lines with that strange indifference that had settled upon him. What, +after all, did it matter what it was; he could do nothing--not even save +himself probably. And then, with a little start, he read the lines over +again, muttering snatches from them. + + +“. . . Max Diestricht--diamonds--the Ross-Logan stones--wedding--sliding +panel in wall of workshop--end of the room near window--ten boards to +the right from side wall--press small knot in the wood in the centre of +the tenth board--to-night . . .” + + +It brought a sudden thrill of excitement to Jimmie Dale that, impossible +as he would have believed it an instant ago, for the moment overshadowed +the realisation of his own peril. A robbery such as that, if it were +ever accomplished, would stir the country from end to end; it would set +New York by the ears; it would loose the police in full cry like a pack +of bloodhounds with their leashes slipped. The society columns of the +newspapers had been busy for months featuring the coming marriage of the +Ross-Logans' daughter to one of the country's young merchant princes. +The combined fortunes of the two families would make the young couple +the richest in America. The prospective groom's wedding gift was to be +a diamond necklace of perfectly matched, large stones that would eclipse +anything of the kind in the country. Europe, the foreign markets, had +been literally combed and ransacked to supply the gems. The stones had +arrived in New York the day before, the duty on them alone amounting to +over fifty thousand dollars. All this had appeared in the papers. + +Jimmie Dale's brows drew together in a frown. On just exactly what +percentage the duty was figured he did not know; but it was high +enough on the basis of fifty thousand dollars to assume safely that the +assessed value of the stones was not less than four times that amount. +Two hundred thousand dollars--laid down, a quarter of a million! Well, +why not? In more than one quarter diamonds were ranked as the soundest +kind of an investment. Furthermore, through personal acquaintance with +the “high contracting parties,” who were in his own set, he knew it to +be true. + +He shrugged his shoulders. The papers, too, had thrown the limelight on +Max Diestricht, who, though for quite a time the fashion in the social +world, had, up to the present, been comparatively unknown to the average +New Yorker. His own knowledge of Max Diestricht went deeper than the +superficial biography furnished by the newspapers--the old Hollander +had done more than one piece of exquisite jewelry work for him. The old +fellow was a character that beggared description, eccentric to the point +of extravagance, and deaf as a post; but, in craftmanship, a modern +Cellini. He employed no workmen, lived alone over his shop on one of +the lower streets between Fifth and Sixth Avenues near Washington +Square--and possessed a splendid contempt for such protective +contrivances as safes and vaults. If his prospective patrons +expostulated on this score before intrusting him with their valuables, +they were at liberty to take their work elsewhere. It was Max Diestricht +who honoured you by accepting the commission; not you who honoured Max +Diestricht by intrusting him with it. “Of what use is it to me, a safe!” + he would exclaim. “It hides nothing; it only says, 'I am inside; do +not look farther; come and get me!' Yes? It is to explode with the +nitro-glycerin--POUF!--and I am deaf and I hear nothing. It is a +foolishness, that”--he had a habit of prodding at one with a levelled +fore-finger--“every night somewhere they are robbed, and have I been +robbed? HEIN, tell me that; have I been robbed?” + +It was true. In ten years, though at times having stones and precious +metal aggregating large amounts deposited with him by his customers, Max +Diestricht had never lost so much as the gold filings. There was a +queer smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The knot in the tenth board +was significant! Max Diestricht was scrupulously honest, a genius in +originality and conception of design, a master in the perfection and +delicacy of his finished work--he had been commissioned to design and +set the Ross-Logan necklace. + +The brain works quickly. All this and more had flashed almost +instantaneously through Jimmie Dale's mind. His eyes fell to the letter +again, and he read on. Halfway through, a sudden whiteness blanched +his face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that mounted to his +temples. It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the moment of the +power of coherent thought. He was wrong; he had not read aright. It was +incredible, dare-devil beyond belief--and yet in its very audacity lay +success. He finished the letter, read it once more--and his fingers +mechanically began to tear it into little shreds. His brain was in a +whirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions. Had Whitey Mack and Lannigan +left Bristol Bob's yet? Where were they now? Was there time for--this? +He was staring at the little torn scraps of paper in his hand. He thrust +them suddenly into his pocket, and jerked out his watch. It was nearly +midnight. The broad, muscular shoulders seemed to square back curiously, +the jaws to clamp a little, the face to harden and grow cold until it +was like stone. With a swift movement he emptied his glass into the +cuspidor, set the glass back on the table, and stepped out from the +stall. His destination was Max Diestricht's. + +The Palace Saloon was near the upper end of the Bowery, and, failing a +taxicab, of which none was in sight, his quickest method was to walk, +and he started briskly forward. It was not far; and it was barely +ten minutes from the time he had left the Palace Saloon when he swung +through Washington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment later, turned +from that thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth Avenue, along one of +those streets which, with the city's northward trend, had quite lost +any distinctive identity, and from being once a modestly fashionable +residential section had now become a conglomerate potpourri of small +tradesmen's stores, shops and apartments of the poorer class. He knew +Max Diestricht's--he could well have done without the aid of the arc +lamp which, even if dimly, indicated that low, almost tumble-down, +two-story structure tucked away between the taller buildings on either +side that almost engulfed it. It was late. The street was quiet. The +shops and stores had long since been closed, Max Diestricht's among +them--the old Hollanders' name in painted white letters stood out +against the background of a darkened workshop window. In the story +above, the lights, too, were out; Max Diestricht was probably fast +asleep--and he was stone deaf! + +A glance up and down the street, and Jimmie Dale was standing, or, +rather, leaning against Max Diestricht's door. There was no one to see, +and if there were, what was there to attract attention to a man standing +nonchalantly for a moment in a doorway? It was only for a moment. Those +master fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely, swiftly, silently. A +little steel instrument that was never out of his possession was in the +lock and out again. The door opened, closed; he drew the black silk mask +from his pocket and slipped it over his face. Immediately in front of +him the stairs led upward; immediately to his right was the door into +the shop--the modest street entrance was common to both. + +The door into the workshop was not locked. He opened it, stepped inside, +and closed it quietly behind him. The place was in blackness. He stood +for a moment silent, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, +reconstructing the plan of his surroundings in his mind as he remembered +it. It was a narrow, oblong room, running the entire depth of the +building, a very long room, blank walls on either side, a window in the +middle of the rear wall that gave on a back yard, and from the back yard +there was access to the lane; also, as he remembered the place, it was +a riot of disorder, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn without +system or reason in every direction--one had need of care to negotiate +it in the dark. He took his flashlight from his pocket, and, preliminary +to a more intimate acquaintance with the interior, glanced out through +the front window near which he stood--and, with a suppressed cry, shrank +back instinctively against the wall. + +Two men were crossing the street, heading directly for the shop door. +The arc lamp lighted up their faces. IT WAS INSPECTOR LANNIGAN OF +HEADQUARTERS AND WHITEY MACK! The quick intake of Jimmie Dale breath was +sucked through clenched teeth. They were close on his heels then--far +closer than he had imagined. It would take Whitey Mack scarcely any +longer to open that front door than it had taken him. Close on his +heels! His face was rigid. He could hear them now at the door. The +flashlight in his hand winked down the length of the room. If was a +dangerous thing to do, but it was still more dangerous to stumble into +some object and make a noise. He darted forward, circuiting a workbench, +a stool, a small hand forge. Again the flashlight gleamed. Against the +side wall, near the rear, was another workbench, with a sort of coarse +canvas curtain hanging part way down in front of it, evidently to +protect such things as might be stored away beneath it from dust, +and Jimmie Dale sprang for it, whipped back the canvas, and crawled +underneath. He was not an instant too soon. As the canvas fell back into +place, the shop door opened, closed, and the two men had stepped inside. + +Whitey Mack's voice, in a low whisper though it was, seemed to echo +raucously through the shop. + +“Mabbe we'll have a sweet wait, but I got the straight dope on this. +He's going to make a try for Dutchy's sparklers to-night. We'll let him +go the limit, and we don't either of us make a move till he's pinched +them, and then we get him with the goods on him. He can't get away; +he hasn't a hope! There's only two ways of getting in here or getting +out--this door and window here, and a window that's down there at the +back. You guard this, and I'll take care of the other end. Savvy?” + +“Right!” Lannigan answered grimly. “Go ahead!” + +There was the sound of footsteps moving forward, then a vicious bump, +the scraping of some object along the floor, and a muffled curse from +Whitey Mack. + +“Use your flashlight!” advised the inspector, in a guarded voice. + +“I haven't got one, damn it!”, growled Whitey Mack. “It's all right. +I'll get along.” + +Again the steps, but more warily now, as though the man were cautiously +feeling ahead of him for possible obstacles. Jimmie Dale for a moment +held his breath. He could have reached out and touched the man as the +other passed. Whitey Mack went on until he had taken up a position +against the rear wall. Jimmie Dale heard him as he brushed against it. + +Then silence fell. He was between them now. Stretched full length on the +floor, Jimmie Dale raised the lower portion of the canvas away from +in front of his face. He could see nothing; the place was in Stygian +blackness; but it had been close and stifling, and, at least, it gave +him more air. + +The minutes dragged by--each more interminable than the one that +had gone before. Not a movement, not a sound, and then, through the +stillness, very faint at first, came the regular, repressed breathing +of Whitey Mack, who was much the nearer of the two men. And, once +noticeable, almost imperceptible as it was it seemed to pervade the room +and fill it with a strange, ominous resonance that rose and fell until +the blackness palpitated with it. + +Slowly, very slowly, Jimmie Dale's hand crept into his pocket--and crept +out again with his automatic. He lay motionless once more. Time in any +concrete sense ceased to exist. Fancied shapes began to assume form +in the darkness. By the door, Lannigan stirred uneasily, shifting his +position slightly. + +Was it hours--was it only minutes? It seemed to ring through the +nerve-racking stillness like the shriek of a hurtling shell--and it was +only a whisper. + +“Watch yourself, Lannigan,” whispered Whitey Mack. “He's coming now +through the yard! Don't move till I start something. Let him get his +paws on the sparklers.” + +Silence again. And then a low rasping at the window, like the gnawing of +a rat; then, inch by inch, the sash was lifted. There was the sound as +of a body forcing its way over the sill cautiously, then a step upon the +floor inside, another, and still another. The figure of a man loomed up +suddenly against the glow of a flashlight as he threw the round, white +ray inquisitively here and there over the rear wall. And now he appeared +to be counting the boards. One, two, three--ten. His hand ran up and +down the tenth board. Again and again he repeated the operation, and +something like the snarl of a baited beast echoed through the room. He +half turned to snatch at something in his pocket, and the light for +a moment showed a black-bearded, lowering face, partially hidden by a +peaked cap that was pulled far down over his eyes. + +There was the rip and tear of rending wood, as a steel jimmy, in lieu of +the spring the man evidently could not find, bit in between the boards, +a muttered oath of satisfaction, and a portion of the wall slid back, +disclosing what looked like a metal-lined cupboard. He reached in, +seized one of a dozen little boxes, and wrenched off the cover. A blue, +scintillating gleam seemed to leap out to meet the white ray of the +flashlight. The man chuckled hoarsely, and began to cram the rest of the +boxes into his pockets. + +Jimmie Dale stirred. On hands and knees he was creeping now from beneath +the workbench. Something caught and tore behind him--the canvas curtain. +And at the sound, with a sharp cry, the man at the wall whirled, the +light went out, and he sprang toward the window. Jimmie Dale gained his +feet and leaped forward. A revolver shot cut a lane of fire through the +blackness; and, above the roar of the report, Whitey Mack's voice in a +fierce yell: + +“It's all right, Lannigan! I got him! No--HELL!” There was a terrific +crash of breaking glass. “He's got away!” + +“Not yet, he hasn't!” gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, and his +clubbed revolver swung crashing to the head of a dark form in front of +him. + +There was a half sigh, half moan. The form slid limply to the floor. +Lannigan was floundering down the shop, leaping obstacles in a mad rush, +his flashlight picking out the way. + +Jimmie Dale stepped swiftly backward, and his hand groped out for the +droplight, over the end of the bench, that he had knocked against in +his own rush. His fingers clutched it--and the lower end of the shop was +flooded with light. Except for his felt hat that lay a little distance +away, there was no sign of Whitey Mack; the huddled form of the man, +who but a moment since had chuckled as he pocketed old Max Diestricht's +gems, lay sprawled, inert, upon the floor, and Lannigan was staring into +the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic. + +“Drop that gun, Lannigan!” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “And I'll trouble +you not to make a noise; it might attract attention from the street; +there's been too much already. DROP THAT GUN!” + +The revolver clattered from Lannigan's hand to the floor. A step +forward, and Jimmie Dale's toe sent it spinning under a bench. Another +step, and, his revolver still covering the other, he had whipped a pair +of handcuffs from the officer's side pocket. + +Lannigan, as though the thought had never occurred to him, offered no +resistance. He was staring in a dazed sort of way back and forth from +Jimmie Dale to the man on the floor. + +“What's this mean?” he burst out suddenly, “Where's--” + +“Your wrist, please!” requested Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “No--the left +one. Thank you”--as the handcuff snapped shut. “Now go over there and +sit down on the floor beside that fellow. QUICK!” Jimmie Dale's voice +rasped suddenly, imperatively. + +Still bewildered, but a little sullen now, Lannigan obeyed. Jimmie Dale +stooped quickly, and snapped the other link of the handcuff over the +unconscious man's right wrist. + +Jimmie Dale smiled. + +“That's the approved way of taking your man, isn't it? Left wrist to the +prisoner's right. He's only stunned; he'll be around in a moment. Know +him?” + +Lannigan shook his head. + +“Take a good look at him,” invited Jimmie Dale. “You ought to know most +of them in the business.” + +Lannigan bent over a little closer, and then, with an amazed cry, his +free hand shot forward and tore away the other's beard. + +IT WAS WHITEY MACK! + +“My God!” gasped Lannigan. + +“Quite so!” said Jimmie Dale evenly. “You'll find the diamonds in his +pockets, and, excuse me”--his fingers were running through Whitey Mack's +clothes--“ah, here it is”--the thin metal case was in his hand--“a +little article that belongs to me, and whose loss, I am free to admit, +caused me considerable concern until I was informed that he had only +found it without having the slightest idea as to whom it belonged. +It made quite a difference!” He had opened the case carelessly before +Lannigan's eyes. “'The Gray Seal!' I'll say it for you,” said Jimmie +Dale whimsically. “This is what probably put the idea into his head, +after first, in some way, having discovered old Max Diestricht's hiding +place; and, if I had given him time enough, he would probably have stuck +one of these seals, in clumsy imitation of that little eccentricity of +mine, on the wall over there to stamp the job as genuine. You begin to +get it, don't you Lannigan? Pretty sure-fire as an alibi, eh? And he'd +have got away with it, too, as far as you were concerned. He had only +to fire that shot, smash the window, tuck his false beard, mustache, and +peaked cap into his pocket, put on his own hat that you see there on the +floor--and yell that the man had escaped. He'd help you chase the thief, +too! Rather neat, don't you think, Lannigan? And worth the risk, too, +considering the howl that would go up at the theft of those stones, and +that, known as the slickest diamond thief in the country, he would be +the first to be suspected--except that the police themselves, in the +person of Inspector Lannigan of headquarters, would be prepared to prove +a perfectly good alibi for him.” + +Lannigan's head was thrust forward; his eyes, hard, were riveted on +Whitey Mack. + +“My God!” he said again under his breath. Then fiercely: “He'll get his +for this!” + +It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke; he was musingly examining the +automatic in his hand. + +“I am going now, Lannigan,” he observed quietly. “I require, say, +fifteen minutes in which to effect my escape. It is, of course, obvious +that an alarm raised by you might prove extremely awkward, but a piece +of canvas from that bench there, together with a bit of string, would +make a most effective gag. I prefer, however, not to submit you to that +indignity. Instead, I offer you the alternative of giving me your word +to remain quietly where you are for--fifteen minutes.” + +Lannigan hesitated. + +Jimmie Dale smiled. + +“I agree,” said Lannigan shortly. + +Jimmie Dale stepped back. The electric-light switch clicked. The place +was in darkness. There was a moment, two, of utter stillness; then +softly, from the front end of the shop, a whisper: + +“If I were you, Lannigan, I'd take that gun from Whitey's pocket before +he comes round and beats you to it.” + +And the door had closed silently behind Jimmie Dale. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE STOOL-PIGEON + + +In the subway, ten minutes before, a freckled-faced messenger boy had +squeezed himself into a seat beside Jimmie Dale, yanked a dime novel +from a refractory pocket, and, blissfully lost to all the world, had +buried his head in its pages. Jimmie Dale's glance at the youngster had +equally, perforce, embraced the lurid title of the thriller, “Dicing +with Death,” so imperturbably thrust under his nose. At the time, he had +smiled indulgently; but now, as he left the subway and headed for his +home on Riverside Drive, the words not only refused to be ignored, but +had resolved themselves into a curiously persistent refrain in his +mind. They were exactly what they purported to be, dime-novelish, of +the deepest hue of yellow, melodramatic in the extreme; but also, to him +now, they were grimly apt and premonitorily appropriate. “Dicing with +Death”--there was not an hour, not a moment in the day, when he was not +literally dicing with death; when, with the underworld and the police +allied against him, a single false move would lose him the throw that +left death the winner! + +The risk of the dual life enforced upon him grew daily greater, and in +the end there must be the reckoning. He would have been a madman to have +shut his eyes in the face of what was obvious--but it was worth it all, +and in his soul he knew that he would not have had it otherwise even +now. To-night, to-morrow, the day after, would come another letter +from the Tocsin, and there would be another “crime” of the Gray Seal's +blazoned in the press--would that be the last affair, or would there +be another--or to-night, to-morrow, the day after, would he be trapped +before even one more letter came! + +He shrugged his shoulders, as he ran up the steps of his house. Those +were the stakes that he himself had laid on the table to wager upon the +game, he had no quarrel there; but if only, before the end came, or even +with the end itself, he could find--HER! + +With his latchkey he let himself into the spacious, richly furnished, +well-lighted reception hall, and, crossing this, went up the broad +staircase, his steps noiseless on the heavy carpet. Below, faintly, he +could hear some of the servants--they evidently had not heard him close +the door behind him. Discipline was relaxed somewhat, it was quite +apparent, with Jason, that peer of butlers, away. Jason, poor chap, was +in the hospital. Typhoid, they had thought it at first, though it had +turned out to be some milder form of infection. He would be back in a +few days now; but meanwhile he missed the old man sorely from the house. + +He reached the landing, and, turning, went along the hall to the door of +his own particular den, opened the door, closed it behind him--and in an +instant the keen, agile brain, trained to the little things that never +escaped it, that daily held his life in the balance, was alert. The room +was unusually dark, even for night-time. It was as though the window +shades had been closely drawn--a thing Jason never did. But then Jason +wasn't there! Jimmie Dale, smiling then a little quizzically at himself, +reached up for the electric-light switch beside the door, pressed +it--and, his finger still on the button, whipped his automatic from his +pocket with his other hand. THE ROOM WAS STILL IN DARKNESS. + +The smile on Jimmie Dale's lips was gone, for his lips now had closed +together in a tight, drawn line. The lights in the rest of the house, as +witness the reception hall, were in order. This was no ACCIDENT! Silent, +motionless, he stood there, listening. Was he trapped at last--in his +own house! By whom? The police? The thugs of the underworld? It made +little difference--the end would differ only in the method by which it +was attained! What was that! Was there a slight stir, a movement at the +lower end of the room--or was it his imagination? His hand fell from the +electric-light switch to the doorknob behind his back. Slowly, without +a sound, it began to turn under his slim, tapering fingers, whose deft, +sensitive touch had made him known and feared as the master cracksman of +them all; and, as noiselessly, the door began to open. + +It was like a duel--a duel of silence. What was the intruder, whoever he +might be, waiting for? The abortive click of the electric-light switch, +to say nothing of the opening of the door when he had entered, was +evidence enough that he was there. Was the other trying to place him +exactly through the darkness to make sure of his attack! The door was +open now. And suddenly Jimmie Dale laughed easily aloud--and on the +instant shifted his position. + +“Well?” inquired Jimmie Dale coolly from the other side of the +threshold. + +It seemed like a long-drawn sigh fluttering through the room, a gasp of +relief--and then the blood was pounding madly at his temples, and he was +back in the room again, the door closed once more behind him. + +“Oh, Jimmie--why didn't you speak? I had to be sure that it was you.” + +It was her voice! HERS! The Tocsin! HERE! She was here--here in his +house! + +“You!” he cried. “You--here!” He was pressing the electric-light switch +frantically, again and again. + +Her voice came out of the darkness from across the room: + +“Why are you doing that, Jimmie? You know already that I have turned off +the lights.” + +“At the sockets--of course!” He laughed out the words almost +hysterically. “Your face--I have never seen your face, you know.” He was +moving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk. + +There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking his +way. + +“No,” she said, in a low voice; “you must not light that lamp.” + +He laughed again, shortly, fiercely now. She was close to him, his hands +reached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch, swept her +toward him. + +“Jimmie--Jimmie--are you mad!” she breathed. + +Mad! Yes--he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration he +had ever known. He found his voice with an effort. + +“These months and years that I have tried until my soul was sick to find +you!” he cried out. “And you are here now! Your face--I must see your +face!” + +She had wrenched herself away from him. He could hear her breath coming +sharply in little gasps. He groped his way onward toward the desk. + +“WAIT!”--her tones seemed to ring suddenly vibrant through the room. +“Wait, before you touch that lamp! I--I put you on your honour not to +light it.” + +He stopped abruptly. + +“My--honour?” he repeated mechanically. + +“Yes! I came here to-night because there was no other way. No other +way--do you understand? I came, trusting to your honour not to take +advantage of the conditions that forced me to do this. I had no fear +that I was wrong--I have no fear now. You will not light that lamp, +and you will not make any attempt to prevent my going away as I +came--unknown. Is there any question about it, Jimmie? I am in YOUR +house.” + +“You don't know what you are saying!” he burst out wildly. “I've risked +my life for a chance like this again and again; I've gone through hell, +living in squalour for a month on end as Larry the Bat in the hope that +I might discover who you are--and do you think I'll let anything stop me +now! I tell you, no--a thousand times no!” + +She made no answer. There was only her low, quick breathing coming from +somewhere near him. He made another step toward the lamp--and stopped. + +“I tell you, no!” he said again, and took another step forward--and +stopped once more. + +Still she made no answer. A minute passed--another. His hand lifted and +swept across his forehead in an agitated way. Still silence. She neither +moved nor spoke. His hand dropped slowly to his side. There was a queer, +twisted smile upon his lips. + +“You win!” he said hoarsely. + +“Thank you, Jimmie,” she said simply. + +“And your name, who you are”--he was speaking, but he did not seem to +recognise his own voice--“the hundred other things I've sworn I'd make +you explain when I found you, are all taboo as well, I suppose!” + +“Yes,” she said. + +He laughed bitterly. + +“Don't you know,” he cried out, “that between the police and the +underworld, our house of cards is likely to collapse at any minute--that +they are hunting the Gray Seal day and night! Is it to be always like +this--that I am never to know--until it is too late!” + +She came toward him out of the darkness impulsively. + +“They will never get you, Jimmie,” she said, in a suppressed voice. “And +some day, I promise you now, you shall have your reward for to-night. +You shall know--everything.” + +“When?” The word came from him with fierce eagerness. + +“I do not know,” she answered gently. “Soon, perhaps--perhaps sooner +than either of us imagine.” + +“And by that you mean--what?” he asked, and his hand reached out for her +again through the blackness. + +This time she did not draw away. There was an instant's hesitation; then +she spoke again hurriedly, a note of anxiety in her voice. + +“You are beginning all over again, aren't you, Jimmie? And I have told +you that to-night I can explain nothing. And, besides, it is what has +brought me here that counts now, and every moment is of--” + +“Yes. I know,” he interposed; “but, then, at least you will tell me one +thing: Why did you come to-night, instead of sending me a letter as you +always have before?” + +“Because it is different to-night than it ever was before,” she replied +earnestly. “Because there is something in what has happened that I +cannot explain myself; because there is danger, and where I could not +see clearly I feared a trap, and so I dared not send what, in a letter, +could at best be only vague and incomplete details. Do you see?” + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale--but he was only listening in an abstracted way. +If he could only see that face, so close to his! He had yearned for that +with all his soul for years now! And she was here, standing beside him, +and his hand was upon her arm; and here, in his own den, in his own +house, he was listening to another call to arms for the Gray Seal from +her own lips! Honour! Was he but a poor, quixotic fool! He had only +to step to the desk and switch on the light! Why should--he steadied +himself with a jerk, and drew away his hand. She was in HIS house. “Go +on,” he said tersely. + +“Do you know, or did you ever hear of old Luther Doyle?” she asked. + +“No,” said Jimmie Dale. + +“Do you know a man, then, named Connie Myers?” + +Connie Myers! Who in the Bad Lands did not know Connie Myers, who +boasted of the half dozen prison sentences already to his credit? Yes; +he knew Connie Myers! But, strangely enough, it was not in the Bad Lands +or as Larry the Bat that he knew the man, or that the other knew him--it +was as Jimmie Dale. Connie Myers had introduced himself one night +several years ago with a blackjack that had just missed its mark as the +man had jumped out from a dark alleyway on the East Side, and he, Jimmie +Dale, had thrashed the other to within an inch of his life. He had +reason to know Connie Myers--and Connie Myers had reason to remember +him! + +“Yes,” he said, with a grim smile; “I know Connie Myers.” + +“And the tenement across the street from where you live as Larry the +Bat--that, of course, you know.” He leaned toward her wonderingly now. + +“Of course!” he ejaculated. “Naturally!” + +“Listen, then, Jimmie!” She was speaking quickly now. “It is a strange +story. This Luther Doyle was already over fifty, when, some eight or +nine years ago, his parents died within a few months of each other, +and he inherited somewhere in the neighbourhood of a hundred thousand +dollars; but the man, though harmless enough, was mildly insane, +half-witted, queer, and the old couple, on account of their son's mental +defects, took care to leave the money securely invested, and so that he +could only touch the interest. During these eight or nine years he has +lived by himself in the same old family house where he had lived with +his parents, in a lonely spot near Pelham. And he has lived in a most +frugal, even miserly, manner. His income could not have been less than +six thousand dollars a year, and his expenditures could not have been +more than six hundred. His dementia, ironically enough from the day that +he came into his fortune, took the form of a most pitiable and abject +fear that he would die in poverty, misery, and want; and so, year after +year, cashing his checks as fast as he got them, never trusting the bank +with a penny, he kept hiding away somewhere in his house every cent he +could scrape and save from his income--which to-day must amount, at a +minimum calculation, to fifty thousand dollars.” + +“And,” observed Jimmie Dale quietly. “Connie Myers robbed him of it, +and--” + +“No!” Her voice was quivering with passion, as she caught up his words. +“Twice in the last month Connie Myers TRIED to rob him, but the money +was too securely hidden. Twice he broke into Doyle's house when the old +man was out, but on both occasions was unsuccessful in his search, and +was interrupted and forced to make his escape on account of Doyle's +return. To-night, an hour ago, in an empty room on the second floor +of that tenement, in the room facing the landing, old Luther Doyle was +MURDERED!” + +There was silence for an instant. Her hand had closed in a tight +pressure on his arm. The darkness seemed to add a sort of ghastly +significance to her words. + +“In God's name, how do you know all this?” he demanded wildly. “How do +you know all these things? + +“Does that matter now?” she answered tensely. “You will know that when +you know the rest. Oh, don't you understand, Jimmie, there is not a +moment to lose now? It was easy to lure a half-witted creature like that +anywhere; it was Connie Myers who lured him to the tenement and murdered +him there--but from that point, Jimmie, I am not sure of our ground. I +do not know whether Connie Myers is alone in this or not; but I do know +that he is going to Doyle's house again to-night to make another search +for the money. There is no question but that old Doyle was murdered to +give Connie Myers and his accomplices, if there are any, a chance to +tear the house inside out to find the money, to give them the whole +night to work in without interruption if necessary--but Doyle dead in +his own house could have interfered no more with them than Doyle dead in +that tenement! Why was he lured to the tenement by Connie Myers when he +could much more easily have been put out of the way in his own house? +Jimmie, there is something behind this, something more that you must +find out. There may be others in this besides Connie Myers, I do not +know; but there is something here that I am afraid of. Jimmie, you must +get that man, you must get the others if there are others, and you +must stop them from getting the money in that house to-night! Do you +understand now why I have come here? I could not explain in a letter; +I do not quite seem to be explaining now. It would seem as though +there were no need for the Gray Seal--that simply the police should be +notified. But I KNOW, Jimmie, call it intuition, what you will, I know +that there is need for us, for you to-night--that behind all this is a +tragedy, deeper, blacker, than even the brutal, cold-blooded murder that +is already done.” + +Her voice, in its passionate earnestness, died away; and an anger, +cold, grim, remorseless, settled upon Jimmie Dale--settled as it always +settled upon him at her call to arms. His brain was already at work in +its quick, instant way, probing, sifting, planning. She was right! It +was strange, it was more than strange that, with the added risk, the +danger, the difficulty, the man should have been brought miles to be +done away with in that tenement! Why? Connie Myers took form before +him--the coarse features, the tawny hair that straggled across the low +forehead, the shifty eyes that were an indeterminate colour between +brown and gray, the thin lips that seemed to draw in and give the jaw +a protruding, belligerent effect. And Connie Myers knew him as Jimmie +Dale--it would have to be then as Larry the Bat that the Gray Seal must +work. That meant time--to go to the Sanctuary and change. + +“The police,” he asked suddenly, aloud, “they have not yet discovered +the body?” + +“Not yet,” she replied hurriedly. “And that is still another reason +for haste--there is no telling when they will. See--here!” She thrust +a paper into his hand. “Here is a plan of old Doyle's house, and +directions for finding it. You must get Connie Myers red-handed, you +must make him convict himself, for the evidence through which I know him +to be guilty can never be used against him. And, Jimmie, be careful--I +know I am not wrong, that there is still something more behind all this. +And now go, Jimmie, go! There is no time to lose!” She was pushing him +across the room toward the door. + +Go! The word seemed suddenly to bring dismay. It was she again who was +dominant now in his mind. Who knew if to-night, when he was taking his +life in his hands again, would not be the last! And she was here now, +here beside him--where she might never be again! + +She seemed to divine his thoughts, for she spoke again, a strange new +note of tenderness in her voice that thrilled him. + +“You must never let them get you, Jimmie--for my sake. It will not last +much longer--it is near the end--and I shall keep my promise. But go, +now, Jimmie--go!” + +“Go?” he repeated numbly. “Go? But--but you?” + +“I?” She slipped suddenly away from him, retreating back down the room. +“I will go--as I came.” + +“Wait! Listen!” he pleaded. + +There was no answer. + +She was there--somewhere back there in the darkness still. He stood +hesitant at the door. It seemed that every faculty he possessed urged +him back there again--to her. Could he let her escape him now when she +was so utterly in his power, she who meant everything in his life! And +then, like a cold shock, came that other thought--she who had trusted to +his honour! With a jerk, his hand swept out, felt for the doorknob, and +closed upon it. + +“Good-night!” he said heavily, and stepped out into the hall. + +It seemed for a while, even after he had gained the street and made his +way again to the subway, that nothing was concrete around him, that +he was living through some fantastical dream. His head whirled, and he +could not think rationally--and then slowly, little by little, his grip +upon himself came back. She had come--and gone! With the roar of the +subway in his ears, its raucous note seeming to strike so perfectly in +consonance with the turmoil within him, he smiled mirthlessly. After +all, it was as it always was! She was gone--and ahead of him lay the +chances of the night! + +“Dicing with death!” The words, unbidden, came back once more. If they +were true before, they were doubly applicable now. It was different +to-night from what it had ever been before, as she had said. Usually, to +the smallest detail, everything was laid open, clear before him in +those astounding letters. To-night, it was vague at best. A man had been +murdered. Connie Myers had committed the murder under circumstances that +pointed strongly to some hidden motive behind and beyond the mere chance +it afforded him to search his victim's house for the hidden cash. What +was it? + +Jimmie Dale stared out at the black subway walls. The answer would not +come. Station after station passed. At Fourteenth Street he changed from +the express to a local, got out at Astor Place, and a few minutes later +was walking rapidly down the upper end of the Bowery. + +The answer would not come--only the fact itself grew more and more +deeply significant. The ghastly, callous fiendishness that lured an +old, half-witted man to his death had Jimmie Dale in that grip of cold, +merciless anger again, and there was a dull flush now upon his cheeks. +Whatever it meant, whatever was behind it, one thing at least was +certain--HE WOULD GET CONNIE MYERS! + +He was close to the Sanctuary now--it was down the next cross street. He +reached the corner and turned it, heading east; but his brisk walk had +changed to a nonchalant saunter--there were some people coming toward +him. It was the Gray Seal now, alert and cautious. The little group +passed by. Ahead, the tenement bordering on the black alleyway loomed +up--the Sanctuary, with its three entrances and exits; the home of Larry +the Bat. And across from it was that other tenement, that held a new +interest for him now, where, in an empty room on the second floor, +she had said, old Doyle still lay. Should he go there? He was thinking +quickly now, and shook his head. It would take what he did not have to +spare--time. It was already ten o'clock; and, granted that Connie Myers +had committed the crime only a little over an hour ago, the man by this +time would certainly be on his way to Doyle's house near Pelham, if, +indeed, he were not already there. No, there was no time to spare--the +question resolved itself simply into how long, since he had already +searched twice and failed on both occasions, it would take Connie Myers +to unearth old Doyle's hiding place for the money. + +Jimmie Dale glanced sharply around him, slipped into the alleyway, and, +crouching against the tenement wall, moved noiselessly along to the side +entrance. A moment more, and he had negotiated the rickety stairs with +practiced, soundless tread, was inside the squalid quarters of Larry the +Bat, and the door of the Sanctuary was locked and bolted behind him. + +Perhaps five minutes passed--and then, where Jimmie Dale, the +millionaire, had entered, there emerged Larry the Bat, of the +aristocracy and the elite of the Bad Lands. But instead of leaving by +the side door and the alleyway, as he had entered, he went along the +lower hallway to the front entrance. And here, instinctively, he paused +a moment at the top of the steps, as his eyes rested upon the tenement +on the opposite side of the street. + +It was strange that the crime should have been committed there! +Something again seemed to draw him toward that empty room on the second +story. He had decided once that he would not go, that there was not +time; but, after all, it would not take long, and there was at least the +possibility of gaining something more valuable even than time from the +scene of the crime itself--there might even be the evidence he wanted +there that would disclose the whole of Connie Myers' game. + +He went down the steps, and started across the street; but halfway over, +he hesitated uncertainly, as a child's cry came petulantly from the +doorway. It was dark in the street; and, likewise, it was one of those +hot, suffocating evenings when, in the crowded tenements of the poorer +class, miserable enough in any case, misery was added to a hundredfold +for lack of a single God-given breath of air. These two facts, +apparently irrelevant, caused Jimmie Dale to change his mind again. +He had not noticed the woman with the baby in her arms, sitting on +the doorstep; but now, as he reached the curb, he not only saw, but +recognised her--and he swung on down the street toward the Bowery. He +could not very well go in without passing her, without being recognised +himself--and that was a needless risk. + +He smiled a little wanly. Once the crime was discovered, she would not +have hesitated long before informing the police that she had seen him +enter there! Mrs. Hagan was no friend of his! One could not live as he +had lived, as Larry the Bat, and not see something in an intimate way +of the pitiful little tragedies of the poor around him; for, bad, tough, +and dissolute as the quarter was, all were not degraded there, some were +simply--poor. Mrs. Hagan was poor. Her husband was a day labourer, often +out of a job--and sometimes he drank. That was how he, Jimmie Dale, +or rather, Larry the Bat, had come to earn Mrs. Hagan's enmity. He had +found Mike Hagan drunk one night, and in the act of being arrested, and +had wheedled the man away from the officer on the promise that he would +take Hagan home. And he was Larry the Bat, a dope fiend, a character +known to all the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Hagan had laid her husband's +condition to HIS influence and companionship! He had taken Mike Hagan +home--and Mrs. Hagan had driven Larry the Bat from the door of her +miserable one-room lodging in that tenement with the bitter words on +her tongue that only a woman can use when shame and grief and anger are +breaking her heart. + +He shrugged his shoulders, as, back along the Bowery, he retraced his +steps, but now, with the hurried shuffle of Larry the Bat where before +had been the brisk, athletic stride of Jimmie Dale. + +At Astor Place again, he took the subway, this time to the Grand +Central Station--and, well within an hour from the time he had left the +Sanctuary, including the train journey to Pelham, he was standing in a +clump of trees that fringed a deserted roadway. He had passed but few +houses, once he was away from Pelham, and, as well as he could judge, +there was none now within a quarter of a mile of him--except this one +of old Luther Doyle's that showed up black and shadowy just beyond the +trees. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the place. It was little +wonder that, known to have money, an attempt to rob old Doyle should +have been made in a place like this! It was even more grimly significant +than ever of some deeper meaning that, in its loneliness an ideal place +for a murder, the man should have been lured from there for that purpose +to a crowded tenement in the city instead! What did it mean? Why had +it been done? He shook his head. The answer would not come now any more +than it had come before in the subway, or in the train on the way out, +when he had set his brain so futilely to solve the problem. + +From a survey of the house, Jimmie Dale gave attention to the details of +his surroundings: the trees on either side; the open space in front, a +distance of fifty yards to the road; the absence of any fence. And then, +abruptly, he stole forward. There was no light to be seen anywhere about +the house. Was it possible that Connie Myers was not yet there? He +shook his head again impatiently. Connie Myers would not have wasted any +time--as the Tocsin had said, there was always present the possibility +that the crime in that tenement might be discovered at ANY moment. +Connie Myers would have lost no time; for, let the discovery be made, +let the police identify the body, as they most certainly would, and they +would be out here hotfoot. Jimmie Dale stood suddenly still. What did it +mean! He had not thought of that before! If old Doyle had been murdered +HERE, there would not have been even the possibility of discovery until +the morning at the earliest, and Connie Myers would have had all the +time he wanted! + +WHAT WAS THAT SOUND! A low, muffled tapping, like a succession of hammer +blows, came from within the house. Jimmie Dale darted forward, reached +the side of the house, and dropped on hands and knees. One question at +least was answered--Connie Myers was inside. + +The plan that she had given him showed an old-fashioned cellarway, +closed by folding trapdoors, that was located a little toward the rear +and, in a moment, creeping along, he came upon it. His hands felt over +it. It was shut, fastened by a padlock on the outside. Jimmie Dale's +lips thinned a little, as he took a small steel instrument from his +pocket. Either through inadvertence or by intention, Connie Myers had +passed up an almost childishly simple means of entrance into the house! +One side of the trapdoor was lifted up silently--and silently closed. +Jimmie Dale was in the cellar. The hammering, much more distinct now, +heavy, thudding blows, came from a room in the front--the connection +between the cellar and the house, as shown on the Tocsin's plan, was +through another trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen. + +Jimmie Dale's flashlight played on a short, ladderlike stairway, and +in an instant he was climbing upward. The sounds from the front of the +house continued now without interruption; there was little fear that +Connie Myers would hear anything else--even the protesting squeak of +the hinges as Jimmie Dale cautiously pushed back the trapdoor in the +flooring above his head. An inch, two inches he lifted it; and, his eyes +on a level with the opening now, he peered into the room. The kitchen +itself was intensely dark; but through an open doorway, well to one +side so that he could not see into the room beyond, there struggled +a curiously faint, dim glimmer of light. And then Jimmie Dale's form +straightened rigidly on the stairs. The blows stopped, and a voice, in a +low growl, presumably Connie Myers', reached him. + +“Here, take a drive at it from the lower edge!” + +There was no answer--save that the blows were resumed again. Jimmie +Dale's face had set hard. Connie Myers was not alone in this, then! +Well, the odds were a little heavier, DOUBLED--that was all! He pushed +the trapdoor wide open, swung himself up through the opening to the +floor; and the next instant, back a little from the connecting doorway, +his body pressed closely against the kitchen wall, he was staring, +bewildered and amazed, into the next room. + +On the floor, presumably to lessen the chance of any light rays stealing +through the tightly drawn window shades, burned a small oil lamp. The +place was in utter confusion. The right-hand side of a large fireplace, +made of rough, untrimmed stone and cement, and which occupied almost +the entire end of the room, was already practically demolished, and +the wreckage was littered everywhere; part of the furniture was piled +unceremoniously into one corner out of the way; and at the fireplace +itself, working with sledge and bar, were two men. One was Connie Myers. +An ironical glint crept into Jimmie Dale's eyes. The false beard and +mustache the man wore would deceive no one who knew Connie Myers! And +that he should be wearing them now, as he knelt holding the bar while +the other struck at it, seemed both uncalled for and absurd. The other +man, heavily built, roughly dressed, had his back turned, and Jimmie +Dale could not see his face. + +The puzzled frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead deepened. Somewhere in the +masonry of the fireplace, of course, was where old Luther Doyle had +hidden his money. That was quite plain enough; and that Connie Myers, in +some way or other, had made sure of that fact was equally obvious. But +how did old Luther Doyle get his money IN there from time to time, as he +received the interest and dividends whose accumulation, according to the +Tocsin, comprised his hoard! And how did he get it OUT again? + +“All right, that'll do!” grunted Connie Myers suddenly. “We can pry this +one out now. Lend a hand on the bar!” + +The other dropped his sledge, turned sideways as he stooped to help +Connie Myers, his face came into view--and, with an involuntary start, +Jimmie Dale crouched farther back against the wall, as he stared at the +other. It was Hagan! Mrs. Hagan's husband! Mike Hagan! + +“My God!” whispered Jimmie Dale, under his breath. + +So that was it! That the murder had been committed in the tenement was +not so strange now! A surge of anger swept Jimmie Dale--and was engulfed +in a wave of pity. Somehow, the thin, tired face of Mrs. Hagan had risen +before him, and she seemed to be pleading with him to go away, to leave +the house, to forget that he had ever been there, to forget what he +had seen, what he was seeing now. His hands clenched fiercely. How +realistically, how importunately, how pitifully she took form before +him! She was on her knees, clasping his knees, imploring him, terrified. + +From Jimmie Dale's pocket came the black silk mask. Slowly, almost +hesitantly, he fitted it over his face--Mike Hagan knew Larry the Bat. +Why should he have pity for Mike Hagan? Had he any for Connie Myers? +What right had he to let pity sway him! The man had gone the limit; +he was Connie Myers' accomplice--a murderer! But the man was not a +hardened, confirmed criminal like Connie Myers. Mike Hagan--a murderer! +It would have been unbelievable but for the evidence before his own +eyes now. The man had faults, brawled enough, and drank enough to have +brought him several times to the notice of the police--but this! + +Jimmie Dale's eyes had never left the scene before him. Both men were +throwing their weight upon the bar, and the stone that they were trying +to dislodge--they were into the heart of the masonry now--seemed to +move a little. Connie Myers stood up, and, leaning forward, examined the +stone critically at top and bottom, prodding it with the bar. He turned +from his examination abruptly, and thrust the bar into Hagan's hands. + +“Hold it!” he said tersely. “I'll strike for a turn.” + +Crouched, on his hands and knees, Hagan inserted the point of the bar +into the crevice. Connie Myers picked up the sledge. + +“Lower! Bend lower!” he snapped--and swung the sledge. + +It seemed to go black for a moment before Jimmie Dale's eyes, seemed to +paralyse all action of mind and body. There was a low cry that was more +a moan, the clang of the iron bar clattering on the floor, and Mike +Hagan had pitched forward on his face, an inert and huddled heap. A half +laugh, half snarl purled from Connie Myers' lips, as he snatched a stout +piece of cord from his pocket and swiftly knotted the unconscious man's +wrists together. Another instant, and, picking up the bar, prying with +it again, the loosened stone toppled with a crash into the grate. + +It had come sudden as the crack of doom, that blow--too quick, too +unexpected for Jimmie Dale to have lifted a finger to prevent it. And +now that the first numbed shock of mingled horror and amazement was +past, he fought back the quick, fierce impulse to spring out on Connie +Myers. Whether the man was killed or only stunned, he could do no good +to Mike Hagan now, and there was Connie Myers--he was staring in a +fascinated way at Connie Myers. Behind the stone that the other had just +dislodged was a large hollow space that had been left in the masonry, +and from this now Connie Myers was eagerly collecting handfuls of +banknotes that were rolled up into the shape of little cylinders, each +one grotesquely tied with a string. The man was feverishly excited, +muttering to himself, running from the fireplace to where the table had +been pushed aside with the rest of the furniture, dropping the curious +little rolls of money on the table, and running back for more. And then, +having apparently emptied the receptacle, he wriggled his body over +the dismantled fireplace, stuck his head into the opening, and peered +upward. + +“Kinks in his nut, kinks in his nut!” Connie Myers was muttering. “I'll +drop the bar through from the top, mabbe there's some got stuck in the +pipe.” + +He regained his feet, picked up the bar, and ran with it into what was +evidently the front hall--then his steps sounded running upstairs. + +Like a flash, Jimmie Dale was across the room and at the fireplace. Like +Connie Myers, he, too, put his head into the opening; and then, a queer, +unpleasant smile on his lips, he bent quickly over the man on the floor. +Hagan was no more than stunned, and was even then beginning to show +signs of returning consciousness. There was a rattle, a clang, a +thud--and the bar, too long to come all the way through, dropped into +the opening and stood upright. Connie Myers' footsteps sounded again, +returning on the run--and Jimmie Dale was back once more on the other +side of the kitchen doorway. + +It was all simple enough--once one understood! The same queer smile +was still flickering on Jimmie Dale's lips. There was no way to get the +money out, except the way Connie Myers had got it out--by digging it +out! With the irrational cunning of his mad brain, that had put the +money even beyond his own reach, old Doyle had built his fireplace with +a hollow some eighteen inches square in a great wall of solid stonework, +and from it had run a two-inch pipe up somewhere to the story above; +and down this pipe he had dropped his little string-tied cylinders of +banknotes, satisfied that his hoard was safe! There seemed something +pitifully ironic in the elaborate, insane craftiness of the old man's +fear-twisted, demented mind. + +And now Connie Myers was back in the room again--and again a puzzled +expression settled upon Jimmie Dale's face as he watched the other. For +perhaps a minute the man stood by the table sifting the little rolls of +money through his fingers gloatingly--then, impulsively, he pushed these +to one side, produced a revolver, laid it on the table, and from another +pocket took out a little case which, as he opened it, Jimmie Dale could +see contained a hypodermic syringe. One more article followed the other +two--a letter, which Connie Myers took out of an unsealed envelope. He +dropped this suddenly on the table, as Mike Hagan, three feet away on +the floor, groaned and sat up. + +Hagan's eyes swept, bewildered, confused, around him, questioningly +at Connie Myers--and then, resting suddenly on his bound wrists, they +narrowed menacingly. + +“Damn you, you smashed me with that sledge on PURPOSE!” he burst +out--and began to struggle to his feet. + +With a brutal chuckle, Connie Myers pushed Hagan back and shoved his +revolver under the other's nose. + +“Sure!” he admitted evenly. “And you keep quiet, or I'll finish you +now--instead of letting the police do it!” He laughed out jarringly. +“You're under arrest, you know, for the murder of Luther Doyle, and for +robbing the poor old nut of his savings in his house here.” + +Hagan wrenched himself up on his elbow. + +“What--what do you mean?” he stammered. + +“Oh, don't worry!” said Connie Myers maliciously. “I'M not making the +arrest, I'd rather the police did that. I'm not mixing up in it, and +by and by”--he lifted up the hypodermic for Hagan to see--“I'm going +to shoot a little dope into you that'll keep you quiet while I get away +myself.” + +Hagan's face had gone a grayish white--he had caught sight of the money +on the table, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth from it to +Myers' face. + +“Murder!” he said huskily. “There is no murder. I don't know who Doyle +is. You said this house was yours--you hired me to come here. You said +you were going to tear down the fireplace and build another. You said I +could work evenings and earn some extra money.” + +“Sure, I did!” There was a vicious leer now on Connie Myers' lips. “But +you don't think I picked you out by ACCIDENT, do you? Your reputation, +my bucko, was just shady enough to satisfy anybody that it wouldn't be +beyond you to go the limit. Sure, you murdered Doyle! Listen to this.” + He took up the letter: + + +“TO THE POLICE: Luther Doyle was murdered this evening in the tenement +at 67 ---- Street. You'll find his body in a room on the second floor. +If you want to know who did it, look in Mike Hagan's room on the floor +above. There's a paper stuck under the edge of Hagan's table with a +piece of chewing gum, where he hid it. You'll know what it is when +you go out and take a look at Doyle's house in Pelham. Yours truly, A +FRIEND.” + + +Mike Hagan did not speak--his lips were twitching, and there was horror +creeping into his eyes. + +“D'ye get me!” sneered Connie Myers. “Tell your story--who'd believe it! +I got you cinched. Twice I tried to get this old dub's coin out here, +and couldn't find it. But the second time I found something else--a +piece of paper with a drawing of the fireplace on it, and a place in the +drawing marked with an X. That was good enough, wasn't it? That's +the paper I stuck under your table this afternoon when your wife was +out--see? Somebody's got to stand for the job, and if it's somebody else +it won't be me--get me! When I had a look at that fireplace I knew I +couldn't do the job alone in a week, and I didn't dare blast it with +'soup' for fear of spoiling what was inside. And since I had to have +somebody to help me, I thought I might as well let him help me all the +way through--and stand for it. I picked you, Mike--that's why I croaked +old Doyle in your tenement to-night. I wrote this letter while I was +waiting for you to show up at the station to come out here with me, and +I'm going to see that the police get it in the next hour. When they +find Doyle in the room below yours, and that paper in your room, and the +busted fireplace here--I guess they won't look any farther for who did +it. And say”--he leaned forward with an ugly grin--“mabbe you think I'm +soft to be telling you all this? But don't you fool yourself. You don't +know me--you don't know who I am. So tell 'em the TRUTH! They won't +believe you anyway with evidence like that against you--and the neater +the story the more they'll think it shows brains enough on your part to +have pulled a job like this!” + +“My God!” Hagan was rocking on his knees, beads of sweat were starting +out on his forehead. “You wouldn't plant a man like that!” he cried +brokenly. “You wouldn't do it, would you? My God--you wouldn't do that!” + +Jimmie Dale's face under his mask was white and rigid. There was +something primal, elemental in the savagery that was sweeping upon him. +He had it all now--ALL! She had been right--there was need to-night for +the Gray Seal. So that was the game, inhuman, hellish, the whole of +it, to the last filthy dregs--Connie Myers, to protect himself, was +railroading an innocent man to death for the crime that he himself had +committed! There was a cold smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now, as he took +his automatic from his pocket. No, it wasn't quite all the game--there +was still HIS hand to play! He edged forward a little nearer to the +door--and halted abruptly, listening. An automobile had stopped outside +on the road. Hagan was still pleading in a frenzied way; Connie +Myers was callously folding his letter, while he watched the other +warily--neither of the men had heard the sound. + +And then, quick, almost on the instant, came a rush of feet, a crash +upon the front door--an imperative command to open in the name of the +law. THE POLICE! Jimmie Dale's brain was working now with lightning +speed. Somehow the police had stumbled upon the crime in that tenement; +and, as he had foreseen in such an event, had identified Doyle. But they +could not be sure that any one was present here in the house now--they +could not see a light any more than he had. He must get Mike Hagan +away--must see that Connie Myers did NOT get away. Myers was on his +feet now, fear struck in his turn, the letter clutched in a tight-closed +fist, his revolver swung out, poised, in the other hand. Hagan, too, was +on his feet, and, unheeded now by Connie Myers, was wrenching his wrists +apart. + +Another crash upon the door--another. Another demand in a harsh voice to +open it. Then some one running around to the window at the side of the +house--and Jimmie Dale sprang forward. + +There was the roar of a report, a blinding flash almost in Jimmie Dale's +eyes, as Connie Myers, whirling instantly at his entrance, fired--and +missed. It happened quick then, in the space of the ticking of a +watch--before Jimmie Dale, flinging himself forward, had reached the +man. Like a defiant challenge to their demand it must have seemed to the +officers outside, that shot of Connie Myers at Jimmie Dale, for it was +answered on the instant by another through the side window. And the +shot, fired at random, the interior of the room hidden from the officers +outside by the drawn shades, found its mark--and Connie Myers, a bullet +in his brain, pitched forward, dead, upon the floor. + +“QUICK!” Jimmie Dale flung at Hagan. “Get that letter out of his hand!” + He jumped for the lamp on the floor, extinguished it, and turned again +toward Hagan. “Have you got it?” he whispered tensely. + +“Yes,” said Hagan, in a numbed way. + +“This way, then!” Jimmie Dale caught Hagan's arm, and pulled the other +across the room and into the kitchen to the trapdoor. “Quick!” he +breathed again. “Get down there--quick! And no noise! They don't know +how many are in the house. When they find HIM they'll probably be +satisfied.” + +Hagan, stupefied, dazed, obeyed mechanically--and, in an instant, the +trapdoor closed behind them, Jimmie Dale was standing beside the other +in the cellar. + +“Not a sound now!” he cautioned once more. + +His flashlight winked, went out, winked again; then held steadily, in +curious fascination it seemed, as, in its circuit, the ray fell upon +Hagan--FELL UPON THE TORN, RAGGED EDGE OF A PAPER IN HAGAN'S HAND! With +a suppressed cry, Jimmie Dale snatched it away from the other. It +was but a torn HALF of the letter! “The other half! The other half, +Hagan--where is it?” he demanded hoarsely. + +Hagan, almost in a state of collapse, muttered inaudibly. The crash of a +toppling door sounded from above. Jimmie Dale shook the man desperately. + +“Where is it?” he repeated fiercely. + +“He--he was holding it tight, it--it tore in his hand,” Hagan stammered. +“Does it make any difference? Oh, let's get out of here, whoever you +are--for God's sake let's get out of here!” + +Any difference! Jimmie Dale's jaws were clamped like a steel vise. Any +difference! The difference between life and death for the man beside +him--that was all! He was reading the portion in his hand. It was the +last part of the letter, beginning with: “There's a paper stuck under +the edge of Hagan's table--” From above, from the floor of the front +room now, came the rush and trample of feet. He could not go back for +the other half. And any attempt to conceal the fact that Connie Myers +had been alone in the house was futile now. They would find the torn +letter in the dead man's hand, proof enough that some one else had been +there. What was in that part of the letter that was still clutched in +that death grip upstairs? A sentence from it, that he had heard Connie +Myers read, seemed to burn itself into his brain. “IF YOU WANT TO KNOW +WHO DID IT, LOOK IN MIKE HAGAN'S ROOM ON THE FLOOR ABOVE.” And then, +suddenly, like light through the darkness, came a ray of hope. He pulled +Hagan to the cellarway, and stealthily lifted one side of the double +trapdoor. There was a chance, desperate enough, one in a thousand--but +still a chance! + +Voices from the house came plainly now, but there was no one in sight. +The police, to a man, were evidently all inside. From the road in front +showed the lamp glare of their automobile. + +“Run for the car!” Jimmie Dale jerked out from between set teeth--and +with Hagan beside him, steadying the man by the arm, dashed across the +intervening fifty yards. + +They had not been seen. A minute more, and the car, evidently belonging +to the local police, for it was headed in the direction of New York, and +as though it had come from Pelham, swept down the road, swept around a +turn, and Jimmie Dale, with a gasp of relief, straightened up a little +from the wheel. + +How much time had he? The police must have heard the car; but, equally, +occupied as they were, they might well give it no thought other than +that it was but another car passing by. There was no telephone in the +house; the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away, and that might or +might not have a telephone. Could he count on half an hour? He glanced +anxiously at the crouched figure beside him. He would have to! It was +the only chance. They would telephone the contents of the dead man's +half of the letter to the New York police. Could he get to Hagan's room +FIRST! “Look in Hagan's room,” their part of the letter read--but it +did not say for WHAT, or exactly WHERE! If they found nothing, Hagan was +safe. Connie Myers' reputation, the fact that he was found in disguise +at Doyle's house, was, barring any incriminating evidence, quite enough +to let Hagan out. There would only remain in the minds of the police the +question of who, beside Connie Myers, had been in old Doyle's house that +night? And now Jimmie Dale smiled a little whimsically. Well, perhaps he +could answer that--and, if not quite to the satisfaction of the police, +at least to the complete vindication of Mike Hagan. + +But he could not drive through towns and villages with a mask on his +face; and there, ahead now, lights were beginning to show. And more than +ever now, with what was before him, it was imperative that Mike Hagan +should not recognise Larry the Bat. Jimmie Dale glanced again at +Hagan--and slowed down the car. They were on the outskirts of a town, +and off to the right he caught the twinkling lights of a street car. + +“Hagan,” he said sharply, “pull yourself together, and listen to me! If +you keep your mouth shut, you've nothing to fear; if you let out a word +of what's happened to-night, you'll probably go to the chair for a crime +you know nothing about. Do you understand?--keep your mouth shut!” + +The car had stopped. Hagan nodded his head. + +“All right, then. You get out here, and take a street car into New +York,” continued Jimmie Dale crisply. “But when you get there, keep away +from your home for the next two or three hours. Hang around with some of +the boys you know, and if you're asked anything afterward, say you were +batting around town all evening. Don't worry--you'll find you're out of +this when you read the morning papers. Now get out--hurry!” He pushed +Hagan from the car. “I've got to make my own get-away.” + +Hagan, standing in the road, brushed his hand bewilderingly across his +eyes. + +“Yes--but you--I--” + +“Never mind about that!” Jimmie Dale leaned out, and gripped Hagan's +arm impressively. “There's only one thing you've got to think of, or +remember. Keep your mouth shut! No matter what happens, keep your mouth +shut--if you want to save your neck! Good-night, Hagan!” + +The car was racing forward again. It shot streaking through the streets +of the town ahead, and, dully, over its own inferno, echoed shouts, +cries, and execrations of an outraged populace--then out into the night +again, roaring its way toward New York. + +He had half an hour--perhaps! It was a good thing Hagan did not know, or +had not grasped the significance of that torn letter--the man would have +been unmanageable with fear and excitement. It would puzzle Hagan to +find no paper stuck under his table when he came to look for it! But +that was a minor consideration, that mattered not at all. + +Half an hour! On roared the car--towns, black roads, villages, wooded +lands were kaleidoscopic in their passing. Half an hour! Had he done it? +Had he come anywhere near doing it? He did not know. He was in the city +at last--and now he had to moderate his speed; but, by keeping to the +less frequented streets, he could still drive at a fast pace. One piece +of good fortune had been his--the long motor coat he had found in the +car with which to cover the rags of Larry the Bat, and without which he +would have been obliged to leave the car somewhere on the outskirts of +the city, and to trust, like Mike Hagan, to other and slower means of +transportation. + +Blocks away from Hagan's tenement, he ran the car into a lane, slipped +off the motor coat, and from his pocket whipped out the little metal +insignia case--and in another moment a diamond-shaped gray seal was +neatly affixed to the black ebony rim of the steering wheel. He smiled +ironically. It was necessary, quite necessary that the police should +have no doubt as to who had been in Doyle's house with Connie Myers that +night, or to whom they had so considerately loaned their automobile! + +He was running now--through lanes, dodging down side streets, taking +every short cut he knew. Had he beaten the police to Mike Hagan's room? +It would be easy then. If they were ahead of him, then, by some means or +other, he must still get that paper first. + +He was at the tenement now--shuffling leisurely up the steps. The front +door was open. He entered, and went up the first flight of stairs, then +along the hall, and up the next flight. He had half expected the place +to be bustling with excitement over the crime; but the police evidently +had kept the affair quiet, for he had seen no one since he had +entered. But now, as he began to mount the third flight, he went more +slowly--some one was ahead of him. It was very dark--he could not see. +The steps above died away. He reached the landing, started along for +Hagan's room--and a light blazed suddenly in his face, and a hard, +quick grip on his shoulder forced him back against the wall. Then the +flashlight wavered, glistened on brass buttons went out, and a voice +laughed roughly: + +“It's only Larry the Bat!” + +“Larry the Bat, eh?” It was another voice, harsh and curt. “What are you +doing here?” + +He was not first, after all! The telephone message from Pelham--it was +almost certainly that--had beaten him! They were ahead of him, just +ahead of him, they had only been a few steps ahead of him going up the +stairs, just a second ahead of him on their way to Hagan's room! Jimmie +Dale was thinking fast now. He must go, too--to Hagan's room with +them--somehow--there was no other way--there was Hagan's life at stake. + +“Aw, I ain't done nothin'!” he whined. “I was just goin' ter borrow the +price of a feed from Mike Hagan--lemme go!” + +“Hagan, eh!” snapped the questioner. “Are you a friend of his?” + +“Sure, I am!” + +The officers whispered for a moment together. + +“We'll try it,” decided the one who appeared to be in command. “We're +in the dark, anyhow, and the thing may be only a steer. Mabbe it'll +work--anyway, it won't do any harm.” His hand fell heavily on Jimmie +Dale's shoulder. “Mrs. Hagan know you?” brusquely. + +“Sure she does!” sniffled Larry the Bat. + +“Good!” rasped the officer. “Well, we'll make the visit with you. And +you do what you're told, or we'll put the screws on you--see? We're +after something here, and you've blown the whole game--savvy? You've +spilled the gravy--understand?” + +In the darkness, Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was far more than he had +dared to hope for--they were playing into his hands! + +“But I don't know 'bout any game,” grovelled Larry the Bat piteously. + +“Who in hell said you did!” growled the officer. “You're supposed to +have snitched the lay to us, that's all--and mind you play your part! +Come on!” + +It was two doors down the hall to Mike Hagan's room, and there one of +the officers, putting his shoulder to the door, burst it open and sprang +in. The other shoved Jimmie Dale forward. It was quickly done. The three +were in the room. The door was closed again. + +Came a cry of terror out of the darkness, a movement as of some one +rising up hurriedly in bed; and then Mrs. Hagan's voice: + +“What is it! Who is it! Mike!” + +The table--it was against the right-hand wall, Jimmie Date remembered. +He sidled quickly toward it. + +“Strike a light!” ordered the officer in charge. + +Jimmie Dale's fingers were feeling under the edge of the table--a quick +sweep along it--NOTHING! He stooped, reaching farther in--another sweep +of his arm--and his fingers closed on a sheet of paper and a piece of +hard gum. In an instant they were in his pocket. + +A match crackled and flared up. A lamp was lighted. Larry the Bat sulked +sullenly against the wall. + +Terror-stricken, wide-eyed, Mrs. Hagan had clutched the child lying +beside her to her arms, and was sitting bolt upright in bed. + +“Now then, no fuss about it!” said the officer in charge, with brutal +directness. “You might as well make a clean breast of Mike's share in +that murder downstairs--Larry the Bat, here, has already told us the +whole story. Come on, now--out with it!” + +“Murder!”--her face went white. “My Mike--MURDER!” She seemed for an +instant stunned--and then down the worn, thin, haggard face gushed the +tears. “I don't believe it!” she cried. “I don't believe it!” + +“Come on now, cut that out!” prodded the officer roughly. “I tell you +Larry the Bat, here, has opened everything up wide. You're only making +it worse for yourself.” + +“Him!” She was staring now at Jimmie Dale. “Oh, God!” she cried. +“So that's what you are, are you--a stool-pigeon for the cops? Well, +whatever you told them, you lie! You're the curse of this neighbourhood, +you are, and if my Mike is bad at all, it's you that's helped to make +him bad. But murder--you LIE!” + +She had risen slowly from the bed--a gaunt, pitiful figure, pitifully +clothed, the black hair, gray-streaked, streaming thinly over her +shoulders, still clutching the baby that, too, was crying now. + +The officers looked at one another and nodded. + +“Guess she's handing it straight--we'll have a look on our own hook,” + the leader muttered. + +She paid no attention to them--she was walking straight to Jimmie Dale. + +“It's you, is it,” she whispered fiercely through her sobs “that would +bring more shame and ruin here--you that's selling my man's life away +with your filthy lies for what they're paying you--it's you, is it, +that--” Her voice broke. + +There was a frightened, uneasy look in Larry the Bat's eyes, his lips +were twitching weakly, he drew far back against the wall--and then, +glancing miserably at the officers, as though entreating their +permission, began to edge toward the door. + +For a moment she watched him, her face white with outrage, her hand +clenched at her side--and then she found her voice again. + +“Get out of here!” she said, in a choked, strained way pointing to the +door. “Get out of here--you dirty skate!” + +“Sure!” mumbled Larry the Bat, his eyes on the floor. “Sure!” he +mumbled--and the door closed behind him. + + + +PART TWO: THE WOMAN IN THE CASE + + +CHAPTER I + +BELOW THE DEAD LINE + + +Whisperings! Always whisperings, low, sibilant, floating errantly +from all sides, until they seemed a component part of the drug-laden +atmosphere itself. And occasionally another sound: the soft SLAP-SLAP +of loose-slippered feet, the faint rustle of equally loose-fitting +garments. And everywhere the sweet, sickish smell of opium. It was Chang +Foo's, simply a cellar or two deeper in Chang Foo's than that in which +Dago Jim had quarrelled once--and died! + +Larry the Bat, vicious-faced, unkempt, disreputable, lay sprawled out on +one of the dive's bunks, an opium pipe beside him. But Larry the Bat was +not smoking; instead, his ear was pressed closely against the boarding +that formed the rather flimsy partition at the side of the bunk. One +heard many things in Chang Foo's if one cared to listen--if one could +first win one's way through the carefully guarded gateway, that to the +uninitiated offered nothing more interesting than the entrance to a +Chinese tea-shop, and an uninviting one at that! + +HAD HE BEEN FOLLOWED IN HERE? He had been shadowed for the last hour; of +that, at least, he was certain. Why? By whom? For an hour he had dodged +in and out through the dens of the underworld, as only one who was at +home there and known to all could do--and at last he had taken refuge in +Chang Foo's like a fox burrowing deep into its hole. + +Few could find their way into the most infamous opium den in all New +York, where not only the poppy ruled as master, but where crime was +hatched, ay, and carried to its ghastly consummation, sometimes, as +well; and of those few, not one but was of the underworld itself. And +it was that fact which held his muscles strained and rigid now under the +miserable rags that covered them, and it was that which kept the keen, +quick brain alert and active, every faculty keyed up and tense. If it +were the police, he had little to fear, for they could not force +their way in without warning; but if it were the underworld, he was in +imminent peril, and had done little better than run himself into a trap +from which there was no escape. + +“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!”--he had heard that whispered more than once in +this very place. Who knew at what moment the role of Larry the Bat would +be uncovered, and the underworld, where now he held so high a place, +would be at his throat like a pack of snarling wolves! Who had been +shadowing him during the last hour? + +Whisperings! Nothing tangible! He could catch no words. Only the +never-ending whisperings of gathered groups here and there--and +sometimes the clink of coin where some game was in progress. + +The curtain before his bunk was drawn suddenly aside--and Larry +the Bat's fingers, where his hand was carelessly hidden by his body +tightened upon his automatic. + +“Smokee some more?” + +The fingers relaxed. It was only Sam Wah, one of the attendants. + +“Nix!” said Larry the Bat, in a slightly muddled tone. “Got enough.” + +The curtain fell into place again. Larry the Bat's lips set in a thin +smile. Ultimately it made little difference whether it was the police or +the underworld! The smile grew thinner. It was the flip of a coin, that +was all! With one there was the death house at Sing Sing for the Gray +Seal; with the other--well, there were many ways, from a shot or a knife +thrust in the open street, to his murder in some hidden dive like +this of Chang Foo's, for instance, where he now was--the Gray Seal was +responsible for the occupancy of too many penitentiary cells by those of +the underworld to look for any other fate! + +He raised himself up sharply on his elbow. A shrill, high note, like +the scream of a parrakeet, rang out a second time. He tore the curtain +aside, and jumped to his feet. All around him, in the twinkling of an +eye, Chinamen in fluttering blouses, chattering like magpies, mingled +with snarling, cursing whites, were running madly. A voice, prefaced +with an oath, bawled out behind him, as he sprang forward and joined the +rush: + +“Beat it! De cops! Beat it!” + +The police! A raid! Was it for HIM? From rooms, an amazing number of +them, more forms rushed out, joined, divided, separated, and dashed, +some this way, some that, along branching passageways. There had been +raids before, the police had begun to change their minds about Chang +Foo's, but Chang Foo's was not an easy place to raid. House after house +in that quarter of Chinese laundries, of tea shops, of chop-suey joints, +opened one into the other through secret passages in the cellars. +Larry the Bat plunged down a staircase, and halted in the darkness of +a cellar, drawing back against the wall while the flying feet of his +fellow fugitives scurried by him. + +Was it for HIM, this raid? If not, the police had not a hope of getting +him if he kept his head; for back in Chang Foo's proper, which would be +quite closed off now, Chang Foo would be blandly submitting to arrest, +offering himself as a sort of glorified sacrifice while the police +confiscated opium and fan-tan layouts. If the police had no other +purpose than that in mind, Chang Foo would simply pay a fine; the next +night the place would be in full blast again; and Chang Foo, higher than +ever in the confidence of the underworld's aristocracy, would reap his +reward--and that would be all there was to it. + +But was that all? The raid had followed significantly close upon the +heels of his entry into Chang Foo's. Larry the Bat began to move forward +again. He dared not follow the others, and, later on, when quiet was +restored, issue out into the street from any one of the various houses +in which he might temporarily have taken refuge. There was a chance in +that, a chance that the police might be more zealous than usual, even if +he particularly was not their game--and he could take no chance. Arrest +for Larry the Bat, even on suspicion, could have but one conclusion--not +a pleasant one--the disclosure that Larry the Bat was not Larry the Bat +at all, but Jimmie Dale, the millionaire club-man, and, to complete a +fatal triplication, that Larry the Bat and Jimmie Dale was the Gray Seal +upon whose head was fixed a price! + +All was silence around him now, except that from overhead came +occasionally the muffled tread of feet. He felt his way along into a +black, narrow passage, emerged into a second cellar, swept the place +with a single, circling gleam from a pocket flashlight, passed a +stairway that led upward, reached the opposite wall, and, dropping on +hands and knees, crawled into what, innocently enough, appeared to be +the opening of a coal bin. + +He knew Chang Foo's well--as he knew the ins and outs of every den and +place he frequented, knew them as a man knows such things when his life +at any moment might hang upon his knowledge. + +He was in another passage now, and this, in a few steps, brought him to +a door. Here he halted, and stood for a full five minutes, absolutely +motionless, absolutely still, listening. There was nothing--not a +sound. He tried the door cautiously. It was locked. The slim, sensitive, +tapering fingers of Jimmie Dale, unrecognisable now in the grimy digits +of Larry the Bat, felt tentatively over the lock. To fingers that seemed +in their tips to possess all the human senses, that time and again +in their delicate touch upon the dial of a safe had mocked at human +ingenuity and driven the police into impotent frenzy, this was a pitiful +thing. From his pocket came a small steel instrument that was quickly +and deftly inserted in the keyhole. There was a click, the door swung +open, and Jimmie Dale, alias Larry the Bat, stepped outside into a back +yard half a block away from the entrance to Chang Foo's. + +Again he listened. There did not appear to be any unusual excitement in +the neighbourhood. From open windows above him and from adjoining houses +came the ordinary, commonplace sounds of voices talking and laughing, +even the queer, weird notes of a Chinese chant. He stole noiselessly +across the yard, out into the lane, and made his way rapidly along to +the cross street. + +In a measure, now, he was safe; but one thing, a very vital thing, +remained to be done. It was absolutely necessary that he should know +whether he was the quarry that the police had been after in the raid, if +it was the police who had been shadowing him all evening. If it was the +police, there was but one meaning to it--Larry the Bat was known to be +the Gray Seal, and a problem perilous enough in any aspect confronted +him. Dare he risk the Sanctuary--for the clothes of Jimmie Dale? Or was +it safer to burglarise, as he had once done before, his own mansion on +Riverside Drive? + +His thoughts were running riot, and he frowned, angry with himself. +There was time enough to think of that when he knew that it was the +police against whom he had to match his wits. + +Well in the shadow of the buildings, he moved swiftly along the side +street until he came to the corner of the street on which, halfway down +the block, fronted Chang Foo's tea-shop. A glance in that direction, and +Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief. A patrol wagon was backed up to +the curb, and a half dozen officers were busy loading it with what was +evidently Chang Foo's far from meagre stock of gambling appurtenances; +while Chang Foo himself, together with Sam Wah and another attendant, +were in the grip of two other officers, waiting possibly for another +patrol wagon. There was a crowd, too, but the crowd was at a respectful +distance--on the opposite side of the street. + +Jimmie Dale still hugged the corner. A man swaggered out from a doorway, +quite close to Chang Foo's, and came on along the street. As the other +reached the corner, Jimmie Dale sidled forward. + +“'Ello, Chick!” he said, out of the corner of his mouth. “Wot's de lay?” + +“'Ello, Larry!” returned the other. “Aw, nuthin'! De nutcracker on +Chang, dat's all.” + +“I t'ought mabbe dey was lookin' for some guy dat was in dere,” observed +Jimmie Dale. + +“Nuthin' doin'!” the other answered. “I was in dere meself. De whole mob +beat it clean, an' de bulls never batted an eye. Didn't youse pipe me +make me get-away outer Shanghai's a minute ago? De bulls never went +nowhere except into Chang's. Dere's a new lootenant in de precinct +inaugeratin' himself, dat's all. S'long, Larry--I gotta date.” + +“S'long, Chick!” responded Jimmie Dale--and started slowly back along +the cross street. + +It was not the police, then, who were interested in his movements! Then +who? He shook his head with a little, savage, impotent gesture. One +thing was clear: it was too early to risk a return to the Sanctuary and +attempt the rehabilitation of Jimmie Dale. If any one was on the +hunt for Larry the Bat, the Sanctuary would be the last place to be +overlooked. + +He turned the next corner, hesitated a moment in front of a garishly +lighted dance hall, and finally shuffled in through the door, made his +way across the floor, nodding here and there to the elite of gangland, +and, with a somewhat arrogant air of proprietorship, sat down at a table +in the corner. Little better than a tramp in appearance, certainly +the most disreputable-looking object in the place, even the waiter who +approached him accorded him a certain curious deference--was not Larry +the Bat the most celebrated dope fiend below the dead line? + +“Gimme a mug o' suds!” ordered Jimmie Dale, and sprawled royally back in +his chair. + +Under the rim of his slouch hat, pulled now far over his eyes, he +searched the faces around him. If he had been asked to pick the actors +for a revel from the scum of the underworld, he could not have improved +upon the gathering. There were perhaps a hundred men and women in +the room, the majority dancing, and, with the exception of a few +sight-seeing slummers, they were men and women whose acquaintance with +the police was intimate but not cordial--far from cordial. + +Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and sipped at the glass that had +been set before him. It was grimly ironic that he should be, not only +there, but actually a factor and a part of the underworld's intimate +life! He, Jimmie Dale, a wealthy man, a member of New York's +exclusive clubs, a member of New York's most exclusive society! It was +inconceivable. He smiled sardonically. Was it? Well, then, it was none +the less true. His life unquestionably was one unique, apart from any +other man's, but it was, for all that, actual and real. + +There had been three years of it now--since SHE had come into his life. +Jimmie Dale slouched down a little in his chair. The ice was thin, +perilously thin, that he was skating on now. Each letter, with its +demand upon him to match his wits against police or underworld, or +against both combined, perhaps, made that peril a little greater, a +little more imminent--if that were possible, when already his life +was almost literally carried, daily, hourly, in his hand. Not that he +rebelled against it; it was worth the price that some day he expected +he must pay--the price of honour, wealth, a name disgraced, ruin, death. +Was he quixotic? Immoderately so? He smiled gravely. Perhaps. But he +would do it all over again if the choice were his. There were those who +blessed the name of the Gray Seal, as well as those who cursed it. And +there was the Tocsin! + +Who was she? He did not know, but he knew that he had come to love her, +come to care for her, and that she had come to mean everything in life +to him. He had never seen her, to know her face. He had never seen her +face, but he knew her voice--ay, he had even held her for a moment, the +moment of wildest happiness he had ever known, in his arms. That night +when he had entered his library, his own particular den in his own +house, and in the darkness had found her there--found her finally +through no effort of his own, when he had searched so fruitlessly for +years to find her, using every resource at his command to find her! And +she, because she had come of her own volition, relying upon him, had +held him in honour to let her go as she had come--without looking upon +her face! Exquisite irony! But she had made him a promise then--that the +work of the Gray Seal was nearly over--that soon there would be an end +to the mystery that surrounded her--that he should know all--that he +should know HER. + +He smiled again, but it was a twisted smile on the mechanically +misshapen lips of Larry the Bat. NEARLY over! Who knew? That “nearly” + might be too late! Even tonight he had been shadowed, was skulking even +now in this place as a refuge. Who knew? Another hour, and the newsboys +might be shrieking their “Uxtra! Uxtra! De Gray Seal caught! De +millionaire Jimmie Dale de Jekyll an' Hyde of real life!” + +Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly in his seat. There was a shout, +an oath bawled out high above the riot of noise, a chorus of feminine +shrieks from across the room. What was the matter with the +underworld to-night? He seemed fated to find nothing but centres of +disturbance--first a raid at Chang Foo's, and now this. What was the +matter here? They were stampeding toward him from the other side of +the room. There was the roar of a revolver shot--another. Black Ike! He +caught an instant's glimpse of the gunman's distorted face through the +crowd. That was it probably--a row over some moll. + +And then, as Jimmie Dale lunged up from his chair to his feet to escape +the rush, pandemonium itself seemed to break loose. Yells, shots, +screams, and oaths filled the air. The crowd surged this way and that. +Tables were overturned and sent crashing to the floor. And then came +sudden darkness, as some one of the attendants in misguided excitability +switched off the lights. + +The darkness but served to increase the panic, not allay it. With a +savage snap of his jaws, Jimmie Dale swung from his table in the corner +with the intention of making his way out by a side door behind him--it +was a case of the police again, and the patrolman outside would probably +be pulling a riot call by now. And the police--He stopped suddenly, +as though he had been struck. An envelope, thrust there out of the +darkness, was in his hand; and her voice, HERS, the Tocsin's, was +sounding in his ears: + +“Jimmie! Jimmie! I've been trying all evening to catch you! Quick! Get +to the Sanctuary and change your clothes. There's not an instant to +lose! It's for my sake to-night!” + +And then a surging mob was around him on every side, and, pushing, +jostling, half lifting him at times from his feet, carried him forward +with its rush, and with him in its midst burst through the door and out +into the street. + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE CALL TO ARMS + + +Not a sound as the key turned in the lock; not a sound as the door swung +back on its carefully oiled hinges; not a sound as Larry the Bat slipped +like a shadow into the blackness of the room, closing the door behind +him again. With a tread as noiseless as a cat's, he was across the room +to satisfy himself that the shutters were tightly closed; and then the +single gas jet flared up, murky, yellow, illuminating the miserable, +squalid room--the Sanctuary--the home of Larry the Bat. There was need +for silence, need for caution. In five minutes, ten at the outside, he +must emerge again--as Jimmie Dale. + +With a smile on his lips that mingled curiously chagrin and +self-commiseration, he took the letter from his pocket and tore it open. +It was she, then, who had been following him all evening, and, like a +blundering idiot, he had wasted precious, perhaps irreparable, hours! +What had she meant by “It's for my sake to-night”? The words had been +ringing in his ears since the moment she had whispered them in that +panic-stricken crowd. Was it not always for her sake that he answered +these calls to arms? Was it not always for her sake that he, as the +Gray Seal, was--The mental soliloquy came to an abrupt end. He had +subconsciously read the first sentence of the letter, and now, with +sudden feverish eagerness and excitement, he was reading it to the last +word. + + +“DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: In an hour after you receive this, if all +goes well, you shall know everything--everything. Who I am--yes, and +my name. It has been more than three years now, hasn't it? It has been +incomprehensible to you, but there has been no other way. I dared not +take the chance of discovery by any one; I dared not expose you to +the risk of being known by me. Your life would not have been worth +a moment's purchase. Oh, Jimmie, am I only making the mystery more +mystifying? But to-night, I think, I hope, I pray that it is all at an +end: though against me, and against you to-night when you go to help +me, is the most powerful and pitiless organisation of criminals that the +world has ever known; and the stake we are playing for is a fortune of +millions--and my life. And yet somehow I am afraid now, just because the +end is so near, and the victory seems so surely won. And so, Jimmie, be +careful; use all that wonderful cleverness of yours as you have never +used it before, and--But there should be no need for that, it is so +simple a thing that I am going to ask you to do. Why am I writing so +illogically! Nothing, surely, can possibly happen. This is not like +one of my usual letters, is it? I am beside myself to-night with hope, +anxiety, fear, and excitement. + +“Listen, then, Jimmie: Be at the northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and +Waverly Place at exactly half-past ten. A taxicab will drive up, as +though you had signalled it in passing, and the chauffeur will say: +'I've another fare, in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most +anywhere in that time.' You will be smoking a cigarette. Toss it out +into the street, make any reply you like, and get into the cab. Give the +chauffeur that little ring of mine with the crest of the bell and belfry +and the motto, 'Sonnez le Tocsin,' that you found the night old Isaac +Pelina was murdered, and the chauffeur will give you in exchange a +sealed packet of papers. He will drive you to your home, and I will +telephone to you there. + +“I need not tell you to destroy this. Keep the appointment in your +proper person--as Jimmie Dale. Carry nothing that might identify you +as the Gray Seal if any accident should happen. And, lastly, trust the +pseudo chauffeur absolutely.” + + +There was no signature. Her letters were never signed. He stood for a +moment staring at the closely written sheets in his hand, a heightened +colour in his cheeks, his lips pressed tightly together--and then his +fingers automatically began to tear the letter into pieces, and the +pieces again into little shreds. To-night! It was to be to-night, the +end of all this mystery. To-night was to see the end of this dual life +of his, with its constant peril! To-night the Gray Seal was to exit from +the stage forever! To-night, a wonderful climax of the years, he was to +see HER! + +His blood was quickened now, his heart pounding in a faster beat; a mad +elation, a fierce uplift was upon him. He thrust the torn bits of paper +into his pocket hurriedly, stepped across the room to the corner, rolled +back the oilcloth, and lifted up the loose plank in the flooring, so +innocently dustladen, as, more than once, to have eluded the eyes of +inquisitive visitors in the shape of police and plain clothes men from +headquarters. + +From the space beneath he removed a neatly folded pile of clothes, laid +these on the bed, and began to undress. He was working rapidly now. Tiny +pieces of wax were removed from his nostrils, from under his lips, from +behind his ears; water from a cracked pitcher poured into a battered tin +basin, and mixed with a few drops of some liquid from a bottle which he +procured from its hiding place under the flooring, banished the make-up +stain from his face, his neck, his wrists, and hands as if by magic. +It was a strange metamorphosis that had taken place--the coarse, +brutal-featured, blear-eyed, leering countenance of Larry the Bat was +gone, and in its place, clean-cut, square-jawed, clear-eyed, was the +face of Jimmie Dale. And where before had slouched a slope-shouldered, +misshapen, flabby creature, a broad-shouldered form well over six feet +in height now stood erect, and under the clean white skin the muscles +of an athlete, like knobs of steel played back and forth with every +movement of his body. + +In the streaked and broken mirror Jimmie Dale surveyed himself +critically, methodically, and, with a nod of satisfaction, hastily +donned the fashionably cut suit of tweeds upon the bed. He rummaged then +through the ragged garments he had just discarded, transferred to +his pockets a roll of bills and his automatic, and paused hesitantly, +staring at the thin metal case, like a cigarette case, that he held in +the palm of his hand. He shrugged his shoulders a little whimsically; it +seemed strange indeed that he was through with that! He snapped it +open. Within, between sheets of oil paper, lay the scores of little +diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, adhesive paper seals--the insignia of the +Gray Seal. Yes, it seemed strange that he was never to use another! He +closed the case, gathered up the clothes of Larry the Bat, tucked +the case in among them, and shoved the bundle into the hole under the +flooring. All these things would have to be destroyed, but there was not +time to-night; to-morrow, or the next day, would do for that. What would +it be like to live a normal life again, without the menace of danger +lurking on every hand, without that grim slogan of the underworld, +“Death to the Gray Seal!” or that savage fiat of the police, “The Gray +Seal, dead or alive--but the Gray Seal!” forever ringing in his ears? +What would it be like, this new life--with her? + +The thought was thrilling him again, bringing again that eager, exultant +uplift. In an hour, ONE hour, and the barriers of years would be swept +away, and she would be in his arms! + +“It's for my sake to-night!” His face grew suddenly tense, as the words +came back to him. That “hour” wasn't over yet! It was no hysterical +exaggeration that had prompted her to call her enemies the most powerful +and pitiless organisation of criminals that the world had ever known. +It was not the Tocsin's way to exaggerate. The words would be literally +true. The very life she had led for the three years that had gone stood +out now as a grim proof of her assertion. + +Jimmie Dale replaced the flooring, carefully brushed the dust back into +the cracks, spread the oilcloth into place, and stood up. Who and what +was this organisation? What was between it and the Tocsin? What was this +immense fortune that was at stake? And what was this priceless packet +that was so crucial, that meant victory now, ay, and her life, too, she +had said? + +The questions swept upon him in a sort of breathless succession. Why had +she not let him play a part in this? True, she had told him why--that +she dared not expose him to the risk. Risk! Was there any risk that the +Gray Seal had not taken, and at her instance! He did not understand, he +smiled a little uncertainly, as he reached up to turn out the gas. There +were a good many things that he did not understand about the Tocsin! + +The room was in darkness, and with the darkness Jimmie Dale's mind +centred on the work immediately before him. To enter the tenement where +he was known and had an acknowledged right as Larry the Bat was one +thing; for Jimmie Dale to be discovered there was quite another. + +He crossed the room, opened the door silently, stood for a moment +listening, then stepped out into the black, musty, ill-smelling hallway, +closing the door behind him. He stooped and locked it. The querulous cry +of a child reached him from somewhere above--a murmur of voices, muffled +by closed doors, from everywhere. How many families were housed beneath +that sordid roof he had never known, only that there was miserable +poverty there as well as vice and crime, only that Larry the Bat, who +possessed a room all to himself, was as some lordly and super-being to +these fellow tenants who shared theirs with so many that there was not +air enough for all to breathe. + +He had no doors to pass--his was next to the staircase. He began to +descend. They could scream and shriek, those stairs, like aged humans, +twisted and rheumatic, at the least ungentle touch. But there was no +sound from them now. There seemed something almost uncanny in the +silent tread. Stair after stair he descended, his entire weight thrown +gradually upon one foot before the other was lifted. The strain upon the +muscles, trained and hardened as they were, told. As he moved from the +bottom step, he wiped little beads of perspiration from his forehead. + +The door, now, that gave on the alleyway! He opened it, slipped outside, +darted across the narrow lane, stole along where the shadows of the +fence were blackest, paused, listening, as he reached the end of the +alleyway, to assure himself that there was no near-by pedestrian--and +stepped out into the street. + +He kept on along the block, turned into the Bowery, and, under the first +lamp, consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He could make +it easily in a leisurely walk. He continued on up the Bowery, finally +crossed to Broadway, and shortly afterward turned into Waverly Place. +At the corner of Fifth Avenue he consulted his watch again--and now he +lighted a cigarette. Sixth Avenue was only a block away. At precisely +half-past ten, to the second, he halted on the designated corner, +smoking nonchalantly. + +A taxicab, coincidentally coming from an uptown direction, swung in to +the curb. + +“Taxi, sir? Yes, sir?” Then, with an admirable mingling of eagerness to +secure the fare and a fear that his confession might cause him the loss +of it: “I've another fare in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most +anywhere in that time.” + +Jimmie Dale's cigarette was tossed carelessly into the street. + +“St. James Club!” he said curtly, and stepped into the cab. + +The cab started forward, turned the corner, and headed along Waverly +Place toward Broadway. The chauffeur twisted around in his seat in a +matter-of-fact way, as though to ask further directions. + +“Have you anything for me?” he inquired casually. + +It lay where it always lay, that ring, between the folds of that little +white glove in his pocketbook. Jimmie Dale took it out now, and handed +it silently to the chauffeur. + +The other's face changed instantly--composure was gone, and a quick, +strained look was in its place. + +“I'm afraid I've been watched,” he said tersely. “Look behind you, will +you, and tell me if you see anything?” + +Jimmie Dale glanced backward through the little window in the hood. + +“There's another taxi just turned in from Sixth Avenue,” he reported the +next instant. + +“Keep your eye on it!” instructed the chauffeur shortly. + +The speed of the cab increased sensibly. + +With a curious tightening of his lips, Jimmie Dale settled himself +in his seat so that he could watch the cab behind. There was trouble +coming, intuitively he sensed that; and, he reflected bitterly, he might +have known! It was too marvellous, too wonderful ever to come to pass +that this one hour, the thought of which had fired his blood and made +him glad beyond any gladness life had ever held for him before, should +bring its promised happiness. + +“Where's the cab now?” the chauffeur flung back over his shoulder. + +They had passed Fifth Avenue, and were nearing Broadway. + +“About the same distance behind,” Jimmie Dale answered. + +“That looks bad!” the chauffeur gritted between his teeth. “We'll have +to make sure. I'll run down Lower Broadway.” + +“If you think we're followed,” suggested Jimmie Dale quietly, “why not +run uptown and give them the slip somewhere where the traffic is thick? +Lower Broadway at this time of night is as empty and deserted as a +country road.” + +The chauffeur's sudden laugh was mirthless. + +“My God, you don't know what you are talking about!” he burst out. “If +they're following, all hell couldn't throw them off the track. And I've +got to know, I've got to be SURE before I dare make a move to-night. I +couldn't tell up in the crowded districts if I was followed, could I? +They won't come out into the open until their hands are forced.” + +The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speeding up faster and +faster, began to tear down Lower Broadway. + +“Watch! WATCH!” cried the chauffeur. + +There was no word between them for a moment; then Jimmie Dale spoke +crisply: + +“It's turned the corner! It's coming this way!” + +The taxicab was rocking violently with the speed; silent, empty, Lower +Broadway stretched away ahead. Apart from an occasional street car, +probably there would be nothing between them and the Battery. Jimmie +Dale glanced at his companion's face as a light, flashing by, threw +it into relief. It was set and stern, even a little haggard; but, too, +there was something else there, something that appealed instantly to +Jimmie Dale--a sort of bulldog grit that dominated it. + +“If he holds our speed, we'll know!” the chauffeur was shouting now to +make himself heard over the roar of the car. “Look again! Where is it +now?” + +Once more Jimmie Dale looked through the little rear window. The cab had +been a block behind them when it had turned the corner, and he watched +it now in a sort of grim fascination. There was no possible doubt of it! +The two bobbing, bouncing headlights were creeping steadily nearer. And +then a sort of unnatural calm settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his hand +went mechanically to his pocket to feel his automatic there, as he +turned again to the chauffeur. + +“If you've got any more speed, you'd better use it!” he said +significantly. + +The man shot a quick look at him. + +“They are following us? You are SURE?” + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale. + +The chauffeur laughed again in that mirthless, savage way. + +“Lean over here, where I can talk to you!” he rasped out. “The game's +up, as far as I am concerned, I guess! But there's a chance for you. +They don't know you in this.” + +“Give her more speed--or dodge into a cross street!” suggested Jimmie +Dale coolly. “They haven't got us yet, by a long way!” + +The other shook his head. + +“It's not only that cab behind,” he answered, through set lips. “You +don't know what we're up against. If they're really after us, there's +a trap laid in every section of this city--the devils! It's the package +they want. Thank God for the presentiment that made me leave it behind! +I was going back for it, you understand, if I was satisfied that we +weren't followed. Listen! There's a chance for you--there's none for me. +That package--remember this!--no one else knows where it is, and it's +life and death to the one who sent you here. It's in Box 428 at--My God, +LOOK! Look there!” he yelled, and, with a wrench at the wheel, sent the +taxi lurching and staggering for the car tracks in the centre of the +street. + +The scene, fast as thought itself, was photographing itself in every +detail upon Jimmie Dale's brain. From the cross street ahead, one from +each corner, two motor cars had nosed out into Broadway, blocking the +road on both sides. And now the car on the left-hand side was +moving forward across the tracks to counteract the chauffeur's move, +deliberately insuring a collision. There was no chance, no further +room to turn, no time to stop--the man driving the other car jumped for +safety--they would be into it in an instant. + +“Box 428!” Jimmie pleaded fiercely. “Go on, man! Go on! FINISH!” + +“Yes!” cried the chauffeur. “John Johansson, at--” + +But Jimmie Dale heard no more. There was the crash of impact as the +taxicab plowed into the car that had been so craftily manoeuvered in +front of it, and Jimmie Dale, lifted from his feet, was hurled violently +forward with the shock, and all went black before his eyes. + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE CRIME CLUB + + +For what length of time he had remained unconscious, Jimmie Dale had not +the slightest idea. He regained his senses to find himself lying on a +couch in a strange room that had a most exquisitely brass-wrought dome +light in the ceiling. That was what attracted his attention, because +the light hurt his eyes, and his head was already throbbing as though a +thousand devils were beating a diabolical tattoo upon it. + +He closed his eyes against the light. Where was he? What had happened? +Oh, yes, he remembered now! That smash on Lower Broadway! He had been +hurt. He moved first one limb and then another tentatively, and was +relieved to find that, though his body ached as if it had been severely +shaken, and his head was bad, he had apparently escaped without serious +injury. + +Where was he? In a hospital? His fingers, resting at his side upon the +couch, supplied him with the information that it was a very expensive +couch, upholstered in finest leather. If he were in a hospital, he would +be in a cot. + +He opened his eyes again to glance curiously around him. The room was +quite in keeping with the artistic lighting fixture and the refined, if +expensive, taste that was responsible for the couch. A heavy velvet +rug of rich, dark green was bordered by a polished hardwood floor; +panellings of dark-green frieze and beautifully grained woodwork made +the lower walls; while above, on a background of some soft-toned paper, +hung a few, and evidently choice, oil paintings. There was a big, +inviting lounging chair; a massive writing table, or more properly, a +desk of walnut; and behind the desk, his back half turned, apparently +intent upon a book, sat a man in immaculate evening dress. + +Jimmie Dale closed his eyes again. There was something reassuring about +it all, comfortably reassuring. Though why there should be any occasion +for a feeling of reassurance at all, he could not for the moment make +out. And then, in a sudden flash, the details of the night came back to +him. The Tocsin's letter--the package he was to get--the taxicab--the +chauffeur, who was not a chauffeur--the chase--the trap. He lay +perfectly still. It was the professional Jimmie Dale now whose brain, in +spite of the throbbing, brutally aching head, was at work, keen, alert. + +The chauffeur! What had happened to him? Had the man been killed in the +auto smash; or, less fortunate than himself, fallen into the hands of +those whose power he seemed both to fear and rate so highly? And that +package! Box--what was the number?--yes, 428. What did that mean? What +box? Where was it? Who was John Johansson? He hadn't heard any more than +that; the smash had come then. And lastly, he was back again to the +same question he had begun with: Where was he now himself? It looked as +though some good Samaritan had picked him up. Who was this gentleman so +quietly reading there at the desk? + +Jimmie Dale opened his eyes for the third time. How still, how +absolutely silent the room was! He studied the man's back speculatively +for a moment, then his gaze travelled on past the man to the wall, +riveted there, and his fingers, without movement of his arm, pressed +against the outside of his coat pocket. He thought as much! His +automatic was gone! + +Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. His eyes shifted to a picture +on the wall. THE MAN WAS WATCHING HIM--NOT READING! Just above the level +of the desk, a small mirror held the couch in focus--but, equally, +it held the man in focus, and Jimmie Dale had seen the other's eyes, +through a black mask that covered the face to the top of the upper lip, +fixed intently upon him. + +There was a chill now where before there had been reassurance, something +ominous in the very quiet and refinement of the room; and Jimmie Dale +smiled inwardly in bitter irony--his good Samaritan wore a mask! His +self-congratulations had come too soon. Whatever had happened to the +chauffeur, it was evident enough that he himself was caught! What was it +the chauffeur had said? Something about a chance through being unknown. +Was it to be a battle of wits, then? God, if his head did not ache so +frightfully! It was hard to think with the brain half sick with pain. + +Those two eyes shining in that mirror! There seemed something horribly +spectre-like about it. He did not look again, but he knew they were +there. It was like a cat watching a mouse. Why did not the man speak, +or move, or do something, and--He turned his head slowly; the man was +laughing in a low, amused way. + +“You appear to be taken with that picture,” observed a pleasant voice. +“Perhaps you recognise it from there? It is a Corot.” + +Jimmie Dale, with a well-simulated start, sat up--and, with another +quite as well simulated, stared at the masked man. The other had laid +down his book, and swung around in his chair to face the couch. Jimmie +Dale stood up a little shakily. + +“Look here!” he said awkwardly. “I--I don't quite understand. I remember +that my taxi got into a smash-up, and I suppose I have to thank you for +the assistance you must have rendered me; only, as I say”--he looked in +a puzzled way around the room, and in an even more perplexed way at the +mask on the other's face--“I must confess I am at a loss to understand +quite the meaning of this.” + +“Suppose that instead of trying to understand you simply accept things +as you find them.” The voice was soft, but there was a finality in it +that its blandness only served to make the more suggestive. + +Jimmie Dale drew himself up, and bowed coldly. + +“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude. I have only to +thank you again, then, and bid you good-night.” + +The lips beneath the mask parted slightly in a politely deprecating +smile. + +“There is no hurry,” said the man, a sudden sharpness creeping into his +tones. “I am sorry that the rule I apply to you does not work both ways. +For instance, I might be quite at a loss to account for your presence in +that taxicab.” + +Jimmie Dale's smile was equally polite, equally deprecating. + +“I fail to see how it could be of the slightest possible interest to +you,” he replied. “However, I have no objection to telling you. I hailed +the taxi at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place, told the +chauffeur to drive me to the St. James Club, and--” + +“The St. James Club,” broke in the other coldly, “is, I believe, north, +not SOUTH of Waverly Place--and on Broadway not at all.” + +Jimmie Dale stared at the other for an instant in patient annoyance. + +“I am quite well aware of that,” he said stiffly. “Nevertheless I told +the man to drive me to the St. James Club. We came across Waverly Place, +but on reaching Broadway, instead of turning uptown, he suddenly whirled +in the other direction and sent the car flying at full speed down Lower +Broadway. I shouted at the man. I don't know yet whether he was drunk +or crazy or”--Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed disdainfully on the other's +mask--“whether there might not, after all, have been method in his +madness. I can only say that before we had gone more than two or three +blocks, a wild effort on his part to avoid a collision with an auto +swinging out from a side street resulted in an even more disastrous +smash with another on the other side, and I was knocked senseless.” + +“'Victim,' I presume, is the idea you desire to convey,” observed the +other evenly. “You were quite the victim of circumstances, as it were!” + +Jimmie Dale's eyebrows lifted slightly. + +“It would appear to be fairly obvious, I should say.” + +“Very clever!” commented the man. “But now suppose we remove the buttons +from the foils!” His voice rasped suddenly. “You are quite as well aware +as I am that what has happened to-night was not an accident. Nor--in +case the possibility may have occurred to you--are the police any the +wiser, save for the existence of two wrecked cars on Lower Broadway, and +another which escaped, and for which doubtless they are still searching +assiduously. The ownership of the taxicab you so inadvertently entered +they will have no difficulty in establishing--you, perhaps, however, +are in a better position than I am to appreciate the fact that the +establishment of its ownership will lead them nowhere. As I understand +it, the man who drove you to-night obtained the loan of the cab from one +of the company's chauffeur's in return for a hundred-dollar bill. Am I +right?” + +“In view of what has happened,” admitted Jimmie Dale simply, “I should +not be surprised.” + +There was a sort of sardonic admiration in the other's laugh. + +“As for the other car,” he went on, “I can assure you that its ownership +will never be known. When the nearest patrolman rushed up, there were +no survivors of the disaster, save those in the third car which he was +powerless to stop--which accounts for your presence here. You will admit +that I have been quite frank.” + +“Oh, quite!” said Jimmie Dale, a little wearily. “But would you mind +telling me what all this is leading to?” + +The man had been leaning forward in his chair, one hand, palm downward, +resting lightly on the desk. He shifted his hand now suddenly to the arm +of his chair. + +“THIS!” he said, and on the desk where his hand had been lay the +Tocsin's gold signet ring. + +Jimmie Dale's face expressed mild curiosity. He could feel the other's +eyes boring into him. + +“We were speaking of ownership,” said the man, in a low, menacing +tone. “I want to know where the woman who owns this ring can be found +to-night.” + +There was no play, no trifling here; the man was in deadly earnest. But +it seemed to Jimmie Dale, even with the sense of peril more imminent +with every instant, that he could have laughed outright in savage +mockery at the irony of the question. Where was she? Even WHO was she? +And this was the hour in which he was to have known! + +“May I look at it?” he requested calmly. + +The other nodded, but his eyes never left Jimmie Dale. + +“It will give you an extra moment or so to frame your answer,” he said +sarcastically. + +Jimmie Dale ignored the thrust, picked up the ring, examined it +deliberately, and set it back again on the table. + +“Since I do not know who owns it,” he said, “I cannot answer your +question.” + +“No! Well, then, there is still another matter--a little package that +was in the taxicab with you. Where is that?” + +“See here!” said Jimmie Dale irritably. “This has gone far enough! I +have seen no package, large or small, or of any description whatever. +You are evidently mistaking me for some one else. You have only to +telephone to the St. James Club.” He reached toward his pocket for his +cardcase. “My name is--” + +“Dale,” supplied the other curtly. “Don't bother about the card, Mr. +Dale. We have already taken the liberty of searching you.” He rose +abruptly from his chair. “I am afraid you do not quite realise your +position, Mr. Dale,” he said, with an ominous smile. “Let me make +it clear. I do not wish to be theatrical about this, but we do not +temporise here. You will either answer both of those questions to my +satisfaction, OR YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE ALIVE.” + +Jimmie Dale's face hardened. His eyes met the other's steadily. + +“Ah, I think I begin to see!” he said caustically. “When I have been +thoroughly frightened I shall be offered my freedom at a price. A sort +of up-to-date game of holdup! The penalty of being a wealthy man! If you +had named your figure to begin with, we would have saved a lot of idle +talk, and you would have had my answer the sooner: NOTHING!” + +“Do you know,” said the other, in a grimly musing way, “there has always +been one man, but only one until now, that I have wished I might add +to my present associates. I refer to the so-called Gray Seal. To-night +there are two. I pay you the compliment of being the other. But”--he was +smiling ominously again--“we are wasting time, Mr. Dale. I am willing to +expose my hand to the extent of admitting that the information you are +withholding is infinitely more valuable to me than the mere wreaking of +reprisal upon you for a refusal to talk. Therefore, if you will answer, +I pledge you my word you will be free to leave here within five minutes. +If you refuse, you are already aware of the alternative. Well, Mr. +Dale?” + +Who was this man? Jimmie Dale was studying the other's chin, the lips, +the white, even teeth, the jet-black hair. Some day the tables might be +turned. Could he recognise again this cool, imperturbable ruffian who so +callously threatened him with murder? + +“Well, Mr. Dale? I am waiting!” + +“I am not a magician,” said Jimmie Dale contemptuously. “I could not +answer your questions if I wanted to.” + +The other's hand slid instantly to a row of electric buttons on the +desk. + +“Very well, Mr. Dale!” he said quietly. “You do not believe, I see, that +I would dare to carry my threat into execution; you perhaps even doubt +my power. I shall take the trouble to convince you--I imagine it will +stimulate your memory.” + +The door opened. Two men were standing on the threshold, both in evening +dress, both masked. The man behind the desk came forward, took Jimmie +Dale's arm almost courteously, and led him from the room out into a +corridor, where he halted abruptly. + +“I want to call your attention first, Mr. Dale, to the fact that as far +as you are concerned you neither have now, nor ever will have, any idea +whether you are in the heart of New York or fifty miles away from it. +Now, listen! Do you hear anything?” + +There was nothing. Only the strange silence of that other room was +intensified now. There was not a sound; stillness such as it seemed to +Jimmie Dale he had never experienced before was around him. + +“You may possibly infer from the silence that you are NOT in the city,” + suggested the other, after a moment's pause. “I leave you to your own +conclusions in that respect. The cause, however, of the silence is +internal, not external; we had sound-proof principles in mind to a +perhaps exaggerated degree when this building was constructed. If you +care to do so, you have my permission to shout, say, for help, to your +heart's content. We shall make no effort to stop you.” + +Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He was staring down a brilliantly +lighted, richly carpeted corridor. There were doors on one side, windows +on the other, the windows all hung with heavy, closely drawn portieres. +The corridor was certainly not on the ground floor, but whether it was +on the second or third, or even above that again, he had no means of +knowing. From appearances, though, the place seemed more like a large, +private mansion than anything else. + +“Just one word more before we proceed,” continued the other. “I do not +wish you to labour under any illusion. Here we are frankly criminals. +This is our home. It should have some effect in impressing you with the +power and resource at our command, and also with the class of men with +whom you are dealing. There is not one among us whose education is not +fully equal to your own; not one, indeed, but who is chosen, granting +first his criminal tendencies, because he is a specialist in his own +particular field--in commerce, in the government diplomatic service, in +the professions of law and medicine, in the ranks of pure science. +We are bordering on the fantastical, are we not? Dreaming, you will +probably say, of the Utopian in crime organisation. Quite so, Mr. Dale. +I only ask you to consider the POSSIBILITIES if what I say is true. Now +let us proceed. I am going to take you into three rooms--the three whose +doors you see ahead of you. You will notice that, including the one you +have just left, there are four on this corridor. I do not wish to strain +your credulity, or play tricks upon you; so I am going to ask you to fix +an approximate idea of the length of the corridor in your mind, as it +will perhaps enable you to account more readily for what may appear to +be a discrepancy in the corresponding size of the rooms.” + +One of the men opened the door ahead. Jimmie Dale, at a sign from his +conductor, moved forward and entered. Just what he had expected to find +he could not have told; his brain was whirling, partly from his aching +head, partly from his desperate effort to conceive some way of escape +from the peril which, for all his nonchalance, he knew only too well +was the gravest he had ever faced; but what he saw was simply a cozily +furnished bedroom. There was nothing peculiar about it; nothing out of +the way, except perhaps that it was rather narrow. + +And then suddenly, rubbing his eyes involuntarily, he was staring in a +dazed way before him. The whole right-hand side of the wall was sinking +without a sound into the floor, increasing the width of the room by some +five or six feet--and in this space was disclosed what appeared to be a +sort of chemical laboratory, elaborately equipped, extending the entire +length of the room. + +“The wall is purely a matter of mechanical construction, operated +hydraulically.” The man was speaking softly at Jimmie Dale's side. +“The room beneath is built to correspond; the base, ceiling, and wall +mouldings here do not have to be very ingenious to effect a disguise. +I might say, however, that few visitors, other than yourself, have ever +seen anything here but a bedroom.” He waved his hand toward the retorts, +the racks of test tubes, the hundred and one articles that strewed the +laboratory bench. “As for this, its purpose is twofold. We, as well, +as the police, have often need of analysis. We make it. If we require a +drug, a poison, say, we compound it from its various ingredients, or, +as the case may be, distil it, perhaps--it is, you will agree, somewhat +more difficult to trace to its source if procured that way. And speaking +of poisons”--he stepped forward, and lifted a glass-stoppered bottle +containing a colourless liquid from a shelf--“in a modest way we have +even done some original research work here. This, for instance, is +as Utopian from our standpoint as the formation, and personnel of the +organisation I have briefly outlined to you. It possesses very essential +qualities. It is almost instantaneous in its action, requires a very +small quantity, and defies detection even by autopsy.” He uncorked the +bottle, and dipped in a long glass rod. “Will you watch the experiment?” + he invited, with a sort of ghastly pleasantry. “I do not want you to +accept anything on trust.” + +With a start, Jimmie Dale swung around. He had heard no sound, but +another man was at his elbow now--and, struggling in the man's hand, was +a little white rabbit. + +It was over in an instant. A single drop in the rabbit's mouth, and the +animal had stiffened out, a lifeless thing. + +“It is quite as effective on the human organism,” continued the other, +“only, instead of one drop, three are required. If I make it ten”--he +was carefully measuring the liquid into two wineglasses--“it is only +that even you may be satisfied that the quantity is fatal.” He filled up +the glasses with what was apparently wine of some description, which he +poured from a decanter, and held out the glasses in front of him. + +And again Jimmie Dale started, again he had heard no one enter, and yet +two men had stepped forward from behind him and had taken the glasses +from their leader's hands. He glanced around him, counting quickly--they +were surely the two who had entered with him from the corridor. No! +Including the leader, there were now six men, all in evening dress, all +masked, in the room with him. + +A wave of the leader's hand, and the two men holding the glasses left +the room. The man turned to Jimmie Dale again. + +“Shall we proceed to the second room, Mr. Dale?” he asked politely. +“I think it is now prepared for us--I do not wish to bore you with a +repetition of magical sliding walls.” + +There was something now that numbed the ache in Jimmie Dale's brain--a +sense of some deadly, remorseless thing that seemed to be constantly +creeping closer to him, clutching at him--to smother him, to choke him. +There was something absolutely fiendish, terrifying, in the veneer of +culture around him. + +They had entered the second room. This, like the other, was a +pseudo-bedroom; but here the movable wall was already down. Ranged along +the right-hand side were a great number of cabinets that slid in and +out, much after the style and fashion used by clothing dealers to stock +and display their wares. These cabinets were now all open, displaying +hundreds of costumes of all kinds and descriptions, and evidently +complete to the minutest detail. The cabinets were flanked by +full-length mirrors at each end of the room, and on little tables before +the mirrors was an assortment, that none better than Jimmie Dale himself +could appreciate, of make-up accessories. + +The man smiled apologetically. + +“I am afraid this is rather uninteresting,” he said. “I have shown it to +you simply that you may understand that we are alive to the importance +of detail. Disguise, that is daily vital to us, is an art that depends +essentially on detail. I venture to say we could impersonate any +character or type or nationality or class in the United States at a +moment's notice. But”--he took Jimmie Dale's arm again and conducted him +out into the corridor, while the two men who were evidently acting +the role of guards followed closely behind--“there is still the third +room--here.” He halted Jimmie Dale before the door. “I have asked you +to answer two questions, Mr. Dale,” he said softly. “I ask you now to +remember the alternative.” + +They still stood before the door. There was that uncanny silence +again--it seemed to Jimmie Dale to last interminably. Neither of the +three men surrounding him moved nor spoke. Then the door before him was +opened on an unlighted room, and he was led across the threshold. He +heard the door close behind him. The lights came on. And then it seemed +as though he could not move, as though he were rooted to the spot---and +the colour ebbed from his face. Three figures were before him: the two +men who had carried the glasses from the first room, and the chauffeur +who had driven him in the taxicab. The two men still held the +glasses--the chauffeur was bound hand and foot in a chair. One of the +glasses was EMPTY; the other was still significantly full. + +Jimmie Dale, with a violent effort at self-control, leaned forward. + +The man in the chair was dead. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER + + +There was not a sound. That stillness, weird, unnerving, that permeated, +as it were, everywhere through that mysterious house, was, if that were +possible, accentuated now. The four masked men in evening dress, five +including their leader, for the man who had appeared in that other room +with the rabbit was not here, were as silent, as motionless, as the dead +man who was lashed there in the chair. And to Jimmie Dale it seemed at +first as though his brain, stunned and stupefied at the shock, refused +its functions, and left him groping blindly, vaguely, with only a +sort of dull, subconscious realisation of menace and a deadly peril, +imminent, hanging over him. + +He tried to rouse himself mentally, to prod his brain to action, to +pit it in a fight for life against these self-confessed criminals and +murderers with their mask of culture, who surrounded him now. Was there +a way out? What was it the Tocsin had said--“the most powerful and +pitiless organisation of criminals the world has ever known--the stake a +fortune of millions--her life!” There had, indeed, been no overemphasis +in the words she had used! They had taken pains themselves to make that +ominously clear, these men! Every detail of the strange house, with its +luxurious furnishings, its cleverly contrived appointments, breathed +a horribly suggestive degree of power, a deadly purpose, and an +organisation swayed by a master mind; and, grim evidence of the +merciless, inexorable length to which they would go, was the ghastly +white face of the dead chauffeur, bound hand and foot, in the chair +before him! + +That EMPTY glass in the hand of one of the men! He could not take his +eyes from it--except as his eyes were drawn magnetically to that FULL +glass in the hand of one of the others. What height of sardonic irony! +He was to drink that other glass, to die because he refused to answer +questions that for years, with every resource at his command, risking +his liberty, his wealth, his name, his life, with everything that he +cared for thrown into the scales, he had struggled to solve--and failed! + +And then the leader spoke. + +“Mr. Dale,” he said, with cold significance, “I regret to admit that +your pseudo taxicab driver was so ill-advised as to refuse to answer the +SAME questions that I have put to you.” + +Five to one! That was the only way out--and it was hopeless. It was the +only way out, because, convinced that he could answer those questions if +he wanted to, these men were in deadly earnest; it was hopeless, because +they were--five to one! And probably there were as many more, twice or +three times as many more within call. But what did it matter how many +more there were! He could fight until he was overpowered, that was all +he could do, and the five could accomplish that. Still, if he could +knock the full glass out of that man's hand, and gain the door, then +perhaps--he turned quickly, as the door opened. It was as though they +had read his thoughts. A number of men were grouped outside in the +corridor, then the door closed again with a cordon ranged against it +inside the room; and at the same instant his arms and wrists were caught +in a powerful grasp by the two men immediately behind him, who all along +had enacted the role of guards. + +Again the leader spoke. + +“I will repeat the questions,” he said sharply. “Where is the woman +whose ring was found on that man there in the chair? And where is the +package that you two men had with you in the taxicab to-night?” + +Jimmie Dale glanced from the tall, straight, immaculately clothed figure +of the speaker, from the threatening smile on the set lips that just +showed under the edge of the mask, to the dead man in the chair. He had +faced the prospect of death before many times, but it had come with the +heat of passion accompanying it, it had come quickly, abruptly, with +every faculty called into action to combat it, without time to dwell +upon it, to sift, weigh, or measure its meaning, and if there had been +fear it had been subordinate to other emotions. But it was different +now. He could not, of course, answer those questions; nor, he was +doggedly conscious, would he have answered them if he could--and there +was no middle course. + +Death, within the next few moments, stared him in the face; and it +seemed curiously irrelevant that, in a sort of unnatural calmness, he +should be attempting to analyse his feelings and emotions concerning it. +All his life it had seemed to him that the acme of human mental +torture was the cell of a condemned criminal, with the horror of its +hopelessness, with the time to dwell upon it; and that the acme of +that torture itself must be that awful moment immediately preceding +execution, when anticipation at last was to merge into soul-sickening +reality. + +Strange that thought should come! Strange that he should be framing a +brain picture of such a scene, vivid, minute in detail! No--not strange. +He was picturing himself. The analogy was not perfect, it was true, he +had not had the months, weeks, days and hours of suspense; but it was +perfect enough to bring home to him with appalling force the realisation +of his position. He was standing as a condemned man might stand in those +last, final moments, those moments which he had imagined must be the +most terrible that could exist in life; but that dismay of soul, the +horror, the terror were not his--there was, instead, a smouldering fury, +a passionate amazement that it was his own life that was threatened. It +seemed impossible that it could be his voice that was speaking now in +such quiet, measured tones. + +“Is it worth while, will it convince you now, any more than before, to +repeat that there is some mistake here? I am no more able to answer your +questions than you are yourselves. I never saw that man in the chair +there in my life until the moment that I hailed him in his cab to-night. +I do not know who the woman is to whom that ring belongs, much less do +I know where she is. And if there was a package of any sort in the +taxicab, as you state, I never saw it.” + +The lips under the mask curved into a lupine smile. + +“Think well, Mr. Dale!” The man's voice was low, menacing. “Ethically, +if you so choose to consider it, your refusal may be the act of a brave +man; practically, it is the act of--a fool. Now--your answer!” + +“I have answered you,” said Jimmie Dale--and, relaxing the muscles in +his arms, let them hang limply for an instant in the grip of the two men +behind him. “I have no other answer.” + +It was only a sign, a motion of the leader's hand--but with it, quick +as a lightning flash, Jimmie Dale was in action. The limp arms tautened +into steel as he wrenched them loose, and, whirling around, he whipped +his fist to the chin of one of the two guards. + +In an instant, with the blow, as the man staggered backward, the room +was in pandemonium. There was a rush from the door, and two, three, four +leaping forms hurled themselves upon Jimmie Dale. He shook them off--and +they came again. There was no chance ultimately, he knew that; it was +only the elemental within him that rose in fierce revolt at the thought +of tame submission, that bade him sell his life as dearly as he could. +Panting, gasping for breath, dragging them by sheer strength as they +clung to him, he got his back to the wall, fighting with the savage fury +and abandon of a wild cat. + +But it could not last. Where one man went down before him, two +remorselessly appeared--the room seemed filled with men--they poured in +through the door--he laughed at them in a half-demented way--more +and more of them came--there was no play for his arms, no room to +fight--they seemed so close around him, so many of them upon him, that +he could not breathe--and he was bending, being crushed down as by an +intolerable weight. And then his feet were jerked from beneath him, he +crashed to the floor, and, in another moment, bound hand and foot, he +was tied into a chair beside that other chair whose grim occupant sat in +such ghastly apathy of the scene. + +The room cleared instantly of all but the original five. His head was +drawn suddenly, violently backward, and clamped in that position; and +a metal instrument, forced into his mouth, while his lips bled in their +resistance, pried jaws apart and held them open. + +“One drop!” the leader ordered curtly. + +The man with the full glass bent over him, and dipped a glass rod into +the liquid. The drop glistened a ruby red on the end of the rod--and +fell with a sharp, acrid, burning sensation upon Jimmie Dale's tongue. + +For a moment Jimmie Dale's animation, mental and physical, seemed swept +away from him in, as it were, a hiatus of hideous suspense. What was it +to be like this passing? Why did it not act at once, as it had acted on +the rabbit they had showed him in the other room? Yes, he remembered! +It took more than one drop for a man; and besides, this was diluted. +One drop had no effect on a man; it required--Good God, ONE DROP EVEN +OF THIS WAS ENOUGH? He strained forward in the chair until the sweat in +great beads sprang from his forehead, strained and fought and tore at +his bonds in a paroxysm of madness to free himself while there still +remained a little strength. There was something filming before his eyes, +a numbed feeling was creeping through his limbs, robbing them, sapping +them of their vitality and power. He felt himself slipping away into a +state of utter weakness, and his brain began to grow confused. + +A voice seemed to float in the air near him: “For the last time--will +you answer?” + +With a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale strove to rally his tottering senses. +Did they not understand the stupendous mockery of their questions? Did +they not understand that he did not know? He had told them so--perhaps +he had better tell them so again. + +“I--” He tried to speak, and found the words thick upon his tongue. +“I--do not--know.” + +The glass itself was thrust abruptly between his lips. Some of the +contents spilled and trickled upon his chin, and then a flood of it, +burning, fiery, poured down his throat. A flood of it--and it needed but +THREE drops and there had been TEN in the glass! + +So this was death--a hazy, nebulous thing! There was no pain. It was +like--like--nothingness. And out of the nothingness SHE came. Strange +that she should come! Alone she had fought these fiends and outwitted +them for--how long was it? Three years! She would be more than ever +alone now. Pray God she did not finally fall into their clutches! + +How it burned now, that fatal draught they had forced down his throat, +and how it gripped at him and seemed to eat and bore its way into the +very tissues! It was the end, and--no! It was STIMULATING him! Strength +seemed to be returning to his limbs; it seemed as though he were being +carried, as though the bonds about him were being loosened; and now his +brain seemed to be growing clearer. + +He roused up with a startled exclamation. He was back in the same room +in which he had first returned to consciousness after the accident. He +was on the same couch. The same masked figure was at the same desk. Had +he been dreaming? Was this then only some horrible, ghastly nightmare +through which he had passed? + +No, it had been real enough; his clothes, rent and torn, and the blood +upon his hands, where the skin had been scraped from his knuckles in the +fight, bore evidence to that. He must then have lost consciousness for +a while, though it seemed to him that at no moment, hazy, irrational +though his brain might have been, had he become entirely oblivious to +what was taking place around him. And yet it must have been so! + +The eyes from behind the mask were fixed steadily upon him, and below +the mask there was the hard, unpleasant set to the lips that Jimmie Dale +had grown accustomed to expect. + +The man spoke abruptly. + +“That you find yourself alive, Mr. Dale,” he said grimly, “is no +confession of weakness upon the part of those with whom you have had to +deal here. To bear witness to that there is one who is not alive, as you +have seen. That man we knew. With you it was somewhat different. Your +presence in the taxicab was only suspicious. There was always the +possibility that you might be one of those ubiquitous 'innocent +bystanders.' Your name, your position, the improbability that you could +have anything in common with--shall we say, the matter that so deeply +interests us?--was all in your favour. However, presumption and +probability are the tools of fools. We do not depend upon them--we apply +the test. And having applied the test, we are convinced that you have +told the truth--that is all.” + +He rose from his chair brusquely. “I shall not apologise to you for what +has happened. I doubt very much if you are in a frame of mind to accept +anything of the sort. I imagine, rather, that you are promising yourself +that we shall pay, and pay dearly, for this--that, among other things, +we shall answer for the murder of that man in the other room. All this +will be quite within your province, Mr. Dale--and quite fruitless. +To-morrow morning the story that you are preparing to tell now would +sound incredible even in your own ears; furthermore, as we shall take +pains to see that you leave this place with as little knowledge of its +location as you obtained when you arrived, your story, even if believed, +would do little service to you and less harm to us. I think of nothing +more, Mr. Dale, except--” There was a whimsical smile on the lips now. +“Ah, yes, the matter of your clothes. We can, and shall be glad to make +reparation to you to the slight extent of offering you a new suit before +you go.” + +Jimmie Dale scowled. Sick, shaken, and weak as he was, the cool, +imperturbable impudence of the man was fast growing unbearable. + +The man laughed. “I am sure you will not refuse, Mr. Dale--since we +insist. The condition of the clothes you have on at present might--I say +'might'--in a measure support your story with some degree of tangible +evidence. It is not at all likely, of course; but we prefer to discount +even so remote a possibility. When you have changed, you will be motored +back to your home. I bid you good-night, Mr. Dale.” + +Jimmie Dale rubbed his eyes. The man was gone--through a door at the +rear of the desk, a door that he had not noticed before, that was not +even in evidence now, that was simply a movable section of the wall +panelling--and for an instant Jimmie Dale experienced a sense of +sickening impotence. It was as though he stood defenceless, unarmed, +and utterly at the mercy of some venomous power that could crush what it +would remorselessly and at will in its might. + +The place was a veritable maze, a lair of hellish cleverness. He had +no illusions now, he laboured under no false estimate of either the +ingenuity or the resources of this inhuman nest of vultures to whom +murder was no more than a matter of detail. And it was against these men +that henceforth he was to match his wits! There could be no truce, no +armistice. It was their lives, or hers, or his! Well, he was alive now, +the first round was over, and so far he had won. His brows furrowed +suddenly. Had he? He was not so sure, after all. He was conscious of a +disquieting, premonitory intuition that, in some way which he could not +explain, the honours were not entirely his. + +He was apparently--the “apparently” was a mental reservation--quite +alone in the room. He got up from the couch and walked shakily across +the floor to the desk. A revolver lay invitingly upon the blotting pad. +It was his own, the one they had taken from him after the accident. +Jimmie Dale picked it up, examined it--and smiled a little sarcastically +at himself for his trouble. It was unloaded, of course. He was twirling +it in his hand, as a man, masked as every one in the house was masked, +and carrying a neatly folded suit over his arm, entered from the +corridor. + +“The car is ready as soon as you are dressed,” announced the other +briefly. He laid the clothes upon the couch--and settled himself +significantly in a chair. + +Jimmie Dale hesitated. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, recrossed +the room, and began to remove his torn garments. What was the use! They +would certainly have their own way in the end. It wasn't worth another +fight, and there was nothing to be gained by a refusal except to offer a +sop to his own exasperation. + +He dressed quickly, in what proved to be an exceedingly well-fitting +suit; and finally turned tentatively to the man in the chair. + +The other stood up, and produced a heavy black silk scarf. + +“If you have no objections,” he said curtly, “I'll tie this over your +eyes.” + +Again Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. + +“I am glad enough to get out on any conditions,” he answered +caustically. + +“'Fortunate' would be the better word,” rejoined the other +meaningly--and, deftly knotting the scarf, led Jimmie Dale blindfolded +from the room. + + + +CHAPTER V + +ON GUARD + + +Was he in the city? In a suburban town? On a country road? It seemed +childishly absurd that he could not at least differentiate to that +extent; and yet, from the moment he had been placed in the automobile +in which he now found himself, he was forced to admit that he could not +tell. He had started out with the belief that, knowing New York and its +surroundings as minutely as he knew them, it would be impossible, do +what they would to prevent it, that at the end of the journey he should +be without a clew, and a very good clew at that, to the location of what +he now called, appropriately enough it seemed, the Crime Club. + +But he had never ridden blindfolded in a car before! He could see +absolutely nothing. And if that increased or accentuated his sense of +hearing, it helped little--the roar of the racing car beat upon his +eardrums the more heavily, that was all. He could tell, of course, the +nature of the roadbed. They were running on an asphalt road, that was +obvious enough; but city streets and suburban streets and hundreds of +miles of country road around New York were of asphalt! + +Traffic? He was quite sure, for he had strained his ears in an effort to +detect it, that there was little or no traffic; but then, it must be +one or two o'clock in the morning, and at that hour the city streets, +certainly those that would be chosen by these men, would be quite as +deserted as any country road! And as for a sense of direction, he had +none whatever--even if the car had not been persistently swerving and +changing its course every little while. If he had been able to form even +an approximate idea of the compass direction in which they had started, +he might possibly have been able in a general way to counteract this +further effort of theirs to confuse him; but without the initial +direction he was essentially befogged. + +With these conclusions finally thrust home upon him, Jimmie Dale +philosophically subordinated the matter in his mind, and, leaning back, +composed himself as comfortably as he could upon his seat. There was a +man beside him, and he could feel the legs of two men on the seat facing +him. These, with the driver, would make four. He was still well guarded! +The car itself was a closed car--not hooded, the sense of touch told +him--therefore a limousine of some description. These facts, in a sense +inconsequential, were absorbed subconsciously; and then Jimmie Dale's +brain, remorselessly active, in spite of the pain from his throbbing +head, was at work again. + +It seemed as though a year had passed since, in the early evening, as +Larry the Bat, he had burrowed so ironically for refuge in Chang Foo's +den--from her! It seemed like some mocking unreality, some visionary +dream that, so short a while before, he had read those words of hers +that had sent the blood coursing and leaping through his veins in mad +exultation at the thought that the culmination of the years had come, +that all he longed for, hoped for, that all his soul cried out for was +to be his--“in an hour.” An HOUR--and he was to have seen her, the woman +whose face he had never seen, the woman whom he loved! And the hour +instead, the hours since then, had brought a nightmare of events so +incredible as to seem but phantoms of the imagination. + +Phantoms! He sat up suddenly with a jerk. The face of the dead +chauffeur, the limp form lashed in that chair, the horrible picture in +its entirety, every detail standing out in ghastly relief, took form +before him. God knew there was no phantom there! + +The man beside him, at the sudden start, lifted a hand and felt +hurriedly over the bandage across Jimmie Dale's eyes. + +Jimmie Dale was scarcely conscious of the act. With that face before +him, with the scene re-enacting itself in his mind again, had come +another thought, staggering him for a moment with the new menace that it +brought. He had had neither time nor opportunity to think before; it had +been all horror, all shock when he had entered that room. But now, like +an inspiration, he saw it all from another angle. There was a glaring +fallacy in the game these men had played for his benefit to-night--a +fallacy which they had counted on glossing over, as it had, indeed, been +glossed over, by the sudden shock with which they had forced that scene +upon him; or, failing in that, they had counted on the fact that his, +or any other man's nerve would have failed when it came to open defiance +based on a supposition which might, after all, be wrong, and, being +wrong, meant death. + +But it was not supposition. Either he was right now, or these men were +childish, immature fools--and, whatever else they might be, they were +not that! NOT A SINGLE DROP OF POISON HAD PASSED THE CHAUFFEUR'S LIPS. +The man had not been murdered in that room. He had not, in a sense, been +murdered at all. The man, absolutely, unquestionably, without a loophole +for doubt, had either been killed outright in the automobile accident, +or had died immediately afterward, probably without regaining +consciousness, certainly without supplying any of the information that +was so determinedly sought. + +Yes, he saw it now! Their backs were against the wall, they were at +their wits' end, these men! The knowledge that the chauffeur possessed, +that they KNEW he possessed, was evidently life and death to them. To +kill the man before they had wormed out of him what they wanted to know, +or, at least, until, by holding him a prisoner, they had exhausted every +means at their command to make him speak, was the last thing they would +do! + +Jimmie Dale sat for a long time quite motionless. The car was speeding +at a terrific rate along a straight stretch of road. He could almost +have sworn, guided by some intuitive sense, that they were in the +country. Well, even if it were so, what did that prove! They might +have started FROM New York itself--only to return to it when they had +satisfied themselves that he was sufficiently duped. Or they might have +started legitimately from outside New York, and be going toward the city +now. Since the ultimate destination was New York, and they had made no +attempt to hide that from him, it was useless to speculate--for at best +it could be only speculation. He had decided that once before! The man +at his side felt again over the scarf to see that it was in place. + +Curiously now Jimmie Dale recalled the inward monitor that had warned +him the honours had not all been his in this first round with the Crime +Club to-night. If they had deliberately murdered the chauffeur because +of a refusal to answer, they would equally have done the same to him. +Fool that he had been not to have seen that before! And yet would it +have made any difference? He shook his head. He could not have acted to +any better advantage than he had done. He could not--his lips curled in +grim derision--have been any more convincing. + +Convincing! It was all clear enough now! If the chauffeur had suffered +death rather than talk, even admitting the fact that they had more +grounds for suspecting the chauffeur's complicity, would his, Jimmie +Dale's, mere denial, his choice, too, of death, have been any the more +convincing, or have saved his life where it had not saved the other's? +A certain added respect for these men, against whom, until the end now, +his victory or theirs, he realised he was fighting for his life, came +over him as he recognised the touch of a master hand. They did not know +where to find the Tocsin; the package that she had said was vital to +them was still beyond their reach; the chauffeur was dead; and he, +Jimmie Dale, alone remained--a clew that they had still to prove valid +or invalid it was true, but the only clew in their possession. And, +gaining nothing from him by a show of force, to throw him off his guard, +they had let him go--meaning him to believe they were convinced he knew +nothing, and that the episode, the adventure of the night, was, as far +as they were concerned, ended, finished, and done with! + +Time passed, a very long time, as he sat there. It might have been an +hour--he could only hazard a guess. Not one of the men in the car +had spoken a word. But to Jimmie Dale, the car itself, the ride, its +duration, these three strange companions, were for the time being +extraneous. Even that sick giddiness in his head had, at least +temporarily, gone from him. + +And so, all unsuspectingly, he was to lead them to the Tocsin and fall +into the trap himself! His hands, thrust deep in his pockets, were +tightly clenched. They were clever enough, ingenious enough, powerful +enough to watch him henceforth at every turn--and from now on, day and +night, they were to be reckoned with. Suppose that in some way, as it +might well have happened, for it was now vitally necessary that she +should communicate with him and he with her, he had played blindly into +their hands, and through him she should have fallen into their power! It +brought a sickening chill, a sort of hideous panic to Jimmie Dale--and +then fury, anger, in a torrent, surged upon him, and there came a +merciless desire to crush, to strangle, to stamp out this inhuman band +of criminals that, with intolerable effrontery to the laws of God and +man, were so elaborately and scientifically equipped for their monstrous +purposes! + +And then Jimmie Dale, in the darkness, smiled again grimly as the +leader's reference to the Gray Seal recurred to him. Well, perhaps, who +knew, they would have reason more than they dreamed of to wish the +Gray Seal enrolled in their own ranks! It was strange, curious! He had +thought all that was ended. Only a few short hours before he had hidden +away all, everything that was incident to the life of the Gray Seal, the +clothes of Larry the Bat, that little metal case with the gray-coloured, +adhesive seals, a dozen other things, believing that it only remained +for him to return and destroy them at his leisure as a finishing touch +to the Gray Seal's career--and now, instead, he was face to face with +the gravest and most dangerous problem that she had ever called upon him +to undertake! + +Well, at least, the odds were not all in the Crime Club's favour. Where +they now certainly believed him to be entirely off his guard, he was +thoroughly on his guard; and where they might suspect him, watch him, +they would suspect and watch only the character, the person of Jimmie +Dale, and count not at all upon either Larry the Bat or--the Gray Seal. + +A sort of savage elation fell upon Jimmie Dale. His brain, that had been +stagnant, confused, physically sick with pain and suffering, was working +now with its old-time vigour and ease, mapping, planning, scheming the +way ahead. To strike, and strike quickly--to strike FIRST! It must be +his move next--not theirs! And he must act to-night at once, the moment +he was given this pretence to liberty that they had in store for him, +before they had an opportunity of closing down around him with a network +of spies that he could not elude. By morning, Jimmie Dale would be Larry +the Bat, and inhabiting the Sanctuary again. And a tip to Jason, his +old butler, to the effect, say, that he had gone away for a trip, +would account for his disappearance satisfactorily enough; it would not +necessarily arouse their suspicions when they eventually discovered he +was gone, for against that was always the possible, and quite likely +presumption that, where they had succeeded in nothing else, they had +at least succeeded in frightening him thoroughly and to the extent of +imbuing him with a hasty desire to put a safe distance between himself +and them. + +And now, with his mind made up to his course of action, an intense +impatience to put his plan into effect, an irritation at the useless +twistings and turnings of the car that had latterly become more +frequent, took hold upon him. How much longer was this to last! They +must have been fully an hour and a half on the road already, and--ah, +the car was stopping now! + +He straightened up in his seat as the machine came to a halt--but the +man at his side laid a restraining hand upon him. The car door opened, +and one of the men got out. Jimmie Dale caught an indistinct murmur of +voices from without, then the man returned to his seat, and the car went +on again. + +Another half hour passed, that, curbing his irritation and impatience, +was filled with the conjectures and questions that anew came crowding in +upon his mind. Why had the car made that stop? It was rather curious. It +was certainly a prearranged meeting place. Why? And these clothes that +he now wore--why had they made him change? His own had not been very +badly torn. The reason given him was, on the face of it now, in view +of what he now knew, mere pretence. What was the ulterior motive behind +that pretence? What did this package, that had already cost a man his +life to-night, contain? Who was the chauffeur? What was this death feud +between the Tocsin and these men? Did she know where the Crime Club was? +Who and where was John Johansson? What was this box that was numbered +428? Could she supply the links that would forge the chain into an +unbroken whole? + +And then for the second time the car slowed down--and this time the man +on the seat beside Jimmie Dale reached up and untied the scarf. + +“You get out here,” said the man tersely. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE TRAP + + +Had it not been for the stop the car had previously made, for the +possibility that he might have obtained a glimpse outside when the door +had been opened, the scarf over his eyes would have been superfluous; +for now, with it removed, he could scarcely distinguish the forms of the +three men around him, since the window curtains of the car were tightly +drawn. Nor was he given the opportunity to do more, even had it been +possible. The car stopped, the door was opened, he was pushed toward +it--and even as he reached the ground, the door was closed behind him, +and the car was speeding on again. But where he could not see before, +it took now but a glance to obtain his bearings--he was standing on a +corner on Riverside Drive, within a few doors of his own house. + +Jimmie Dale stood still for a moment, watching the car as it disappeared +rapidly up the Drive. And with a sort of grim facetiousness his brain +began to correlate time and distance. Where had he come from? Where +was this Crime Club? They had been, as nearly as he could estimate, two +hours in making the journey; and, as nearly as he could estimate, in +their turnings and twistings had covered at least twice the distance +that would be represented by a direct route. Granting, then, an average +speed of forty miles an hour, which was overgenerous to be on the safe +side, and the fact that they certainly had not crossed the Hudson, which +now lay before him, flanking the Drive, the Crime Club was somewhere +within the area of a semicircle, whose centre was the corner on which he +now stood, and whose radius was forty miles--OR FORTY YARDS! He forced +a laugh. It was just that, no more, no less--he was as likely to have +started on his ride from within a biscuit throw of where he now stood, +as to have started on it from miles away! + +But--he aroused himself with a start--he was wasting time! It must be +very late, near morning, and he would have need for every moment that +was left between now and daylight. He turned, walked quickly to his +house, mounted the steps, and with his latch-key--they had at least +permitted him to retain the contents of his pockets when they had forced +him to change his clothes--opened the front door softly, and, stepping +inside, closed the door as silently as he had opened it. + +He paused for an instant to listen. There was not a sound. The servants, +naturally, would have been in bed hours ago. Even old Jason--Jimmie Dale +smiled, half whimsically, half affectionately--whose paternal custom it +was to sit up for his Master Jim, who, as he was fond of saying, he had +dandled as a baby on his knee, had evidently given it up as a bad job +on this occasion and had turned in himself. Jason, however, had left the +light burning here in the big reception hall. + +Jimmie Dale stepped to the switch and turned off the light; then stood +hesitant in the darkness. Was there anything to be gained by rousing +Jason now and telling him what he intended to do--to instruct him to +answer any inquiries by the statement that “Mr. Dale had gone away for +a trip”? He could trust Jason; Jason already knew much--more than one +of those mysterious letters of the Tocsin's had passed through Jason's +hands. + +Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; he could communicate with Jason from +downtown in the morning. He had half expected to find Jason up, and, +in that case, would have taken the other, as far as necessary, into +his confidence; but it was not a matter that pressed for the moment. He +could get into touch with Jason at any time readily enough. Was there +anything else before he went? He would not be able to get back as easily +as he got out! Money! He shook his head again--a little grimly this +time. He had been caught once before as Larry the Bat without funds! +There was plenty of money now hidden in the Sanctuary, enough for any +emergency, enough to last him indefinitely. + +He stepped forward along the hall, his tread noiseless on the rich, +heavy rug, passed into the rear of the house, descended the back stairs, +and reached the cellar. It was below the level of the ground, of course; +but a narrow window here, though quite large enough to permit of egress, +gave on the driveway at the side of the house that led to the garage in +the rear. + +Cautiously now, for the cement flooring was, in the stillness, little +less than a sounding board, Jimmie Dale reached the wall and felt along +it to the window, the lower edge of whose sill was just slightly below +the level of his shoulder. It opened inward, if he remembered correctly. +His fingers were feeling for the fastenings. It was too dark to see +a thing. He muttered in annoyance. Where were the fastenings! At +the sides, or at the bottom? His hand began to make a circuit of the +sill--and then suddenly, with a low, sharp cry, he leaned forward! + +WHAT DID THIS MEAN? Wires! No wires had ever been there before! His +fingers were working now with feverish haste, telegraphing their message +to his brain. The wires ran through the sill close to the corner of +the wall--tiny fragments of wood, as from an auger, were still on the +sill--and here was a small particle of wire insulation that, those +sensitive finger tips proclaimed, was FRESH. + +A cold thrill ran through Jimmie Dale; and there came again that +sickening sense of impotency in the face of the malignant, devilish +cunning arrayed against him, that once before he had experienced, that +night. He had thought to forestall them--and he had been forestalled +himself! This could only have been done--they had had no interest in +him before then--while they held him at the Crime Club, while he was +spending that two hours in the car! Was that why they had taken so long +in coming? Was that why the car had stopped that time--that those with +him might be told that the work here had been completed, and he need no +longer be kept away? + +He edged away from the window, and, as cautiously as he had come, +retraced his steps across the cellar and up the stairs--and then, the +possibility of being heard from without gone, he broke into a run. There +was no need to wonder long what those wires meant. They could mean only +one of two things--and the Crime Club would have little concern in his +electric light! THEY HAD TAPPED HIS TELEPHONE. The mains, he knew, +ran into the cellar from the underground service in the street. He was +racing like a madman now. How long ago, how many hours ago, had they +done that! Great Scott, SHE was to have telephoned! Had she done so? Was +the game, all, everything, she herself, at their mercy already? If she +had telephoned, Jason would have left a message on his desk--he would +look there first--afterward he would waken Jason. + +He gained the door of his den on the first landing, a room that ran the +entire length of one side of the house from front to rear, burst in, +switched on the light---and stood stock-still in amazement. + +“Jason!” he cried out. + +The old butler, fully dressed, rubbing and blinking his eyes at the +light, and with a startled cry, rose up from the depths of a lounging +chair. + +“Jason!” exclaimed Jimmie Dale again. + +“I beg pardon, sir, Master Jim,” stammered the man. “I--I must have +fallen asleep, sir.” + +“Jason, what are you doing here?” Jimmie Dale demanded sharply. + +“Well, sir,” said Jason, still fumbling for his words, “it--it was the +telephone, sir.” + +“The--TELEPHONE!” + +“Yes, sir. A woman, begging your pardon, Master Jim, a lady, sir, has +been telephoning every hour or so, and she--” + +“YES!” Jimmie Dale had jumped across the room and had caught the other +fiercely by the shoulder. “Yes--yes! What did she say? QUICK, man!” + +“Good Lord, Master Jim!” faltered Jason. “I--she--” + +“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, suddenly as cold as ice, “what did she say? +Think, man! Every word!” + +“She didn't say anything, Master Jim. Nothing at all, sir--except to +keep asking each time if she could speak to you.” + +“Nothing else, Jason?” + +“No, sir.” + +“You are SURE?” + +“I'm sure, Master Jim. Not another thing but that, sir, just as I've +told you.” + +“Thank God!” said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice. + +“Yes, sir,” said Jason mechanically. + +“How long ago was it since she telephoned last?” asked Jimmie Dale +quickly. + +“Well, sir, I couldn't rightly say. You see, as I said, Master Jim, I +must have gone to sleep, but--” + +They were staring tensely into each other's face. The telephone on the +desk was ringing vibrantly, clamourously, through the stillness of the +room. + +Jason, white, frightened, bewildered, touched his lips with the tip of +his tongue. + +“That'll be her again, sir,” he said hoarsely. + +“Wait!” said Jimmie Dale tersely. + +He was trying to think, to think faster than he had ever thought before. +He could not tell Jason to say that he had not yet come in--THEY knew he +was in, it would be but showing his hand to that “some one” who would +be listening now on the wire. He dared not speak to her, or, above all, +allow her to expose herself by a single inadvertent word. He dared not +speak to her--and she was here now, calling him! He could not speak +to her--and it was life and death almost that she should know what had +happened; life and death almost for both of them that he should know all +and everything she could tell him. True, it would take but a minute +to run to the cellar and cut those wires, while Jason held her on the +pretence of calling him, Jimmie Dale, to the 'phone; only a minute to +cut those wires--and in so doing advertise to these fiends the fact that +he had discovered their trick; admit, as though in so many words, that +their suspicions of him were justified; lay himself open to some new +move that he could not hope to foresee; and, paramount to all else, rob +her and himself of this master trump the Crime Club had placed in his +hands, by means of which there was a chance that he could hoist them +with their own petard! + +The telephone rang again--imperatively, persistently. + +“Listen, Jason.” Jimmie Dale was speaking rapidly, earnestly. “Say that +I've come in and have gone to bed--in a vile humour. That you told me a +lady had been calling, but that I said if she called again I wasn't +to be disturbed if it was the Queen of Sheba herself--that I wouldn't +answer any 'phone to-night for anybody. Do you understand? No argument +with her--just that. Now, answer!” + +Jason lifted the receiver from the hook. + +“Yes--hello!” he said. “Yes, ma'am, Mr. Dale has come in, but he has +retired. . . . Yes, I told him; but, begging your pardon, ma'am, he +was in what I might say was a bit of a temper, and said he wasn't to be +disturbed by any one.” + +Jimmie Dale snatched the receiver from Jason, and put it to his own ear. + +“Kindly tell Mr. Dale that unless he comes to the 'phone now,” a +feminine voice, her voice, in well-simulated indignation, was saying, +“it will be a very long day before I shall trouble myself to--” + +Jimmie Dale clapped his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the +instrument. Thank God for that clever brain of hers! She understood! + +“Repeat what you said before, Jason,” he instructed hurriedly. “Then say +'Good-night.'” + +He removed his hand from the mouthpiece. + +“It's quite useless, ma'am,” said Jason apologetically. “In the rare +temper he was in, he wouldn't come, to use his own words, ma'am, not for +the Queen of Sheba herself, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.” + +Jimmie Dale hung the receiver back on the hook--and with his hand +flirted away a bead of moisture that had sprung to his forehead. + +“Good Lord, Master Jim, what's wrong, sir? What's happened, sir? +And--and those clothes, Master Jim, sir! They aren't the ones you went +out in, sir--they aren't yours at all, sir!” Jason ventured anxiously. + +“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, “switch off the light, and go to the front +window and look out. Keep well behind the curtains. Don't show yourself. +Tell me if you see anything.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Jason obediently. + +The light went out. Jimmie Dale moved to the rear of the room--to the +window overlooking the garage and yard. + +“I don't see anything, sir,” Jason called. + +“Watch!” Jimmie Dale answered. + +A minute passed--two--three. Jimmie Dale was staring down into the black +of the yard. She understood! She knew, of course, before she 'phoned +that something had gone wrong to-night. She knew that only peril of the +gravest moment would have kept him from the 'phone--and her. She knew +now, as a logical conclusion, that it was dangerous to attempt to +communicate with him at his home. Those wires! Where did they lead to? +Not far away--that would be almost a mechanical impossibility. Was it +into the Crime Club itself--near at hand? Or the basement, say, of that +apartment house across the driveway? Or--where? + +And then Jimmie Dale spoke again: + +“Do you see anything, Jason?” + +“I'm not sure, sir,” Jason answered hesitantly. “I thought I saw a man +move behind a tree out there across the road a minute ago, sir. Yes, +sir--there he is again!” + +There was a thin, mirthless smile on Jimmie Dale's lips. + +Below, in the shadow of the garage, a dark form, like a deeper shadow, +stirred--and was still again. + +“What time is it, Jason?” Jimmie Dale asked presently. + +“It'll be about half-past four, sir.” + +“Go to bed, Jason.” + +“Yes, sir; but”--Jason's voice, low, troubled, came through the darkness +from the upper end of the room--“Master Jim, sir, I--” + +“Go to bed, Jason--and not a word of this.” + +“Yes, sir. Good-night, Master Jim.” + +“Good-night, Jason.” + +Jimmie Dale groped his way to the big lounging chair in which he had +found Jason asleep, and flung himself into it. They had struck quickly, +these ingenious, dress-suited murderers of the Crime Club! The house +was already watched, would be watched now untiringly, unceasingly; not a +movement of his henceforth but would be under their eyes! + +His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, closed slowly until they +became tight-clenched, knotted fists. What was he to do? It was not only +the Crime Club, it was not only the Tocsin and her peril--there was the +underworld snapping and snarling at his heels, there was the police, +dogged and sullen, ever on the trail of the Gray Seal! His life, even +before this, in his fight against the underworld and the police, had +depended upon his freedom of action--and now, at one and the same time, +that freedom was cut away from beneath his feet, as it were, and a third +foe, equally as deadly as the others, was added to the list! + +For months, to preserve and sustain the character of Larry the Bat, he +had been forced to assume the role almost daily; for, in that sordid +empire below the dead line, whose one common bond and aim was the +Gray Seal's death, where suspicion, one of the other, was rampant and +extravagant, where each might be the one against whom all swore their +vengeance, Larry the Bat could not mysteriously disappear from his +accustomed haunts without inviting suspicion in an active and practical +form--an inquisitorial visit to his squalid lodgings, the Sanctuary--and +the end of Larry the Bat! + +If, as he had thought only a few hours before, he was through forever +with his dual life, that would not have mattered, the underworld would +have been welcome to make what it chose of it--but now the preservation +of the character of Larry the Bat was more vital and necessary to him +than it had ever been before. It was a means of defense and offense +against these men who lurked now outside his doors. It was the sole +means now of communication with her; for, warned both by Jason's +words, and what must be an obvious fact to her, that their plans had +miscarried, that it was dangerous to communicate with him as Jimmie +Dale, she would expect him, count on him to make that move. There +would be no longer either reason or attempt on her part to maintain the +mystery with which she had heretofore surrounded herself, the crisis +had come, she would be watching, waiting, hoping, seeking for him +more anxiously and with far more at stake than he had ever sought for +her--until now! + +He got up impulsively from his chair, and, in the blackness, began to +pace the room. The next move was clear, pitifully clear; it had been +clear from the first, it had been clear even in that ride in the car--it +was so clear that it seemed veritably to mock him as he prodded his +brains for some means of putting it into execution. He must get to the +Sanctuary, become Larry the Bat--but how? HOW! The question seemed at +last to become resonant, to ring through the room with the weight of +doom upon it. + +Schemes, plans, ideas came, bringing a momentary uplift--only to be +discarded the next instant with a sort of bitter, desperate regret. +These men were not men of mere ordinary intelligence; their cleverness, +their power, the amazing scope of their organisation, all bore grim +witness to the fact that they would be blinded not at all by any paltry +ruse. + +He could walk out of the house in the morning as Jimmie Dale without +apparent hindrance--that was obvious enough. And so long as he pursued +the usual avocations of Jimmie Dale, he would not be interfered +with--only WATCHED. It was useless to consider that plan for a moment. +It would not help him to reach the Sanctuary--without leading them there +behind him! True, there was always the chance that he might shake them +off his trail, but he could hardly hope to accomplish anything like that +without their knowing that it was done DELIBERATELY--and that he dared +not risk. The strongest weapon in his hands now was his secret knowledge +that he was being watched. + +That telephone there, for instance, that most curiously kept on +insisting in his mind that it, and it alone was the way out, was the +last thing he could place in jeopardy. Besides, there was another reason +why such a plan would not do; for, granting even that he succeeded in +eluding them on the way, and managed to reach the Sanctuary, his freedom +of action would be so restricted and limited as to be practically +worthless--he would have to return to his home here again within a +reasonable time as Jimmie Dale, within a few hours at most--or again +they would be in possession of the fact that he had discovered their +surveillance. + +That, it was true, had been his original plan when he had entered the +house half an hour previously, but it was an entirely different matter +now. Then, he had counted on GETTING AWAY without their knowing it, +before they, as he had fondly thought, would have had a chance to +establish their espionage, and when they would have had no reason to +suspect, for a time at least, that he was not still within the house, +when they would have been watching, as it were, an empty cage. + +He stopped in his walk, and, after a moment, dropped down into the +lounging chair again. That was it, of course. An empty cage! If he could +escape from the house! Not so much without their seeing him; that +was more or less a mechanical detail. But escape--and leave them in +possession of a sort of guarantee or assurance that he was still there! +That would give him the freedom of action that he must have. He smiled +with bitter irony. That solved the problem! That was all there was +to it--just that! It was very simple, exceedingly simple; it was +only--impossible! + +The smile left his lips, and once more his hands, clenched fiercely. No; +it was not impossible! It MUST be done--if he was to win through, if +he was even to save himself! It must be done--or FAIL her! It COULD be +done; there was a way--if he could only see it! + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE “HOUR” + + +As the minutes passed, many of them, Jimmie Dale sat there motionless, +staring before him at the desk that was faintly outlined in the +unlighted room. Then somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour. +Five o'clock! He raised his head. YES! It could be done! There was a +way! He had the germ of it now. And now the plan began to grow, to take +form and shape in his mind, to dovetail, to knit the integral parts into +a comprehensive whole. There was a way--but he must have assistance. +Jason--yes, assuredly. Benson, his chauffeur--yes, equally as +trustworthy as Jason. Benson was devoted to him; and moreover Benson was +young, alert, daring, cool. He had had more than one occasion to test +Benson's resourcefulness and nerve! + +Jimmie Dale rose abruptly, went to the rear window, and, parting the +curtains cautiously, stood peering down into the courtyard. Yes, it +was feasible; even a little more than feasible. The garage fronted the +driveway, of course, to give free entrance and egress to the cars, but +where the wall of the garage and the rear wall of the house overlapped, +as it were, the space between them was not much more than ten yards; +and here the shadows of the two walls, mingling, lay like a black, +impenetrable pathway--not like that other shadow he had seen moving at +the side of the garage, and that, if not for the moment discernible, was +none the less surely still lurking there! + +Satisfied, Jimmie Dale swung briskly from the window, and, going now +to his bedroom across the hall, undressed and went to bed--but not to +sleep. There would be time enough to sleep, all day, if he wished; now, +there were still the little details to be thought out that, more than +anything else, could make or wreck his plans. A point overdone, the +faintest suggestion of a false note where men of the calibre of those +against whom he was now fighting for his life were concerned, would +not only make his scheme abortive, but would place him utterly at their +mercy. + +It was nine o'clock when he rang for Jason. + +“Jason,” he said abruptly, as the other entered, “I want you to +telephone for Doctor Merlin.” + +“The doctor, sir!” exclaimed the old man anxiously. “You're--you're not +ill, Master Jim, sir?” + +“Do I look ill, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale gravely. + +“Well, sir,” admitted Jason, in concern; “a bit done up, sir, perhaps. A +little pale, sir; though I'm sure--” + +“I'm glad to hear it,” said Jimmie Dale, sitting up in bed. “The worse I +look, the better!” + +“I--I beg pardon, sir?” stammered Jason. + +“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, gravely again, “you have had reason to know +that on several occasions my life has been threatened. It is threatened +now. You know from last night that this house is now watched. You +may, or you may not have surmised--that our telephone wires have been +tapped.” + +“Tapped, sir!”--Jason's face had gone a little gray. + +“Yes; a party line, so to speak,” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “Do you +understand? You must be careful to say no more, no less than exactly +what I tell you to say. Now go and telephone! Ask the doctor to come +over and see me this morning. Simply say that I am not feeling well; but +that, apart from being apparently in a very nervous condition, you do +not know what is the matter.” + +“Yes, sir--good Lord, sir!” gasped Jason--and left the room to carry out +his orders. + +An hour later, Doctor Merlin had been and gone--and had left two +prescriptions; one written, the other verbal. With the written one, +Benson, in his chauffeur's livery, was dispatched to the drug store; the +verbal one was precisely what Jimmie Dale had expected from the fussy +old family physician: “Two or three days of quiet in the house James; +and if you need me again, let me know.” + +“Now, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, when the old man had returned from +ushering Doctor Merlin from the house, “our friends out there will be +anxious to learn the verdict. I was to dine with the Ross-Hendersons +to-morrow night, was I not?” + +“Yes, sir; I think so, sir.” + +“Make sure!” said Jimmie Dale. “Look in my engagement book there on the +table.” + +Jason looked. + +“Yes, sir, that's right,” he announced. + +“Very good,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “Now go and telephone again, +Jason. Present my regrets and excuses to the Ross-Hendersons, and say +that under the doctor's orders I am confined to the house for the next +few days--and, Jason!” + +“Yes, sir?” + +“When Benson returns with the medicine let him bring it here +himself--and I shall want you as well.” + +Jimmie Dale propped himself up a little wearily on the pillows, as Jason +went out of the room. After all, his condition was not entirely feigned. +He was, as a matter of fact, pretty well played out, both mentally and +physically. Certainly, that he should require a doctor and be confined +to the house could not arouse suspicion even in the minds of those +alert, aristocratic thugs of the Crime Club, prone as they would be +to suspect anything--a man who had been knocked unconscious in an +automobile smash the night before, had been in a fight, had been +subjected to a terrific mental shock, to say nothing of the infernal +drug that had been administered to him, might well be expected to be +indisposed the next morning, and for several mornings following that! +It might, indeed, even cause them to relax their vigilance for the time +being--though he dared build nothing on that. Well, he had only to coach +Benson and Jason in the parts they were to play, and the balance of the +morning and all the afternoon was his in which to rest. + +He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to +jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as +the two men entered. + +Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly. + +Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a +moment before he spoke. + +“Benson,” he said, “the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and +lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?” + +“Yes, sir,” Benson answered promptly. + +“And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?” + +“Why, yes, sir; I suppose so--at a squeeze”--Benson stared blankly. + +“Quite so!” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “Now, another matter, Benson: I +believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of +taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their masters' +machines?” + +“SOME might,” Benson replied, a little stiffly. “I hope you don't think, +sir, that--” + +“One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done--quite generally?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a +purpose, if you were so inclined?” + +“Yes, sir,” said Benson; “but--” + +“Very good!” Jimmie Dale interrupted. “Then to-night, Benson, taking +advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after +that until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that +reprehensible habit.” + +“I--I don't understand, Mr. Dale.” + +“No; I dare say not,” said Jimmie Dale--and then the whimsicality +dropped from him. “Benson,” he said slowly, “do you remember a night, +nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You had, +indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in that East +Side neighbourhood.” + +“I remember,” said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply: “I wouldn't +be here now, sir, if it hadn't been for you.” + +“Well,” said Jimmie Dale quietly, “the tables are turned to-day, Benson. +As Jason already knows, this house is watched. For reasons that I cannot +explain, I am in great danger. Bluntly, I am putting my life in your +hands--and Jason's.” + +Benson looked for an instant from Jimmie Dale to Jason, caught the +strained, troubled expression on the old man's face, then back again at +Jimmie Dale. + +“D'ye mean that, sir!” he cried. “Then you can count on me, Mr. Dale, to +the last ditch!” + +“I know that, Benson,” Jimmie Dale said softly. “And now, both of you, +listen! It is imperative that I should get away from the house; and +equally imperative that those watching should believe that I am still +here. Not even the servants are to be permitted a suspicion that I am +not here in my bed, ill. That, Jason, is your task. You will allow +no one to wait on me but yourself; you will bring the meal trays up +regularly--and eat the food yourself. You will answer all inquiries, +telephone and otherwise, in person--I am not seeing any one. You +understand perfectly, Jason?” + +“I understand, Master Jim. You need have no fear, sir, on that score.” + +“Now, you, Benson,” Jimmie Dale went on. “A few minutes ago I sent +you out in your chauffeur's togs with that prescription. You were +undoubtedly observed. I wanted you to be. It was quite necessary that +they should know and be able to recognise you again--to disabuse their +minds later on of the possibility that I might be masquerading in your +clothes; and also, of course, that they should know who you were, and +what your position was in the household. Very well! To-night, at eight +o'clock exactly, you are to go out from the back door of the house to +the garage. On the way out--it will be quite dark then--I want you to +drop something, say, a bunch of keys that you had been jingling in your +hand. You are to experience some difficulty in finding it again, move +about a little to force any one that may be lurking by the garage to +retreat around the corner. Grumble a bit and make a little noise; but +you are not to overdo it--a couple of minutes at the outside is enough, +by that time I shall be under the car seat. You will then run the +machine out to the street and stop at the curb, jump out, and, as though +you had forgotten something, hurry back to the garage. You must not be +away long--enough only to permit, say, a passer-by to glance into the +car and satisfy himself that it is empty. You understand, of course, +Benson, that the hood must be down--no closed car to invite even the +suggestion of concealment--that would be a fatal blunder. Drive then +to the young lady's home by as direct a route as you can--give no +appearance of being aware that you are followed, as you will be, and +much less the appearance of attempting to elude pursuit. Act naturally. +Between here and your destination I will manage readily enough to leave +the car. You will then take the young lady for her drive--that is what +they will be interested in--your motive for going out to-night. And, as +I said, take her driving again on each succeeding night--establish the +HABIT to their satisfaction.” + +Jimmie Dale paused, glanced at the paper which he still held in his +hand, then handed it to Benson. + +“Just one thing more, Benson,” he said: “Listed on that paper you will +find a different rendezvous for each night for the next five nights, +excluding to-night, which, after you have returned the young lady to her +home, you are to pass by on your way back here. See that your drive is +always over in time for you to pass each night's rendezvous at half +past eleven sharp. Don't stop unless I signal you. If I am not there, +go right on home, and be at the next place on the following night. I am +fairly well satisfied they will not bother about you after to-night, +or to-morrow night at the most; but, for all that, you must take no +chances, so, except in the route you take in going to the young lady's, +always avoid covering the same ground twice, which might give the +appearance of having some ulterior purpose in view--even in your drives, +vary your runs. Is this clear, Benson?” + +“Yes, sir,” said Benson earnestly. + +“Very well, then,” said Jimmie Dale. “Eight o'clock to the dot, +Benson--compare your time with Jason's. And now, Jason, see that I get a +chance to sleep until dinner time to-night.” + +The hours that followed were hours of sound and much-needed sleep for +Jimmie Dale, and from which he awoke only on Jason's entrance that +evening with the dinner tray. + +“I've slept like a log, Jason!” he cried briskly, as he leaped out of +bed. “Anything new--anything happened?” + +“No, sir; not a thing,” Jason answered. “Only, Master Jim, sir”--the old +man twisted his hands nervously--“I--you'll excuse my saying so, sir--I +do hope you'll be careful to-night, sir. I can't help being afraid that +something'll happen to you, Master Jim.” + +“Nonsense, Jason!” Jimmie Dale laughed cheerfully. “There's nothing +going to happen--to me! You go ahead now and stay with the servants, and +get them out of the road at the proper time.” + +He bathed, dressed, ate his dinner, and was slipping cartridges into the +magazine of his automatic when, within a minute or two of eight o'clock, +Jason's whisper came from the doorway. + +“It's all clear now, Master Jim, sir.” + +“Right!” Jimmie Dale responded--and followed Jason down the stairway, +and to the head of the cellar stairs. + +Here Jason halted. + +“God keep you, Master Jim!” said the old man huskily. “Good-night, +Jason,” Jimmie Dale answered softly; and, with a reassuring squeeze on +the other's arm, went on down to the cellar. + +Here he moved quickly, noiselessly across to the window--not the +window of the night before, but another of the same description, almost +directly beneath the one in his den above, that faced the garage and lay +in the line of that black shadow path between the two buildings. Deftly, +cautiously without sound, a half inch, an inch at a time he opened it. +He stood listening, then. A minute passed. Then he heard Benson open and +shut the back door; then Benson in the yard; and then Benson's voice in +a muttered and irritable growl, talking to himself, as he stamped around +on the ground. + +With a lithe, agile movement, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up and through +the window--and began to creep rapidly on hands and knees toward +the garage. It was dark, intensely dark. He could barely distinguish +Benson's form, though, as he passed the other, the slight sounds he made +drowned out by the chauffeur's angry mumblings, he could have reached +out and touched Benson easily. + +He gained the interior of the garage, and, as Benson, came on again, +stepped lightly into the car, lifted the seat, and wriggled his way +inside. + +It was close, stuffy, abominably cramped, but Jimmie Dale was smiling +grimly now. Thanks to Benson, there wasn't a possibility that he had +been seen. He both felt and heard Benson start the car. Then the car +moved forward, ran the length of the driveway, bumped slightly as it +made the street--and stopped. He heard Benson jump out and run back--and +then he listened intently, and the grim smile flickered on his lips +again. Came the sound of a footstep on the sidewalk close beside the +car--then silence--the car shook a little as though some one's weight +was on the step--then the footsteps receded--Benson returned on the +run--and the car started forward once more. + +Perhaps ten minutes passed. Three times the car had swerved sharply, +making a corner turn. Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat, and, +protected from observation from behind by the back of the car itself, +crawled out and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau. + +“Don't look around, Benson,” he said calmly. “Are we followed?” + +“Yes, sir.” Benson answered. “At least, there's always been a car behind +us, though not the same one. They're pretty clever. There must be three +or four, each following the other. Every time I turn a corner it's a +different car that turns it behind me.” + +“How far behind?” Jimmie Dale asked. + +“Half a block.” + +“Slow down a little,” instructed Jimmie Dale; “and don't turn another +corner until they've had a chance to accommodate themselves to your new +speed. You are going too fast for me to jump, and I don't want them to +notice any change in speed, except what is made in plain sight. Yes; +that's better. Where are we, Benson?” + +“That's Amsterdam Avenue ahead,” replied Benson. + +“All right,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “Turn into it. The more people +the better. Tell me just as you are about to turn.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Benson; then, almost on the instant, “All ready, sir!” + +Jimmie Dale's hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door ajar, +the car swerved, took the corner--and Jimmie Dale stepped out on the +running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though chatting +with Benson, and then with an airy “good-night” dropped nonchalantly +to the ground, and the next instant had mingled with the throng of +pedestrians on the sidewalk. + +A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and +followed Benson--and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street again, +swung on a downtown car. The road to the Sanctuary was open! + +In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every foot +of the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached the Bowery, +and, walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead +that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still but a quarter to +nine. But even at that he quickened his steps a little. He was free now! +There was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him. He was free! He +could strike now in his own defense--and hers! In a few moments he would +be at the Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by +to-morrow at the latest he would see--The Tocsin. After all, that “hour” + was not to be taken from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that she had +meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might be! It +was not the hour of victory. But it was the hour that meant to him the +realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he should see her, +see her for the first time face to face, when there should be no more +barriers between them, when-- + +“Fer Gawd's sake, mister, buy a pencil!” + +A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his +ear. He halted mechanically. A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was +thrusting a bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him--and then, +with a stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward. The eyes that lifted to +his for an instant were bright and clear with the vigor of youth, great +eyes of brown they were, and trouble, hope, fear, wistfulness, ay, and +a glorious shyness were in their depths. And then the voice he knew so +well, the Tocsin's was whispering hurriedly: + +“I will be waiting here, Jimmie--for Larry the Bat.” + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE TOCSIN + + +It was only a little way back along the street from the Sanctuary to +the corner on the Bowery where as Jimmie Dale he had left her, where as +Larry the Bat now he was going to meet her again; it would take only +a moment or so, even at Larry the Bat's habitual, characteristic, +slouching, gait--but it seemed that was all too slow, that he must throw +discretion to the winds and run the distance. His blood was tingling; +there was elation upon him, coupled with an almost childlike dread that +she might be gone. + +“The Tocsin! The Tocsin!” he kept saying to himself. + +Yes; she was still there, still whiningly imploring those who passed to +buy her miserable pencils--and then, with a quick-flung whisper to him +to follow as he slouched up close to her, she had started slowly down +the street. + +“The Tocsin! The Tocsin! The Tocsin!”--his brain seemed to be ringing +with the words, ringing with them in a note clear as a silver bell. +The Tocsin--at last! The woman who so strangely, so wonderfully, so +mysteriously had entered into his life, and possessed it, and filled it +with a love and yearning that had come to mold and sway and actuate +his very existence--the woman for whom he had fought; for whom he had +risked, and gladly risked, his wealth, his name, his honour--everything; +the woman for whose sake he, the Gray Seal, was sought and hounded as +the most notorious criminal of the age; she whose cleverness, whose +resourcefulness, whose amazing intimacy with the hidden things of the +underworld had seemed, indeed, to border on the supernatural; she, the +Tocsin--the woman whose face he had never seen before! The woman whose +face he had never seen before--and who now was that wretched hag that +hobbled along the street before him, begging, whining, and importuning +the passers-by to purchase of her pitiful wares! + +He laughed a little--buoyantly. He had never pictured a first meeting +such as this! A hag? Yes! And one as disreputable in appearance as he +himself, as Larry the Bat, was disreputable! But he had seen her eyes! +Inimitable as was her disguise, she could not hide her eyes, or hide the +pledge they held of the beauty of form and feature beneath the tattered +rags and the touch of a master in the make-up that brought haggard want +and age into the face--and dimly he began to divine the source, the +means by which she had acquired the information that for years had +enabled her to plan their coups, that had enabled him to execute them +under the guise of crime, that for years had seemed beyond all human +reach. + +Where was she going? Where was she taking him? But what did it matter! +The years of waiting were at an end--the years of mystery in a few +moments now would be mystery no more! + +Ah! She had turned from the Bowery, and was heading east. He shuffled on +after her, guardedly, a half block behind. It was well that Jimmie Dale +had disappeared, that he was Larry the Bat again--the neighbourhood +was growing more and more one that Jimmie Dale could not long linger +in without attracting attention; while, on the other hand, it was the +natural environment of such as Larry the Bat and such as she, who was +leading him now to the supreme moment of his life. Yes, it was that--the +fulfillment of the years! The thought of it alone filled his mind, his +soul; it brushed aside, it blotted out for the time being the danger, +the peril, the deadly menace that hung over them both. It was only that +she, the Tocsin, was here--only that at last they would be together. + +On she went, traversing street after street, the direction always +trending toward the river--until finally she halted before what appeared +to be, as nearly as he could make out in the almost total darkness of +the ill-lighted street, a small and tumble-down, self-contained dwelling +that bordered on what seemed to be an unfenced store yard of some +description. He drew his breath in sharply. She had halted--waiting for +him to come up with her. She was waiting for him--WAITING for him! +It seemed as though he drank of some strange, exhilarating elixir--he +reached her side eagerly--and then--and then--her hand had caught his, +and she was leading him into the house, into a black passage where he +could see nothing, into a room equally black over whose threshold he +stumbled, and her voice in a low, conscious way, with a little tremour, +a half sob in it that thrilled him with its promise, was in his ears: + +“We are safe here, Jimmie, for a little while--but, oh, Jimmie, what +have I done! What have I done to bring you into this--only--only--I was +so sure, so sure, Jimmie, that there was nothing more to fear!” + +The blood was beating in hammer blows at his temples. It seemed all +unreal, untrue that this moment could be his, that it was not a dream--a +dream which was presently to be snatched from him in a bitter awakening. +And then he laughed out wildly, passionately. No--it was true, it was +real! Her breath was on his cheek, it was a living, pulsing hand that +was still in his--and then soul and mind and body seemed engulfed and +lost in a mad ecstasy--and she was in his arms, crushed to him, and he +was raining kisses upon her face. + +“I love you! I love you!” he was crying hoarsely; and over and over +again: “I love you! I love you!” + +She did not struggle. The warm, rich lips were yielding to his; he could +feel the throb, the life in the young, lithe form against his own. She +was his--his! The years, the past, all were swept away--and she was his +at last--his for always. And there came a mighty sense of kingship +upon him, as though all the world were at his feet, and virility, and a +great, glad strength above all other men's, and a song was in his soul, +a song triumphant--for she was his! + +“You!” he cried out--and strained her to him. “You!” he cried again--and +kissed her lips and her eyelids and her lips again. + +And then her head was buried on his shoulder, and she was crying softly; +but after a moment she raised her hands and laid them upon his face, +and held them there, and because it was dark, dared to raise her head as +well, and her eyes to look into his. + +Then for a long time they stood there so, and for a long time neither +spoke--and then with a little startled, broken cry, as though the peril +and the menace hanging over them, forgotten for the moment, were thrust +like a knife stab suddenly upon her, she drew herself away, and ran from +him, and went and got a lamp, and lighted it, and set it upon the table. + +And Jimmie Dale, still standing there, watched her. How gloriously her +eyes shone, dimmed and misty with the tears that filled them though they +were! And there was nothing incongruous in the rags that clothed her, in +the squalour and poverty of the bare room, in the white furrows that the +tears had plowed through the grime and make-up on her cheeks. + +“You wonderful, wonderful woman!” Jimmie Dale whispered. + +She shook her head as though almost in self-reproach. + +“I am not wonderful, Jimmie,” she said, in a low voice. “I”--and then +she caught his arm, and her voice broke a little--“I've brought you into +this--probably to your death. Jimmie, tell me what happened last night, +and since then. I--I've thought at times to-day I should go mad. Oh, +Jimmie, there is so much to say to-night, so much to do if--if we +are ever to be together for--for always. Last night, Jimmie--the +telephone--I knew there was danger--that all had gone wrong--what was +it?” + +His arms were around her shoulders, drawing her close to him again. + +“I found the wires tapped,” he said slowly. + +“Yes, and--and the man you met--the chauffeur?” + +“He is dead,” Jimmie Dale answered gently. + +He felt her hand close with a quick, spasmodic clutch upon his arm; her +face grew white--and for a moment she turned away her head. + +“And--and the package?” she asked presently. + +“I do not know,” replied Jimmie Dale. “He did not have it with him; +he--” + +“Wait!” she interrupted quickly. “We are only wasting time like this! +Tell me everything, everything just as it happened, everything from the +moment you received my letter.” + +And, holding her there in his arms, softening as best he could the more +brutal details, he told her. And, at the end, for a little while she was +silent; then in a strained, impulsive way she asked again: + +“The chauffeur--you are sure--you are positive that he is dead?” + +“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale grimly; “I am sure.” And then the pent-up flood +of questions burst from his lips. Who was the chauffeur? The package, +the box numbered 428, and John Johansson? And the Crime Club? And +the issue at stake? The danger, the peril that surrounded her? And +she--above all--more than anything else--about herself--her strange +life, its mystery? + +She checked him with a strangely wistful touch of her finger upon his +lips, with a queer, pathetic shake of her head. + +“No, Jimmie; not that way. You would never understand. I cannot--” + +“But I am to know--now! Surely I am to know NOW!” he cried, a sudden +sense of dismay upon him. Three years! Three years--and always the +“next” time! “I must know now, if I am to help you!” + +She smiled a little wanly at him, as she drew herself away, and, +dropping into a chair, placed her elbows on the rickety table, cupping +her chin in her hands. + +“Yes; you are to know now,” she said, almost as though she were talking +to herself; then, with a swift intake of her breath, impulsively: +“Jimmie! Jimmie! I had thought that it would be all so different +when--when you came. That--that I would have nothing to fear--for +you--for me--because--it would be all over. And now you are here, +Jimmie--and, oh, thank God for you!--but I feel to-night almost--almost +as though it were hopeless, that--that we were beaten.” + +“Beaten!” He stepped quickly to the table, and sat down, and took one +of her hands away from her face to hold it in both his own. “Beaten!” + he laughed out defiantly; then, playfully, soothingly, to reassure her: +“Jimmie Dale and Larry the Bat and the Gray Seal and the Tocsin--BEATEN! +And after we have just scored the last trick!” + +“But we do not hold many trumps, Jimmie,” she answered gravely. “You +have seen something of this Crime Club's power, its methods, its +merciless, cruel, inhuman cunning, and you, perhaps, think that you +understand--but you have not begun to grasp the extent of either that +power or cunning. This horrible organisation has been in existence for +many years. I do not know how many. I only know that the men of whom +it is composed are not ordinary criminals, that they do not work in +the ordinary way--to-day, they set the machinery of fraud, deception, +robbery, and murder in motion that ten years from now, and, perhaps, +only then, will culminate in the final success of their schemes--and +they play only for enormous stakes. But”--her lips grew set--“you will +see for yourself. I must not talk any longer than is necessary; we must +not take too much time. You count on three days before they begin to +suspect that all is not right with Jimmie Dale--I know them better than +you, and I give you two days, forty-eight hours at the outside, and +possibly far less. Jimmie”--abruptly--“did you ever hear of Peter +LaSalle?” + +“The capitalist? Yes!” said Jimmie Dale. “He died a few years ago. I +know his brother Henry well--at the club, and all that.” + +“Do you!” she said evenly. “Well, the man you know is not Peter +LaSalle's brother; he is an impostor--and one of the Crime Club.” + +“Not--Peter LaSalle's brother!”--Jimmie Dale repeated the words +mechanically. And suddenly his brain was whirling. Vaguely, dimly, in +little memory snatches, events, not pertinent then, vitally significant +now, came crowding upon him. Peter LaSalle had come from somewhere in +the West to live in New York; and very shortly afterward had died. The +estate had been worth something over eleven millions. And there had +been--he leaned quickly, tensely forward over the table, staring at her. +“My God!” he whispered hoarsely. “You are not, you cannot be--the--the +daughter--Peter LaSalle's daughter, who disappeared strangely!” + +“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am Marie LaSalle.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE TOCSIN'S STORY + + +LaSalle! The old French name! That old French inscription on the ring: +“SONNEZ LE TOCSIN!” Yes; he began to understand now. She was Marie +LaSalle! He began to remember more clearly. + +Marie LaSalle! They had said she was one of the most beautiful girls +who had ever made her entree into New York society. But he had never met +her--as Marie LaSalle; never met her--until now, as the Tocsin, in this +bare, destitute, squalid hovel, here at bay, both of them, for their +lives. + +He had been away when she had come with her father to New York; and +on his return there had only been the father's brother in the father's +place--and she was gone. He remembered the furor her disappearance had +caused; the enormous rewards her uncle had offered in an effort to trace +her; the thousand and one speculations as to what had become of her; +and that then, gradually, as even the most startling and mystifying of +events and happenings always do, the affair had dropped into oblivion +and had been forgotten by the public at least. He began to count back. +Yes, it must have been nearly five years ago; two years before she, +as the Tocsin, and he, as the Gray Seal, had formed their amazing and +singular partnership, that--he started suddenly, as she spoke. + +“I want to tell you in as few words as I can,” she said abruptly, +breaking the silence. “Listen, then, Jimmie. My mother died ten years +ago. I was little more than a child then. Shortly after her death, +father made a business trip to New York, and, on the advice of some +supposed friends, he had a new will drawn up by a lawyer whom they +recommended, and to whom they introduced him. I do not know who those +men were. The lawyer's name was Travers, Hilton Travers.” She glanced +curiously at Jimmie Dale, and added quickly: “He was the chauffeur--the +man who was killed last night.” + +“You mean,” Jimmie Dale burst out, “you mean that he was--but, first, +the will! What was in the will?” + +“It was a very simple will,” she answered. “And from the nature of it, +it was not at all strange that my father should have been willing to +have had it drawn by a comparative stranger, if that is what you are +thinking. Summarised in a few words, the will left everything to me, +and appointed my Uncle Henry as my guardian and the sole executor of the +estate until I should have reached my twenty-fifth birthday. It provided +for a certain sum each year to be paid to my uncle for his services as +executor; and at the expiration of the trust period--that is, when I was +twenty-five--bequeathed to him the sum of one hundred thousand dollars.” + +Jimmie Dale nodded. “Go on!” he prompted. + +“It is hard to tell it in logical sequence,” she said, hesitating a +moment. “So many things seem to overlap each other. You must understand +a little more about Hilton Travers. During the five years following the +signing of the will father came frequently to New York, and became, +not only intimate with Travers, but so much impressed with the other's +cleverness and ability that he kept putting more and more of his +business into Travers' hands. At the end of that five years, we moved +to New York, and father, who was then quite an old man, retired from all +active business, and turned over a great many of his personal affairs +to Travers to look after for him, giving Travers power of attorney in a +number of instances. So much for Travers. Now about my uncle. He was my +father's only brother; in fact, they were the only surviving members of +their family, apart from very distant connections in France, from where, +generations back, the family originally came.” Her hand touched +Jimmie Dale's for an instant. “That ring, Jimmie, with its crest and +inscription, is the old family coat of arms.” + +“Yes,” he said briefly; “I surmised as much.” + +“Strange as it may seem, in view of the fact that they had not seen each +other for twenty years,” she went on hurriedly “my father and my +uncle were more than ordinarily attached to each other. Letters passed +regularly between them, and there was constant talk of one paying the +other a visit--but the visit never materialised. My uncle was somewhere +in Australia, my father was here, and consequently I never saw my uncle. +He was quite a different type of man from father--more restless, less +settled, more rough and ready, preferring the outdoor life of the +Australian bush to the restrictions of any so-called civilisation, I +imagine. Financially, I do not think he ever succeeded very well, for +twice, in one way or another, he lost every sheep on his ranch and +father set him up again; and I do not think he could ever have had much +of a ranch, for I remember once, in one of the letters he wrote, that he +said he had not seen a white man in weeks, so he must have lived a very +lonely life. Indeed, at about the time father drew the new will, my +uncle wrote, saying that he had decided to give up sheep running on his +own account as it did not pay, and to accept a very favourable offer +that had been made to him to manage a ranch in New Zealand; and his next +letter was from the latter country, stating that he had carried out +his intentions, and was well satisfied with the change he had made. The +long-proposed visit still continued to occupy my father's thoughts, and +on his retirement from business he definitely made up his mind to go +out to New Zealand, taking me with him. In fact, the plans were all +arranged, my uncle expressed unbounded delight in his letters, and we +were practically on the eve of sailing, when a cable came from my uncle, +telling us to postpone the visit for a few months, as he was obliged to +make a buying trip for his new employer that would keep him away that +length of time--and then”--her fingers, that had been abstractedly +picking out the lines formed by the grain of the wood in the table top, +closed suddenly into tight-clenched fists--“and then--my father died.” + +Jimmie Dale turned away his head. There were tears in her eyes. The old +sense of unreality was strong upon him again. He was listening to the +Tocsin's story. It was strange that he should be doing that--that +it could be really so! It seemed as though magically he had been +transported out of the world where for years past he had lived with +danger lurking at every turn, where men set watch about his house to +trap him, where the denizens of the underworld yowled like starving +beasts to sink their fangs in him, where the police were ceaselessly +upon his trail to wreak an insensate vengeance upon him; it seemed as +though he had been transported away from all that to something that he +had dreamed might, perhaps, sometime happen, that he had hoped might +happen, that he had longed for always, but now that it was his, that it +also was full of the sense of the unreal. And yet as his mind followed +the thread of her story, and leaped ahead and vaguely glimpsed what was +to come, he was conscious in a sort of premonitory way of a vaster peril +than any he had ever known, as though forces, for the moment masked, +were arrayed against him whose strength and whose malignity were beyond +human parallel. In what a strange, almost incoherent way his brain was +working! He roused himself a little and looked around him--and, with a +shock, the starkness of the room, the abject, pitiful air of destitution +brought home to him with terrific, startling force the significance of +the scene in which he was playing a part. His face set suddenly in +hard lines. That she should have been brought to assume such a life as +this--forced out of her environment of wealth and refinement, forced +in her purity to rub shoulders with the vile, the dissolute, forced to +exist as such a creature amid the crime and vice, the wretched horror +of the underworld that swirled around her! There was anger now upon him, +burning, hot--a merciless craving that was a savage, hungry lust for +vengeance. + +And then she was speaking again: + +“Father's death occurred very shortly after my uncle's message advising +us to postpone our trip was received. On his death, Travers, very +naturally, as father's lawyer, cabled my uncle to come to New York +at once; and my uncle replied, saying that he was coming by the first +steamer.” + +She paused again--but only for an instant, as though to frame her +thoughts in words. + +“I have told you that I had never seen my uncle, that even my father had +not seen him for twenty years; and I have told you that the man you know +as Henry LaSalle is an impostor--I am using the word 'uncle' now when I +refer to him simply to avoid confusion. You are, perhaps, expecting +me to say that I took a distinctive dislike to him from the moment he +arrived? On the contrary, I had every reason to be predisposed toward +him; and, indeed, was rather agreeably surprised than otherwise--he was +not nearly so uncouth and unpolished as, somehow, I had pictured his +life would have made him. Do you understand, Jimmie? He was kind, +sympathetic; and, in an apathetic way, I liked him. I say 'apathetic' +because I think that best describes my own attitude toward every one and +everything following father's death until--THAT NIGHT.” + +She rose abruptly from her chair, as though a passive position of any +kind had suddenly become intolerable. + +“Why tell you what my father and I were to each other!” she cried out +in a low, passionate voice. “It seemed as though everything that meant +anything had gone out of my life. I became worn out, nervous; and though +the days were bad enough, the nights were a source of dread. I began +to suffer from insomnia--I could not sleep. This was even before my +supposed uncle came. I used to read for hours and hours in my room +after I had gone to bed. But”--she flung out her hand with an impatient +gesture--“there is no need to dwell on that. One night, about a week +after that man had arrived, and a little over a month after father had +died, I was in my room and had finished a book I was reading. I remember +that it was well after midnight. I had not the slightest inclination +to sleep. I picked up another book--and after that another. There were +plenty in my room; but, irrationally, of course, none pleased me. I +decided to go down to the library--not that I think I really expected +to find anything that I actually wanted, but more because it was an +impulse, and furnished me for the moment with some definite objective, +something to do. I got up, slipped on a dressing gown, and went +downstairs. The lights were all out. I was just on the point of +switching on those in the reception hall, when suddenly it seemed as +though I had not strength to lift my hand, and I remember that for an +instant I grew terribly cold with dread and fear. From the room on my +right a voice had reached me. The door was closed, but the voice was +raised in an outburst of profanity. I--I could hear every word. + +“'If she's out of the way, there's no come-back,' the voice snarled. 'I +won't listen to anything else! Do you hear! Why, you fool, what are you +trying to do--hand me one! Turn everything into cash, and divvy, and +beat it--eh? And I'm the goat, and I get caught and get twenty years +for stealing trust funds--and the rest of you get the coin!' He swore +terribly again. 'Who's taken the risk in this for the last five years! +There'll be no smart Aleck lawyer tricks--there'll be no halfway +measures! And who are you to dictate! She goes out--that's safe--I +inherit as next of kin, with no one to dispute it, and that's all there +is to it!' + +“I stood there and could not move. It was the voice of the man I knew +as my uncle! My heart seemed to have stopped beating. I tried to tell +myself that I was dreaming, that it was too horrible, too incredible to +be real; that they could not really mean to--to MURDER me. And then I +recognised Hilton Travers' voice. + +“'I am not dictating, and you are not serious, of course,' he said, +with what seemed an uneasy laugh. 'I am only warning you that you are +forgetting to take the real Henry LaSalle into account. He is bound to +hear of this eventually, and then--' + +“Another voice broke in--one I did not recognise. + +“'You're talking too loud, both of you! Travers doesn't understand, but +he's to be wised up to-night, according to orders, and--' + +“The voice became inaudible, muffled--I could not hear any more. I +suppose I remained there another three or four minutes, too stunned to +know what to do; and then I ran softly along the hall to the library +door. The library, you understand, was at the rear of the room they +were in, and the two rooms were really one; that is, there was only an +archway between them. I cannot tell you what my emotions were--I do not +know. I only know that I kept repeating to myself, 'they are going to +kill me, they are going to kill me!' and that it seemed I must try and +find out everything, everything I could.” + +She turned away from the table, and began to pace nervously up and down +the miserable room. + +Jimmie Dale rose impulsively from his chair--but she waved him back +again. + +“No; wait!” she said. “Let me finish. I crept into the library. It took +me a long time, because I had to be so careful not to make the slightest +noise. I suppose it was fully six or seven minutes from the time I +had first heard my supposed uncle's voice until I had crept far enough +forward to be able to see into the room beyond. There were three men +there. The man I knew as my uncle was sitting at one end of the +table; another had his back toward me; and Travers was facing in my +direction--and I think I never saw so ghastly a face as was Hilton +Travers' then. He was standing up, sort of swaying, as he leaned with +both hands on the table. + +“'Now then, Travers,' the man whose back was turned to me was saying +threateningly, 'you've got the story now--sign those papers!' + +“It seemed as though Travers could not speak for a moment. He kept +looking wildly from one to the other. He was white to the lips. + +“'You've let me in for--THIS!' he said hoarsely, at last, 'You +devils--you devils--you devils! You've let me in for--murder! Both of +them! Both Peter and his brother--MURDERED!'” + +She stopped abruptly before Jimmie Dale, and clutched his arm tightly. + +“Jimmie, I don't know why I did not scream out. Everything went black +for a moment before my eyes. It was the first suspicion I had had that +my father had met with foul play, and I--” + +But now Jimmie Dale swayed up from his chair. + +“Murdered!” he exclaimed tensely. “Your father! But--but I remember +perfectly, there was no hint of any such thing at the time, and never +has been since. He died from quite natural causes.” + +She looked at him strangely. + +“He died from--inoculation,” she said. “Did--did you not see something +of that laboratory in the Crime Club yourself the night before +last--enough to understand?” + +“Good God!” muttered Jimmie Dale, in a startled way then: “Go on! Go on! +What happened then?” + +She passed her hand a little wearily across her eyes--and sank down into +her chair again. + +“Travers,” she continued, picking up the thread of her story, “had +raised his voice, and the third man at the table leaned suddenly, +aggressively toward him. + +“'Hold your tongue!' he growled furiously. 'All you're asked to do is +sign the papers--not talk!' + +“Travers shook his head. + +“'I won't!' he cried out. 'I won't have any hand in another murder--in +hers! My God, I won't--I won't, I tell you! It's horrible!' + +“'Look here, you fool!' the man who was posing as my uncle broke in +then. 'You're in this too deep to get out now. If you know what's good +for you, you'll do as you're told!' + +“Jimmie, I shall never forget Travers' face. It seemed to have changed +from white to gray, and there was horror in his eyes: and then he +seemed to lose all control of himself, shaking his fists in their faces, +cursing them in utter abandon. + +“'I'm bad!' he cried. 'I've gone everything, everything but the +limit--everything but murder. I stop there! I'll have no more to do +with this. I'm through! You--you pulled me into this, and--and I didn't +know!' + +“'Well, you know now!' the third man sneered. 'What are you going to do +about it?' + +“'I'm going to see that no harm comes to Marie LaSalle,' Travers +answered in a dull way. + +“The other man now was on his feet--and, I do not know quite how to +express it, Jimmie, he seemed ominously quiet in both his voice and his +movements. + +“'You'd better think that over again, Travers!' he said. 'Do you mean +it?' + +“'I mean it,' Travers said. 'I mean it--God help me!' + +“'You may well add that!' returned the other, with an ugly laugh. He +reached out his hand toward the telephone on the table. 'Do you know +what will happen to you if I telephone a certain number and say that you +have turned--traitor?' + +“'I'll have to take my chances,' Travers replied doggedly. 'I'm +through!' + +“'Take them, then!' flung out the other. 'You'll have little time given +you to do us any harm!' + +“Travers did not answer. I think he almost expected an attack upon him +then from the two men. He hesitated a moment, then backed slowly toward +the door. What happened in the next few moments in that room, I do not +know. I stole out of the library. I was obsessed with the thought that +I must see Travers, see him at all costs, before he got away from the +house. I reached the end of the hall as the room door opened, and he +came out. It was dark, as I said, and I could not see distinctly, but +I could make out his form. He closed the door behind him--and then +I called his name in a whisper. He took a quick step toward me, then +turned and hurried toward the front door, and I thought he was going +away--but the next instant I understood his ruse. He opened the front +door, shut it again quite loudly, and crept back to me. + +“'Take me somewhere where we will be safe--quick!' he whispered. + +“There was only one place where I was sure we would be safe. I led +him to the rear of the house and up the servants' stairs, and to my +boudoir.” + +She broke off abruptly, and once more rose from her chair, and once +more began to pace the room. Back in his chair, Jimmie Dale, tense and +motionless now, watched her without a word. + +“It would take too long to tell you all that passed between us,” she +went on hurriedly. “The man was frankly a criminal--but not to the +extent of murder. And in that respect, at least, he was honest with +himself. Almost the first words he said to me were: 'Miss LaSalle, I am +as good as a dead man if I am caught by the devils behind those two men +downstairs.' And then he began to plead with me to make my own escape. +He did not know who the man was that was posing as my uncle, had never +seen him before until he presented himself as Henry LaSalle; the other +man he knew as Clarke, but knew also that 'Clarke' was merely an assumed +name. He had fallen in with Clarke almost from the time that he had +begun to practise his profession, and at Clarke's instigation had gone +from one crooked deal to another, and had made a great deal of money. He +knew that behind Clarke was a powerful, daring, and unscrupulous band of +criminals, organised on a gigantic scale, of which he himself was, in +a sense--a probationary sense, as he put it--a member; but he had never +come into direct contact with them--he had received all his orders and +instructions through Clarke. He had been told by Clarke that he was to +cultivate father following the introduction, to win father's confidence, +to get as many of father's affairs into his hands as possible, to reach +the position, in fact, of becoming father's recognised attorney--and +all this with the object, as he supposed of embezzling from father on +a large scale. Then father died, and Travers was instructed to cable my +uncle. He knew that the man who answered that summons was an impostor; +but he did not know, until they had admitted it to him that night, that +both my father and my uncle had been murdered, and that I, too, was to +be made away with.” + +She looked at Jimmie Dale, and suddenly laughed out bitterly. + +“No; you don't understand, even yet, the patient, ingenious deviltry +of those fiends. It was they, at the time the new will was drawn, who +offered to buy out my real uncle's sheep ranch in that lonely, unsettled +district in Australia, and offered him that new position in New Zealand. +My uncle never reached New Zealand. He was murdered on his way there. +And in his place, assuming his name, appeared the man who has been +posing as my uncle ever since. Do you begin to see! For five years +they were patiently working out their plans, for five years before +my father's death that man lived and became known and accepted, and +ESTABLISHED himself as Henry LaSalle. Do you see now why he cabled us to +postpone our visit? He ran very little risk. The chances were one in a +thousand that any of his few acquaintances in Australia would ever run +across him in New Zealand; and besides, he was chosen because it +seems there was a slight resemblance between him and the real Henry +LaSalle--enough, with his changed mode of living and more elaborate and +pretentious surroundings, to have enabled him to carry through a bluff +had it become necessary. He had all of my uncle's papers; and the Crime +Club furnished him with every detail of our lives here. I forgot to +say, too, that from the moment my uncle was supposed to have reached New +Zealand all his letters were typewritten--an evidence in father's eyes +that his brother had secured a position of some importance; as, indeed, +from apparently unprejudiced sources, they took pains to assure father +was a fact. This left them with only my uncle's signature to forge to +the letters--not a difficult matter for them! + +“Believing that they had Travers so deeply implicated that he could do +nothing, even if he had the inclination, which they had not for a moment +imagined, and arrogant in the belief in their own power to put him out +of the way in any case if he proved refractory, they admitted all this +to him that night when he brought up the issue of the real Henry LaSalle +putting in an appearance sooner or later, and when they wanted him to +smooth their path by releasing all documents where his power of attorney +was involved. Do you see now the part they gave Travers to play? It was +to put the stamp of genuineness upon the false Henry LaSalle. Not but +that they were prepared with what would appear to be overwhelmingly +convincing evidence to prove it if it were necessary; but if the man +were accepted by the estate's lawyer there was little chance of any one +else questioning his identity.” + +She halted again by the table--and forced a smile, as her eyes met +Jimmie Dale's. + +“I am almost through, Jimmie. That night was a terrible one for both +of us. Travers' life was not worth a moment's purchase once they found +him--and mine was only under reprieve until sufficient time to obviate +suspicion should have elapsed after father's death. We had no proof that +would stand in any court--even if we should have been given the chance +to adopt that course. And without absolute, irrefutable proof, it was +all so cleverly woven, stretched over so many years, that our charge +must have been held to be too visionary and fantastic to have any basis +in fact. + +“All Travers would have been able to advance was the statement that the +supposed Henry LaSalle had admitted being an impostor and a murderer +to him! Who would believe it! On the face of it, it appeared to be an +absurdity. And even granted that we were given an opportunity to bring +the charge, they would be able to prove by a hundred influential +and well-known men in New Zealand that the impostor was really Henry +LaSalle; and were we able to find any of my uncle's old acquaintances in +Australia, it would be necessary to get them here--and not one of them +would have reached America alive. + +“But there was not a chance, not a chance, Jimmie, of doing that--they +would have killed Travers the moment he showed himself in the open. The +only thing we could do that night was to try and save our own lives; the +only thing we could look forward to was acquiring in some way, unknown +to them, the proof, fully established, with which we could crush them in +a single stroke, and before they would have time to strike back. + +“The vital thing was proof of my uncle's death. That, if it could +be obtained at all, could only be obtained in Australia. Travers was +obliged to go somewhere, to disappear from that moment if he wanted to +save his life, and he volunteered to go out there. He left the house +that night by the back entrance in an old servant's suit, which I found +for him--and I never heard from him again until a month ago in the +'personal' column of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, through which we had agreed +to communicate. + +“As for myself, I left the house the next morning, telling my pseudo +uncle that I was going to spend a few days with a friend. And this +I actually did; but in those few days I managed to turn all my own +securities, that had been left me by my mother and which amounted to a +considerable sum, into cash. And then, Jimmie, I came to--this, I have +lived like this and in different disguises, as a settlement worker, as a +widow of means in a fashionable uptown apartment, but mostly as you see +me now--for five years. For five years I have watched my supposed +uncle, hoping, praying that through him I could get to know the others +associated with him; hoping, praying that Travers would succeed; hoping, +praying that we would get them all--and watching day after day, and year +after year the 'personal' column of the paper, until at last I began +to be afraid that it was all useless. And there was nothing, Jimmie, +nothing anywhere, and I had no success”--her voice choked a little. +“Nothing! Even Clarke never went again to the house. You can understand +now how I came to know the strange things that I wrote to the Gray Seal, +how the life that I have led, how this life here in the underworld, how +the constant search for some clew on my own account brought them to my +knowledge; and you can understand now, too, why I never dared to let +you meet me, for I knew well enough that, while I worked to undermine my +father's and my uncle's murderers, they were moving heaven and earth to +find me. + +“That is all, Jimmie. The day before yesterday, a month after Travers' +first message to let me know that he was coming, there was another +'personal' giving me an hour and a telephone number. He was back! He +had everything--everything! We dared not meet; he was afraid, suspicious +that they had got track of him again. You know the rest. That package +contained the proof that, with Travers' death, can probably never be +obtained again. Do you understand why THEY want it--why it is life +and death to me? Do you understand why my supposed uncle offered huge +rewards for me, why secretly every resource of that hideous organisation +has been employed to find me--that it is only by my DEATH the estate can +pass into their hands, and now--” + +She flung out her hands suddenly toward Jimmie Dale. “Oh, Jimmie, +Jimmie, I've--I've fought so long alone! Jimmie, what are we to do?” + +He came slowly to his feet. She had fought so long--alone. But now--now +it was his turn to fight--for her. But how? She had not told him +all--surely she had not told him all, for everything depended upon that +package. There had been so much to tell that she had not thought of all, +and she had not told him the details about that. + +“That box--No. 428!” he cried quickly. “What is that? What does it +mean?” + +She shook her head. + +“I do not know,” she answered. + +“Then who is this John Johansson?” + +“I do not know,” she said again. + +“Nor where the Crime Club is?” + +“No”--dully. + +He stared at her for a moment in a dazed way. + +“My God!” Jimmie Dale murmured. + +And then she turned away her head. + +“It's--it's pretty bad, isn't it, Jimmie? I--I told you that we did not +hold many trumps.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +SILVER MAG + + +There was silence between them. Minute after minute passed. Neither +spoke. + +Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared abstractedly +before him. “We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie--we do not hold many +trumps”--her words were repeating themselves over and over in his mind. +They seemed to challenge him mockingly to deny what was so obviously a +fact, and because he could not deny it to taunt and jeer at him--to jeer +at him, when all that was held at stake hung literally upon his next +move! + +He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the +rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began +deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their +traces--and resumed his abstracted gaze before him. + +Box number four-two-eight--John Johansson--the Crime Club--the identity +of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he could hit upon a +clew to the solution of a single one of those things, or a single phase +of one of them--if only he could glimpse a ray of light that would at +least prompt action, when every moment of inaction was multiplying the +odds against them! + +There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on +Riverside Drive--he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on them. +He had though of that. In time, perhaps, he might, by so doing, discover +the whereabouts of the Crime Club. In time! It was just that--he had no +time! Forty-eight hours, the Tocsin insisted, was all the time that he +could count upon before they would become suspicious of Jimmie Dale's +“illness,” before they would discover that they were watching an empty +house! + +He might--though this was even more hazardous--make an attempt to trace +the wires that tapped those of his telephone through the basement window +that gave on the garage driveway. And what then? True, they could not +lead very far away; but, even if successful, what then? They would not +lead him to the Crime Club, but simply to some confederate, to some man +or woman playing the part of a servant, perhaps, in the house next door, +who, in turn, would have to be shadowed and watched. + +Jimmie Dale shook his head. Better, of the two, to start in at once and +shadow those who were shadowing his house. But that was not the way! He +knew that intuitively. He hated to eliminate it from consideration, +for he had no other move to take its place--but such a move was almost +suicide in itself. Time, and time alone, was the vital factor. They, the +Tocsin and he, must act quickly--and STRIKE that night if they were to +win. His fingers, the grimy fingers, dirty-nailed, of Larry the +Bat, that none now would recognise as the slim tapering, wonderfully +sensitive fingers of Jimmie Dale, the fingers that had made the name of +the Gray Seal famous, whose tips mocked at bars and safes and locks, +and seemed to embody in themselves all the human senses, tightened +spasmodically on the edge of the table. Time! Time! Time! It seemed to +din in his ears. And while he sat there powerless, impotent, the +Crime Club was moving heaven and earth to find what HE must find--that +package--if he was to save this woman here, the woman whom he loved, she +who had been forced, through the machinations of these hell fiends, +to adopt the life of a wretched hag, to exist among the dregs of the +underworld, whose squalour and vice and wantonness none knew better than +he! + +Jimmie Dale's face set grimly. Somewhere--somewhere in the past five +years of this life of hers in which she had been fighting the Crime +Club, pitting that clever brain of hers against it, MUST lie a clew. +She had told him her story only in baldest outline, with scarcely a +reference to her own personal acts, with barely a single detail. There +must be something, something that perhaps she had overlooked, something, +just the merest hint of something that would supply a starting point, +give him a glimmer of light. + +She came back from across the room, and sank down in her chair again. +She did not speak--the question, that meant life and death to them both, +was in her eyes. + +Jimmie answered the mute interrogation tersely. + +“Not yet!” he said. Then, almost curtly, in a quick, incisive way, as +the keen, alert brain began to delve and probe: “You say this man Clarke +never returned to the house after that night?” + +She nodded her head quietly. + +“You are sure of that?” he insisted. + +“Yes,” she said. “I am sure.” + +“And you say that all these years you have kept a watch on the man who +is posing as your uncle, and that he never went anywhere, or associated +with any one, that would afford you a clew to this Crime Club?” + +“Yes,” she said again. + +It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke. + +“It's very strange!” he said musingly, at last. “So strange, in fact, +that it's impossible. He must have communicated with the others, and +communicated with them often. The game they were playing was too +big, too full of details, to admit of any other possibility. And the +telephone as an explanation isn't good enough.” + +“And yet,” she said earnestly, “possible or impossible, it is +nevertheless true. That he might have succeeded in eluding me on +occasions was perhaps to be expected; but that in all those years I +should not catch him once in what, if you are correct, must have been +many and repeated conferences with the same men is too improbable to be +thought of seriously.” + +Jimmie Dale shook his head again. + +“If you had been able to watch him night and day, that might be so,” + he said crisply. “But, at best, you could only watch him a very small +portion of the time.” + +She smiled at him a little wanly. + +“Do you think, Jimmie, from what you, as the Gray Seal, know of me, that +I would have watched in any haphazard way like that?” + +He glanced at her with a sudden start. + +“What do you mean?” he asked quickly. + +“Look at me!” she said quietly. “Have you ever seen me before? I mean as +I am now.” + +“No,” he answered, after an instant. “Not that I know of.” + +“And yet”--she smiled wanly again--“you have not lived, or made the +place you hold in the underworld, without having heard of Silver Mag.” + +“You!” exclaimed Jimmie Dale. “You--Silver Mag!” He stared at her +wonderingly, as, crouch-shouldered now, the hair, gray-threaded, +straggling out from under the hood of a faded, dark-blue, seam-worn +cloak, she sat before him, a typical creature of the underworld, her +role an art in its conception, perfect in its execution. Silver Mag! +Yes, he had heard of Silver Mag--as every one in the Bad Lands had heard +of her. Silver Mag and her pocketful of coin! Always a pocketful of +silver, so they said, that was dispensed prodigally to the wives +and children temporarily deprived of support by husbands and fathers +unfortunate enough in their clashes with the law to be doing “spaces” + up the river--and therefore the underworld swore by Silver Mag. +Always silver, never a bill; Silver Mag had never been seen with a +banknote--that was her eccentricity. Much or little, she gave or paid +out of her pocketful of jangling silver. She was credited with being +a sworn enemy of the police, and--yes, he remembered, too--with having +done “time” herself. “I don't quite understand,” he said, in a puzzled +way. “I haven't run across you personally because you probably took +care to see that I shouldn't; but--it's no secret--every one says you've +served a jail sentence yourself.” + +“That is simply enough explained,” she answered gravely. “The story is +of my own making. When I decided to adopt this life, both for my own +safety and as the best means of keeping a watch on that man, I knew that +I must win the confidence of the underworld, that I must have help, and +that in order to obtain that help I must have some excuse for my enmity +against the man known as Henry LaSalle. To be widely known in the +underworld was of inestimable value--nothing, I knew, could accomplish +that as quickly as eccentricity. You see now how and why I became +known as Silver Mag. I gained the confidence of every crook in New +York through their wives and children. I told them the story of my jail +sentence--while I swore vengeance on Henry LaSalle. I told them that he +had had me arrested for something I never stole while I was working for +him as a charwoman, and that he had had me railroaded to jail. There +wasn't one but gave me credit for the theft, perhaps; but equally, +there wasn't one but understood, and my eccentricity helped this out, +my wanting to 'get' Henry LaSalle. Well--do you see now, Jimmie? I had +money, I had the confidence of the underworld, I had an excuse for my +hatred of Henry LaSalle, and so I had all the help I wanted. Day and +night that man has been watched. He receives no visitors--what social +life he has is, as you know, at the club. There is not a house that he +has ever entered that, sooner or later, I have not entered after him +in the hope of finding the headquarters of the clique. Even the men +and women, as far as human possibility could accomplish it, that he +has talked to on the streets have been shadowed, and their identity +satisfactorily established--and the net result has been failure; utter, +absolute, complete failure!” + +Jimmie Dale's eyes, that had held steadily on her face, shifted, +troubled and perplexed, to the table top. + +“You are wonderful!” he said, under his breath. “Wonderful! And--and +that makes it all the more amazing, all the more incomprehensible. It is +still impossible that he has not been in close and constant touch with +his accomplices. He MUST have been! We would be blind fools to argue +against it! It could not, on the face of it, have been otherwise!” + +“Then how, when, where has he done it?” she asked wearily. + +“God knows!” he said bitterly. “And if they have been clever enough to +escape you all these years, I'm almost inclined to say what you said a +little while ago--that we're beaten.” + +She watched him miserably, as he pushed back his chair impulsively and, +standing up, stared down at her. + +“We're against it--HARD!” he said, with a mirthless laugh. Then, his +lips tightening: “But we'll try another tack--the chauffeur--Travers. +Though even here the Crime Club has a day's start of us, even if last +night they knew no more about the whereabouts of that package than we +know now. I'm afraid of it! The chances are more than even that they've +already got it. If they were able to catch Travers as the chauffeur, +they would have had something tangible to work back from”--Jimmie Dale +was talking more to himself than to the Tocsin now, as though he were +muttering his thoughts aloud. “How did they get track of him? When? +Where? What has it led to? And what in Heaven's name,” he burst out +suddenly, “is this box number four-two-eight!” + +“A safety-deposit vault, perhaps, that he has taken somewhere,” she +hazarded. + +Jimmie Dale laughed mirthlessly again. + +“That is the one definite thing I do know--that it isn't!” he said +positively. “It is nothing of that kind. It was half-past ten o'clock +at night when I met him, and he said that he had intended going back for +the package if it had been safe to do so. Deposit vaults are not open +at that hour. The package is, or was, if they have not already got it, +readily accessible--and at any hour. Now go over everything again, every +detail that passed between you and Travers. He let you know that he was +back in New York by means of a 'personal,' you said. What else was in +that 'personal' besides the telephone number and the hour you were to +call him? Anything?” + +“Nothing that will help us any,” she replied colourlessly. “There were +simply the words 'northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place,' +and the signature that we had agreed upon, the two first and two last +letters of the alphabet transposed--BAZY.” + +“I see,” said Jimmie Dale quickly. “And over the 'phone he completed his +message. Clever enough!” + +“Yes,” she said. “In that way, if any one were listening, or overhead +the plan, there could be little harm come of it, for the essential +feature of all, the place of rendezvous, was not mentioned. It has not +been Travers' fault that this happened--and in spite of every precaution +it has cost him his life. He wanted nothing to give them a clew to my +whereabouts; he was trying to guard against the slightest evidence that +would associate us one with the other. He even warned me over the +'phone not to tell him how, where, or the mode of life I was living. And +naturally, he dared give me no particulars about himself. I was simply +to select a third party whom I could trust, and to follow out his +instructions, which were those that I sent to you in my letter.” + +Jimmie Dale began to pace nervously up and down the room. + +“Nothing else?” he queried, a little blankly. + +“Nothing else,” she said monotonously. + +“But since last night, since you knew that things had gone wrong,” he +persisted, “surely you traced that telephone number--the one you called +up?” + +“Yes,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders in a tired way. “Naturally +I did that--but, like everything else, it amounted to nothing. He +telephoned from Makoff's pawnshop on that alley off Thompson Street, +and--” + +“WHERE!” Jimmie Dale, suddenly stock-still, almost shouted the word. “He +telephoned from--where! Say that again!” + +She looked at him in amazement, half rising from her chair. + +“Jimmie, what is it?” she cried. “You don't mean that--” + +He was beside her now, his hands pressed upon her shoulders, his face +flushed. + +“Box number four-two-eight!” He laughed out hysterically in his +excitement. “John Johansson--box number four-two-eight! And like a fool +I never thought of it! Don't you see? Don't you know now yourself? THE +UNDERGROUND POST OFFICE!” + +She stood up, clinging to him; a wild relief, that was based on her +confidence in him, in her eyes and face, even while she shook her head. + +“No,” she said frantically. “No--I do not know. Tell me, Jimmie! Tell me +quickly! You mean at Makoff's?” + +“No! Not Makoff's--at Spider Jack's, on Thompson Street!”--he was +clipping off his words, still holding her tightly by the shoulders, +still staring into her eyes. “You know Spider Jack! Jack's little +novelty store! Ah, you have not learned all of the underworld yet! +Spider Jack is the craftiest 'fence' in the Bad Lands--and Makoff is +his partner. Spider buys the crooks' stuff, and Makoff disposes of it +through the pawnshop--it's only a step through the connecting back yard +from one to the other, and--” + +“Yes--but,” she interrupted feverishly, “the package--you said--” + +“Wait!” Jimmie Dale cried. “I'm coming to that! If Travers stood in with +Makoff, he stood in with Spider Jack. For years Spider has been a sort +of clearing house for the underworld--for years he has conducted, and +profitably, too, his underground post office. Crooks from all over +the country, let alone those in New York, communicate with each other +through Spider Jack. These, for a fee, are registered at Spider's, and +given a number--a box number he calls it, though, of course, there +are no actual boxes. Letters come by mail addressed to him--the sealed +envelope within containing the actually intended recipient's name. These +Spider either forwards, or delivers in person when they are called +for. Dozens of crooks, too, unwilling, perhaps, to dispose of small +ill-gotten articles at ruinous 'fence' prices, and finding it unhealthy +for the moment to keep them in their possession, use this means of +depositing them temporarily for safe-keeping. You see now, don't you? +It's certain that's where Travers left the package. He used the name +of John Johansson, not to hoodwink Spider Jack, I should say, but as +an added safeguard against the Crime Club. Travers must have known both +Makoff and Spider Jack in the old days, and probably had reason, and +good reason, to trust them both--possibly, a crook then himself, as +he confessed, he may have acted in a legal capacity for them in their +frequent tangles with the police.” + +“Then,” she said--and there was a glad, new note in her voice, “then, +Jimmie--Jimmie, we are safe! You can get it, Jimmie! It is only a little +thing for the Gray Seal to do--to get it now that we know where it is.” + +“Yes,” he said tersely. “Yes--if it is still there.” + +“Still there!”--she repeated the words quickly, nervously. “Still there! +What do you mean?” + +“I mean if they, too, have not discovered that he was at Makoff's--if +they have not got there first!” he said grimly. “There seems to be no +limit to their cleverness, or their power. They penetrated his disguise +as a chauffeur, and who knows what more they have learned since last +night? We are fighting them in the dark, and--WHAT'S THAT!” he whispered +tensely, suddenly--and leaning forward like a flash, as he whipped his +automatic from his pocket, he blew out the lamp. + +The room was in darkness. They stood there rigid, silent, listening. Her +hand found and caught his arm. + +And then it came again--a low sound, the sound of a stealthy footstep +just outside the window that faced on the storage yard. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE MAGPIE + + +A minute passed--another. The automatic at Jimmie Dale's hip, the muzzle +just peeping over the table top, held a steady bead on the window. Came +the footstep again--and then suddenly, a series of low, quick tappings +upon the windowpane. The Tocsin's hand slipped away from his arm. +Jimmie Dale's set face relaxed as he read the underground Morse, and he +replaced his revolver slowly in his pocket. + +“The Magpie!” said Jimmie Dale, in an undertone. “What's he want?” + +“I don't know,” she answered, in a whisper. “He never came here before. +There's a back way out, Jimmie, if you--” + +“No,” he said quickly. “We've enemies enough, with out making one of +the Magpie. He knows some one is here with you--our shadows were on the +blind. Don't queer yourself. Let him in. I'll light the lamp.” + +He struck a match, as she ran from the room, and, lifting the hot lamp +chimney with the edge of his ragged coat, lighted the lamp. He turned +the wick down a little, shading and dimming the room--and then, as he +flirted a bead of moisture from his forehead, whimsically stretched out +his hand to watch it in the lamplight. + +“That's bad, Jimmie,” he muttered gravely to himself, as he noted an +almost imperceptible tremour. “Got a start, didn't you! Under a bit of a +strain, eh? Well”--grimly--“never mind! It looks as though the luck had +turned Makoff and Spider Jack!” + +His hand reached up to his hat, jerked the brim at a rakish angle over +his eyes--and he sprawled himself out on a chair. He heard the Tocsin's +voice at the front door, and a man's voice, low and guarded, answer her. +Then the door closed, and their steps approached the room. It was rather +curious, that--a visit from the Magpie! What could the Magpie want? What +could there be in common between the Magpie and Silver Mag? The Magpie, +alias Slimmy Joe, was counted the cleverest safe worker in the United +States, barring only and always one--a smile flickered across the lips +of Larry the Bat--one whose pre-eminence the Magpie, much to his own +chagrin, admitted himself--the Gray Seal! + +He looked up, twisting the stub of a cigarette between his grimy fingers +and fumbling for a match, as the Tocsin and, behind her, the Magpie, +short, slim, and wiry, shrewd-faced, with sharp, quick-glancing little +black eyes, entered the room. + +“'Ello, Larry!” grinned the Magpie. “Got yer breath back yet? I felt it +through de windowpane when youse let go at de lamp!” + +“'Ello, Slimmy!” returned Jimmie Dale ungraciously, speaking through the +corner of his mouth. “Ferget it!” + +“Sure!” said the Magpie unconcernedly. He stared about him, and finally, +drawing a chair up to the table, sat down, motioned the Tocsin to do the +same, and leaned forward amiably. “I didn't mean to throw no scare into +youse,” he said, in a conciliating tone. “But I had a little business +wid Mag, an' I was kind of interested in whether she was entertainin' +company or not--see? I didn't know youse an' Mag was workin' together.” + +“Mabbe,” observed Jimmie Dale, as ungraciously as before, “mabbe dere's +some more t'ings youse don't know!” + +“Aw, cough up de grouch!” advised the Magpie, with a hint of impatience +creeping into his voice. “Youse don't need to be sore all night! I told +youse I wasn't tryin' to hand youse one, didn't I?” + +“Never mind Larry, Slimmy,” put in the Tocsin petulantly. “He's down on +his luck, dat's all. He ain't had de price of a pinch of coke fer two +days.” + +“Oho!” exclaimed the Magpie, grinning again. “So dat's wot's givin' +youse de pip, eh, Larry? Well, den, say, youse can take it from me dat +mabbe youse'll be glad I blew around. I was lookin' fer a guy about +yer size fer a little job to-night, an' I was t'inkin' of lettin' Young +Dutchy in on it, but seem' youse are here an' in wid Mag, an' dat I got +to get Mag in, too, youse are on if youse say de word.” + +“Wot's de lay?” inquired Larry the Bat, unbending a little. + +The Magpie cocked his eye, and stuck his tongue in his cheek. + +“GOOD-night!” he said tersely. “Nothin' like dat! Are youse on, or ain't +youse?” + +“Well, den, wot's in it fer me?” persisted Larrry the Bat. + +“More'n de price of a coke sneeze!” returned the Magpie pertinently. +“Dere's a century note fer youse, an' mabbe two or t'ree of dem fer +Mag.” + +Larry the Bat's eyes gleamed avariciously. + +“Aw, quit yer kiddin'!” he said gruffly. “A century note--fer me!” + +“Dat's wot I said! Youse heard me!” rejoined the Magpie shortly. “Only +if it listens good to youse now, I don't want no squealin' after the +divvy. I'm takin' de chances, youse has de soft end of it. One century +note fer youse--an' de rest is none of yer business! Dat's puttin' it +straight, ain't it? Well, wot do youse say, an' say it quick--'cause if +youse ain't comin' in, youse can beat it out of here so's I can talk to +Mag.” + +“Dere ain't nothin' I wouldn't take a chance on fer a hundred plunks!” + declared Larry the Bat, with sudden fervency--and stared, anxiously +expectant, at the Magpie. “Sure, I'm on Slimmy! Sure, I am! Cut it +loose! Spill de story!” + +“Well, den,” said the Magpie, “I wants--” + +“Youse ain't through yet!” interrupted the Tocsin tartly. “I ain't heard +youse askin' me nothin'! I ain't on me uppers like Larry, an' mabbe de +price don't cut so much ice--see?” + +“Aw,” said the Magpie, with a smirk, “I don't have to ask youse on dis +lay. Dis is where youse'd come in on it fer marbles. Say, dis is where +we gets de hook into a guy by de name of Henry LaSalle! Get me?” + +HENRY LASALLE! Under the table, Jimmie Dale's hand clenched suddenly; +but not a muscle of his face moved, save, as with the tip of his tongue, +he shifted the butt of the cigarette that was hanging royally from his +lower lip to the other corner of his mouth. + +“Sure! She's 'got' youse, Slimmy!” he flung out, with a grin, as the +Tocsin wrinkled up her face menacingly and began to mumble to herself. +“He's de guy dat handed her one when she was young, an' she's been +layin' fer him ever since! Sure! I know! Ain't I worked him fer her till +I wears me shoes out tryin' to get somet'ing on him! Sure, she's in on +it! Go on, Slimmy, wot's de lay? Wot do I do fer dat century?” + +The Magpie hitched his chair closer to the table and, as his sharp, +little, ferret eyes glanced around the room, motioned the two to brings +their heads nearer. + +“One of me influential broker friends down on Wall Street put me wise,” + he said, with a wink. “Dat's good enough fer youse two, as far as dat +goes. But take it from me, I got it dead straight.” He lowered his voice +“Say, he's one of de richest mugs in New York, ain't he? Well, he's been +sellin' stocks an' bonds all day, t'ousands an' t'ousands of dollars' +worth--fer cash.” + +“All dem t'ings is always sold fer cash,” remarked Larry the Bat +fatuously. + +“Aw, ferget it!” said the Magpie earnestly. “Fer CASH, I said--de coin, +de long green--understand? He wasn't shovin' no checks fer what he sold +into de bank except to get dem cashed. Dat's wot he's been doin' all +day--gettin' de checks cashed, an' gettin' de money in big bills--see! I +know of one bunch of eighty t'ousand--an' dat's only one!” + +“Wot fer?” inquired Larry the Bat. It was the question that was pounding +at his brain, as he stared innocently at the Magpie. What did it mean? +Why was Henry LaSalle turning, and, if the Magpie was right, feverishly +turning every security he could lay his hands on into cash? And then, +in a flash, the answer came. THEY HAD NOT FOUND THE PACKAGE! Equally +to them, as to the Tocsin, sitting there before him, it meant life and +death. If the package were found by the Tocsin instead of themselves, +the game was up! They were preparing for eventualities. If they were +forced to run at a moment's notice, they at least were not going to +run empty-handed! Far from empty-handed, it seemed! It would not be +difficult for the estate's executor to realise a vast sum in short order +on instantly marketable, gilt-edged securities--say, half a million +dollars. Not very bulky, either--in large bills! Five thousand +hundred-dollar bills would make half a million. It was astonishing +how small a hand bag, say, might hold a fortune! “Wot fer, Slimmy?” he +inquired again, wiggling his cigarette butt on his tongue tip. “Wot'd he +do dat fer?” + +“How de hell do youse suppose I knows!” demanded the Magpie, politely +scornful. “Dat's his business--dat ain't wot's worryin' me!” + +“No--sure, it ain't!” admitted Larry the Bat ingratiatingly. “But go on, +keep movin', Slimmy! Wot's he done wid de stuff?” + +“Done wid it!” echoed the Magpie, with a short laugh. “Wot do youse +t'ink! He's been luggin' it home to his swell joint up dere on de +avenoo, an' crammin' his safe full of it.” + +Larry the Bat sucked in his breath. + +“Gee, dat's soft!” he murmured, and then suddenly, as though with +painful inspiration: “Say, Slimmy--say, are youse sure youse ain't been +handed a steer?” + +The Magpie grinned wickedly. + +“I ain't fallin' fer steers!” he said shortly. “Dis is on de level.” + +Jimmie Dale lurched up from his chair, and, leaning over the lamp +chimney, drew wheezily on his cigarette to get a light. His eyes sought +the Tocsin's face. To all intents and purposes she was entirely absorbed +in the Magpie. He sat down again to gape, with well-stimulated, doglike +admiration, at Slimmy Joe. WAS THIS, TOO, A PLANT? Why had the Magpie +come to THEM with this story of Henry LaSalle? And then, the next +instant, as the Magpie spoke, his suspicions were allayed. + +“Let's get down to cases!” the Magpie invited crisply. “I didn't blow +in here just by luck. Dis Henry LaSalle is de guy youse worked fer once, +ain't he, Mag? Dat's de spiel, ain't it?--he sent youse up fer pinchin' +de tacks out of his carpets!” + +“I never pinched nothin'!” snarled Silver Mag truculently. “He's a dirty +liar! I never did!” + +“Cut it out! Cut it out! Can dat!” complained the Magpie patiently. “De +point is, youse worked in his house, didn't youse?” + +“Sure I did!” snapped the Tocsin, sullenly aggressive; “but--” + +“Well, den, dat's wot I want, dat's wot I come fer, Mag--a plan of de +house. See?” + +Jimmie Dale could feel the Tocsin's eyes upon him, questioning, +searching, seeking a cue. A plan of the house--yes or no? And a decision +on the instant! + +“Sure!” said Larry the Bat brightly. “Dat's wot I was t'inkin' youse +were after all de time. Say, youse are all right, Slimmy! Youse are de +kind to work wid! Go on, Mag, draw de dope fer Slimmy. Dat's better +dan tryin' to put one over on de swell guy. Dis'll make him squeal fer +fair!” + +The Magpie produced a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, and +laid them on the table in front of the Tocsin. + +“Dere youse are,” he announced. “Help yerself, an' go to it, Mag!” + +The Tocsin, evidently not quite certain of her part, wet the pencil +doubtfully on the end of her tongue. + +“I ain't never drawed plans,” she said anxiously. “Mabbe”--she glanced +at Jimmie Dale--“mabbe I dunno how to do it RIGHT.” + +“Aw, go ahead!” nodded Larry the Bat. “Youse can do it right, Mag. Youse +don't have to make no oil paintin'! All de Magpie wants is de doors an' +windows, eh, Slimmy?” + +“Sure,” agreed the Magpie encouragingly. “Dat's all, Mag. Just mark +de rooms out on de first floor, an' de basement. Youse can explain wot +youse 're doin' as youse goes along. I'll get youse.” + +The Tocsin cackled maliciously in assent; and then, while the Magpie got +up from his chair and stood peering over her shoulder, she began to draw +labouriously, her brows knitted, the pencil hooked awkwardly between +cramped-up forefinger and thumb. + +Larry the Bat, slouched forward over the table, his chin in his hands, +appeared to watch the proceedings with mild interest--but his eyes, like +a hawk's, were following every line on the paper, transferring them to +his brain, photographing every detail of the plan in his mind. And as +he watched, there seemed something that was near to the acme of all that +was ironical in the Magpie standing there, his sharp, little, black eyes +drinking in greedily the Tocsin's work, in the Tocsin herself aiding and +abetting in the projected theft--OF HER OWN MONEY! How far would he let +the Magpie go? He did not know. Perhaps--who could tell!--all the way. +Between now and then there lay that package! If it were at Makoff's, at +Spider Jack's, if he could find it, get it--the Magpie as a temporary +custodian of the estate's money would at least preclude its loss by +flight if the Crime Club took alarm too quickly. Larry the Bat's eyes, +under half-closed lids, rested musingly on the Magpie's face. The Magpie +would not get very far away with it! On the other hand, if he failed at +Spider Jack's, if, after all, he was wrong, and the package had never +been there, or if they had forestalled him, turned the trick upon +him, already secured it, then--Larry the Bat's lips, working on his +cigarette, formed in a twisted smile--then, well then, that was quite +another matter! Perhaps he and the Magpie might not agree so far! A half +million dollars was perhaps not much out of eleven millions, but it was +a salvage not to be despised! Why did he say half a million! Well, why +not? If the Magpie knew of a single transaction of eighty thousand, +and there had been many transactions during the day, a half million was +little likely to prove an exaggeration--and the less likely in view +of the fact that, if those in the Crime Club were preparing for +an emergency, they would not stint themselves in the disposal of +securities. + +The Magpie was keeping up a running fire of questions, as the Tocsin +toiled on with her pencil. Where did the hall lead to? How many windows +in the library? Did she remember the kind of fastenings? Did the +servants sleep in the basement, or above? And finally, twice over, as +she finished the clumsy drawing and pushed it toward him, he demanded +minute details of the position of the safe. + +“Aw, dat's all right, Slimmy!” Larry the Bat cut in airily. “If youse +ferget anyt'ing when youse get in dere, youse can ask me. I got it +cinched!” + +The Magpie folded the paper and stowed it carefully away in his pocket. + +“Ask youse, eh!” he grunted sarcastically. “An' where do youse t'ink +youse'll be about dat time?” + +“In dere wid youse, of course,” replied Larry the Bat promptly. “Dat's +wot youse said.” + +“Yes, youse will--NOT!” announced the Magpie, with cold finality. “Do +youse t'ink I want to queer myself! A hot one youse'd be on an inside +job! Youse'll be OUTSIDE, wid yer peepers skinned for de bulls--youse +an' Mag here, too. See! Get dat straight. While I'm on de job youse +two plays de game. Now youse listen to me, both of youse. Don't start +nothin' unless youse has to. If it's a cinch I got to make a get-away, +youse two start a drunk fight. Get me? Youse know de lay. T'row de talk +loud--an' I'll fade. Dat's all! We'll crack de crib early--it'll be +quiet enough up dere by one o'clock.” + +One o'clock! Larry the Bat shook his head. What time was it now? It was +about nine when he had first met the Tocsin, then the Sanctuary, then +the long walk as he had followed her--say a quarter of ten for that. And +he had certainly been here with her not less than an hour and a half. +It must be after eleven, then. One o'clock! And before that must come +Makoff and Spider Jack! The night that half an hour ago had seemed so +sterile, was crowding a program of events upon him now--too fast! + +“Nothin' doin'!” he said thoughtfully. “Youse are in wrong dere, Slimmy. +One o'clock don't go! Say, take it from me, I've watched dat guy +too many nights fer Mag. 'Tain't often he leaves de club before one +o'clock--an' he ain't never in bed before two.” + +“All right,” agreed the Magpie, after a moment's reflection. “Youse +ought to know. Make it three o'clock.” He pulled a cigar from his +pocket, lighted it, and, leaning back in his chair, stuck his feet up +on the table. “If youse don't mind, Mag, I'll stick around a while,” he +decided calmly. “Mabbe de less I'm seen to-night de better--an' I guess +dere won't be nobody lookin' fer me here.” + +Larry the Bat coughed suddenly, and rose up a little heavily from his +chair. He had not counted on that! If the Magpie was settling down for +a prolonged stay, it devolved upon him, Jimmie Dale, to get away, and +at once--and without exciting the Magpie's suspicions. He coughed again, +looked nervously from the Tocsin to the Magpie--stammered--swallowed +hard--and coughed once more. + +“Well, wot's bitin' youse?” inquired the Magpie ironically. + +“Nothin',” said Larry the Bat--and hesitated. “Nothin', only--” He +hesitated again; and then, the words in a rush: + +“Say, Slimmy, couldn't youse come across wid a piece of dat century +now?” + +“Wot fer?” demanded the Magpie, a little aggressively. + +Larry the Bat cleared his throat with a desperate effort. + +“Youse knows,” he admitted sheepishly. “Just gimme de price of one, +Slimmy--just one.” + +“Coke!” exploded the Magpie. “An' get soaked to de eyes--not by a damn +sight!” + +“No! Honest to Gawd, no, Slimmy--just one!” pleaded Larry the Bat. + +“Nix!” said the Magpie shortly. + +Larry the Bat thrust out a hand before the Magpie's eyes that shook +tremulously. + +“I got to have it!” he declared, with sudden fierceness. “I GOT to--see! +Look at me! I ain't goin' to be no good to-night if I don't. I tell +youse, I got to! I ain't goin' to t'row youse down, Slimmy--honest, I +ain't! Just one--an' it'll set me up. If I don't get none I'll be on de +rocks before mornin'! Dat's straight, Slimmy--ask Mag, she knows.” + +“Aw, let him go get it!” broke in the Tocsin wearily. “Dat's de best +t'ing youse can do, Slimmy--dey're all alike when dey gets in his +class.” + +“Youse cocaine sniffers gives me de pip!” snorted the Magpie, in +disgust. He dug down into his pocket, produced a bill, and flung it +across the table to Larry the Bat. “Well, dere youse are; but youse +can take it from me, Larry, dat if youse gets whiffed”--he swore +threateningly--“I'll crack every bone in yer face! Get me?” + +“Slimmy,” said Larry the Bat fervently, grabbing at the bill with a +hungry hand, “youse can count on me. I'll be up dere on de job before +youse are. Three o'clock, eh? Well, so long, Slimmy”--he slouched +eagerly to the door. “So long, Mag”--he paused on the threshold for +a single, quick-flung, significant glance. “See youse on de avenoo, +Mag--I'll be up dere before youse are. So long!” + +“Oh, so long!” said the Tocsin contemptuously. + +And, an instant later, Jimmie Dale closed the outer door behind him. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +JOHN JOHANSSON--FOUR-TWO-EIGHT + + +Nearly midnight already! It was even later than he had thought. Larry +the Bat pressed his face against a shop's windowpane on the Bowery for +a glance at a clock that had caught his eye on the wall within. Nearly +midnight! + +He slouched on again hurriedly, still debating in his mind, as he +had been debating it all the way from the Tocsin's, the question of +returning again to the Sanctuary. So far, the way both to Spider Jack's +and the Sanctuary had been in the same direction--but the Sanctuary was +on the next street. + +Jimmie Dale reached the corner--and hesitated. It was strange how strong +was the intuition upon him to-night that bade him go on and make all +speed to Spider Jack's--while equally strong was the cold, stubborn +logic that bade him go first to the Sanctuary. There were things that he +needed there that would probably be absolutely essential to him before +the night was out, things without which he might be so badly handicapped +as to invite failure from the start; and yet--it was already midnight! + +Ostensibly both Makoff and Spider Jack closed their places at eleven. +But that might mean anything--depending upon their own respective +inclinations, or on what of their own peculiar brand of deviltry might +be afoot. If they were still about, still in evidence, he was still too +early, midnight though it was; though, on the other hand, if the coast +was clear, he could ill afford to lose a moment of the time between +now and the hour that the Magpie had planned for the robbery of Henry +LaSalle, for it would not be an easy matter, even once inside Spider +Jack's, to find that package--since it was Spider's open boast that +things committed to his care were where the police, or any one else, +might as well whistle and suck their thumbs as try to find them! + +And then, with sudden decision, taking his hesitation, as it were, by +the throat, Jimmie Dale hurried on again--to the Sanctuary. At most, it +could delay him but another fifteen minutes, and by half-past twelve, or +a quarter to one at the latest, he would be at Spider Jack's. + +Disdaining the secrecy of the side door on the alley, for who had a +better right or was better known there than Larry the Bat, a tenant of +years, he entered the tenement by the front door, scuffled up the stairs +to the first landing, and let himself into his disreputable room. He +locked the door behind him, lighted the choked and wheezy gas jet, in a +single, sharp-flung glance assured himself that the blinds were tightly +shut, and, kneeling in the far corner, threw back the oilcloth and +lifted up the loose section of the flooring beneath. He reached inside, +fumbling under the neatly folded clothes of Jimmie Dale, and in a moment +laid his leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools on the floor +beside him; and beside that again an electric flashlight, a black silk +mask, and--what he had never expected to use again when, early the night +before, he had, as he had believed, put it away forever--the thin, metal +insignia case of the Gray Seal. Another moment, and, with the flooring +replaced, the oilcloth rolled back into position, he had stripped off +his coat and was pulling his spotted, greasy shirt off over his head; +then, stooping quickly, he picked up the girdle, put it on, put on +his shirt again over it, put on his coat, put the metal case, the +flashlight, and the mask in his pockets--and once more the Sanctuary was +in darkness. + +It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that Jimmie Dale turned into the +upper section of Thompson Street. Here he slowed his pace, that had +been almost a run since he had left the Sanctuary, and began to shuffle +leisurely along; for the street, that a few hours before would have been +choked with its pushcarts and venders, its half naked children playing +where they could find room in the gutters, its sidewalks thronged with +shawled women and picturesquely dressed, earringed, dark-visaged men, +a scene, as it were, transported from some foreign land, was still +far from deserted; the quiet, if quiet it could be called, was but +comparative, there were many yet about, and he had no desire to attract +attention by any evidence of undue haste. And, besides, Spider Jack's +was just ahead, making the corner of the alleyway a few hundred feet +farther on, and he had very good reasons for desiring to approach +Spider's little novelty store at a pace that would afford him every +opportunity for observation. + +On he shuffled along the street, until, reaching Spider Jack's, a little +two-storied, tumble-down brick structure, a muttered exclamation of +satisfaction escaped him. The shop was closed and dark; and, though +Spider Jack lived above the store, there were no lights even in the +upper windows. Spider Jack presumably was either out, or in bed! So far, +then, he could have asked for nothing more. + +Jimmie Dale edged in close to the building as he slouched by, so close +that his hat brim seemed to touch the windowpane. It was possible that +from a room at the rear of the store there might be a light with a +telltale ray perhaps filtering through, say, a door crack. But there was +nothing--only blackness within. + +He paused at the corner of the building by the alleyway. Down here, +adjoining the high board fence of Spider Jack's back yard, Makoff made +pretense at pawnbrokering in a small and dingy wooden building, that was +little more pretentious than a shed--and in Makoff's place, so far as he +could see, there was no light, either. + +Jimmie Dale's fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as, under +the brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail around +him. A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack's, the wall cutting +off the rays of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was shadowy and +black--and beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was like a pit. It +would take less, far less, than the fraction of a second to gain that +yard, but some one was approaching behind him, and a little group of +people loitered, with annoying persistency, directly across the way on +the other side of the street. Jimmie Dale stuck the cigarette between +his lips, fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a box of matches. +The group opposite was moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behind +him, those of a man, drew nearer, the man passed by--and the box of +matches in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped to the ground. He reached to pick +them up, and in his stooping posture, without seeming to turn his head, +flung a quick glance behind him up the street. No one, for that fraction +of a second that he needed, was near enough to see--and in that fraction +of a second Jimmie Dale disappeared. + +A dozen yards down the lane, he sprang for the top of the high fence, +gripped it, and, lithe and active as a cat, swung himself up and over, +and dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side. Here he stood +motionless for a moment, close against the fence, to get his bearings. +The rear of Spider Jack's building loomed up before him--the back +windows as unlighted as those in front. Luck so far, at least, was with +him! He turned and looked about him, and, his eyes growing accustomed to +the darkness, he could just make out Makoff's place, bordering the end +of the yard--nor, from this new vantage point, could he discover, +any more than before, a single sign of life about the pawnbroker's +establishment. + +Jimmie Dale stole forward across the yard, mounted the three steps of +the low stoop at Spider Jack's back door, and tried the door cautiously. +It was locked. From his pocket came the small steel instrument that +had stood Larry the Bat in good stead a hundred times before in similar +circumstances. He inserted it in the keyhole, worked deftly with it +for an instant--and tried the door again. It was still locked. And +then Jimmie Dale smiled almost apologetically. Spider Jack did not use +ordinary locks on his back door! + +The discountenanced instrument went back into his pocket, and now +Jimmie Dale's hand slipped inside his shirt, and from one of the little, +upright pockets of the leather belt, and from still another, and from +after that a third, came the vicious little blued-steel tools. The +sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door--and +then he was at work in earnest. A minute passed--another--there was a +dull, low, grating sound, a snick as of metal yielding suddenly--and +Jimmie Dale was coolly stowing away his tools again inside his shirt. + +He pushed the door open an inch, listened, then swung it wide, stepped +inside, and closed it behind him. A round, white beam of light flashed +in a quick circle--and went out. It was a sort of storeroom, innocent +enough and orderly enough in appearance, bare-floored, with boxes and +packing cases piled neatly against the walls. In one corner a staircase +led to the story above--and from above, quite audibly now, he caught the +sound of snoring. Spider Jack was in bed, then! + +Directly facing him was the open door of another room, and Jimmie Dale, +moving softly forward, entered it. He had never been in Spider Jack's +before, and his first concern was to form an intimate acquaintanceship +with his surroundings. Again the flashlight circled, and again went out. + +“No windows!” muttered Jimmie Dale under his breath. “Nothing very fancy +about the architecture! Three rooms in a row! Store in front of this +room through that door of course. Wonder if the door's locked, though +it's a foregone conclusion the package wouldn't be in there.” + +Not a sound, his tread silent, he crossed to the closed door that he had +noticed. It was unlocked, and he opened it tentatively a little way. +A faint glow of light diffused itself through the opening. Jimmie Dale +nodded his head and closed the door again. The street lamp, shining +through the shop windows, accounted for the light. + +And now the flashlight played with steady inquisitiveness about him. +The room in which he stood seemed to combine a sort of office, with +a lounging room, in which Spider Jack, no doubt, entertained his +particular cronies. There was table in the centre, cards still upon it, +chairs about it. Against the wall farthest away from the shop stood +a huge, old-fashioned cabinet; and a little farther along, anglewise, +partitioning off the corner, as it were, hung, for some purpose or +other, a cretonne curtain. Also, against the wall next to the lane, +bringing a commiserating smile to Jimmie Dale's lips as his eyes fell +upon it, was a clumsy, lumbering, antique safe. + +Jimmie Dale's eyes returned to the curtain. What was it doing there? +What was it for? Instinctively he stepped over to examine it. A single +glance, however, as he lifted it aside, sufficed. It was nothing but +a make-shift clothes closet. He turned from it, switched off the +flashlight, and stood staring meditatively into the darkness. In a +strange house, with the knowledge to begin with that what he sought was +carefully hidden, it was no sinecure to find that package. He had never +for a moment imagined that it would be. But of one thing, however, there +was no uncertainty in his mind--he would get the package!--by search +if possible, by other means if search failed. It was now close to one +o'clock. If by two o'clock his efforts had been fruitless, Spider Jack +would hand over the package--at the revolver point! It was quite simple! +Meanwhile--Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and, going over to +the safe, knelt down in front of it--meanwhile, as well begin here as +anywhere else. + +The trained fingers closed on the handle--and on the instant, as though +in startled amazement, shifted to the dial. They came back to the +handle--a wrench--then a low, amused chuckle--and the door swung open. +The great, unwieldy thing was only a monumental bluff! It not only had +not been locked, but it COULD NOT be locked--the mechanism was out of +order, the bolts could not be moved by so much as a hair's breadth! + +Still chuckling, Jimmie Dale shot the flashlight's ray into the interior +of the safe--and the chuckle died on his lips, and into his face came a +look of strained bewilderment. Inside, everything was in chaos, +books, papers, a miscellany of articles, as though they had first been +ruthlessly pulled out on the floor, then gathered up in an armful and +crammed back inside again. For an instant he did not move, and then a +queer, hard, mirthless smile drew down the corners of his mouth. With a +sort of bitter, expectant nod of his head, he turned the light upon the +door of the safe. Yes, there were the scratches that the tools had left; +and, as though in sardonic jest, the holes, where the steel bit had +bored, were plugged with putty and rubbed over with some black substance +that was still wet and came off, smearing his finger, as he touched it. +It could not have been done long ago, then! How long? A half hour--an +hour? Not more than that! + +Mechanically he closed the door of the safe, rose to his feet and, +almost heedless of noise now, the flashlight ray dancing before him, +he jumped across to the old-fashioned cabinet and pulled the door open. +Here, as within the safe, all inside, plain evidence of thorough, if +hasty, search, was scattered and tossed about in hopeless confusion. + +He shut the cabinet door; the flashlight went out; and he stood like +a man stunned, the sense of some abysmal disaster upon him. He was too +late! The game was up! If it had ever been here, the package was gone +now--GONE! The Crime Club had been here before him! + +“The game was up! The game was up!”--his mind seemed to keep on +repeating that. The Crime Club had beaten him by an hour, at most, +and had been here, and had searched. It was strange, though, that they +should have been at such curious pains to cover their tracks by leaving +the room in order, by such paltry efforts to make the safe appear +untouched when the first glance that was at all critical would disclose +immediately what had been done! Why should they need to cover their +tracks at all; or, if it was necessary, why, above all, in such a +pitifully inadequate way! His mind barked back to the same ghastly +refrain--“the game was up!” + +NO! Not yet! There was still a chance! There was still Spider Jack! +Suppose, in spite of their search, they had failed to find the package! +Jimmie Dale's lips set in a thin line, as he started abruptly toward +the door. There was still that chance, and one thing was grimly +certain--Spider Jack would, at least, show him where the package HAD +BEEN! + +And then, halfway to the door, he halted suddenly, and stood +still--listening. An electric bell was ringing loudly, imperiously, +somewhere upstairs. Followed almost immediately the sound of some one, +Spider Jack presumably, moving hurriedly about overhead; and then, a +moment later, steps coming down the staircase in the adjoining room. + +Jimmie Dale drew back, flattening himself against the wall. Spider Jack +entered the room, stumbled across it, in the darkness, fumbled for the +door that led into his little shop, opened it, passed through, fumbled +around in there again, for matches evidently, then lighted a gas jet in +the store, and, going to the street door, opened it. + +Jimmie Dale had edged along the wall a little to a position where he had +an unobstructed view through the open doorway connecting the shop and +the room in which he stood. Spider Jack, in trousers and shirt, hastily +donned, no doubt, as he had got out of bed, was standing in the street +doorway, and beyond him loomed the forms of several men. Spider Jack +stepped aside to allow his visitors to enter--and suddenly, a cry barely +suppressed upon his lips, Jimmie Dale involuntarily strained forward. +Three men had entered, but his eyes were fixed, fascinated, upon +only one--the first of the three. Was it an hallucination? Was he +mad---dreaming? It was Hilton Travers, THE CHAUFFEUR--the man whom he +could have sworn he had last seen dead, lashed in that chair, in that +ghastly death chamber of the Crime Club! + +“Rather rough on you, Spider, to pull you out of bed at this hour,” the +chauffeur was saying apologetically. + +“Oh, that's all right, seein' it's you, Travers,” Spider Jack answered, +gruffly amiable. “Only I was kind of lookin' for you last night.” + +“I know,” the chauffeur replied; “but I couldn't connect with my friends +here. Shake hands with them, Spider--Bob Marvin--Harry Stead.” + +“Glad to know you, gents,” said Spider Jack, with a handgrip apiece. + +The chauffeur lowered his voice a little. + +“I suppose we're alone here, eh, Spider? Yes? Well, then, you know what +I've come for--that package--Marvin and Stead, here, are the ones that +are in on it with me. Get it for me, will you, Spider?” + +“Sure--Mr. Johansson!” Spider grinned. “Sure! Come on into the back room +and make yourselves comfortable. I'll be mabbe five minutes, or so.” + +Jimmie Dale's brain was whirling. What did it mean? He could not seem +to understand. His mind seemed to refuse its functions. Travers, the +chauffeur--ALIVE! He drew in his breath sharply. That curtain in the +corner! He must see this out now! They were coming! Quick, noiseless, +he stole along the side of the wall, reached the corner, and slipped in +behind the curtain, as Spider Jack, striking a match, entered the room. + +Spider Jack lighted the gas, and, as the others followed behind him, +waved them toward the chairs around the table. + +“I'll just ask you gents not to leave the room,” he said meaningly, over +his shoulder, as he stepped toward the rear door. “It's kind of a fad of +mine to keep some things even from my wife!” + +“All right, Spider--I understand,” the chauffeur returned readily. + +Jimmie Dale's knife cut a tiny slit in the cretonne on a level with his +eyes. The three men had seated themselves at the table, and appeared to +be listening intently. Spider Jack's footsteps echoed back as he crossed +the rear room, sounded dull and muffled descending the stoop outside, +and died away. + +“I told you it wasn't in the house!” the man who had been introduced as +Stead laughed shortly. “We wasted the hour we had here.” + +The third man spoke crisply, incisively, to the chauffeur. + +“Turn down that gas jet a little! You've got across with it so far--but +you can't stand a searchlight, Clarke!” + +And at the words, in a flash, the meaning of it, all of it, to the last +detail that was spelling death, ruin, and disaster for her, the Tocsin, +for himself as well, burst upon Jimmie Dale. That VOICE! He would have +known it, recognised it, among a thousand--it was the masked man of the +night before, the leader, the head of the Crime Club! And it was not +Travers there at all! He remembered now, too well, that second room they +had showed him in the Crime Club--its multitude of disguises, though +in this case they had the dead man's clothes ready to their hands--the +leader's boast that impersonation was but child's play to them! And now +he understood why they had covered up the traces of their search in only +so curiously inadequate a manner. They had failed to find the package, +and, as a last resort, had adopted the ruse of impersonating Hilton +Travers, the chauffeur, which made it necessary that when they called +Spider Jack from his bed, as they had just done, that Spider Jack, at a +CASUAL glance, should notice nothing amiss--but it would be no more than +a casual glance, for, who should know better than they, he would not +have to go for the package to any place that they had disturbed! And he, +Jimmie Dale, could only stand here and watch them, helpless, powerless +to move! Three of them! A step out into the room was to invite certain +death. It would not matter, his death--if he could gain anything +for her, for the Tocsin, by it. But what could he gain--by dying? He +clenched his hands until the nails bit into the flesh. + +Spider Jack re-entered the room, carrying what looked like a large, +bulky, manila envelope, heavily sealed, in his hand. He tossed it on the +table. + +“There you are, Travers!” he said. + +“I wonder,” suggested the leader pleasantly, “if, now that we're here, +Travers, your friend would mind letting us have this room for a few +minutes to ourselves to clean up the business?” + +“Sure!” agreed Spider Jack cordially. “You're welcome to it! I'll wait +out here in the store until you say the word.” + +He went out, closing the door after him. The leader picked up the +package. + +“We'll take no chances with this,” he said grimly. “It's been too close +a call. After we've had a look at it, we'll put it out of harm's way on +the spot, here, while we've got it--before we leave!” + +He ripped the package open, and disclosed perhaps a dozen +official-looking documents, besides a miscellaneous number of others. +He took up the first of the papers, glanced through it hurriedly, then +tossed it to the pseudo chauffeur. + +“Tear it up, and tear it up--SMALL!” he ordered tersely. The next, +after examining it as he had the first, he tossed to the other man. “Go +ahead!”--curtly. “Work fast! From the looks of these, Travers had us +cold! There's proof enough here of LaSalle's murder to send us all to +the chair!” + +He went on glancing through the documents; and then suddenly, joining +the others in their work, began to rip and tear at the papers himself. + +A sort of cold horror had settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his forehead +was clammy wet. The inhuman irony of it! That he should stand there and +watch, impotent to prevent it, the destruction of what he would have +given his life to secure! And then slowly, a grim, hard, merciless smile +came to his lips. He had recognised the leader's voice--now he would +recognise the leader's FACE. At least, that was left to him--perhaps the +master trump of all. It would not be very hard to find the Crime Club +now--with that man to lead the way! + +The scraps of paper, tiny shreds, mounted into a heap on the table--and +with the last of the contents of the package destroyed, the leader stood +up. + +“Put these pieces in your pockets; we don't want to leave them here,” he +directed quietly. “And then let's get out.” + +In scarcely a moment, the last scrap of paper had vanished. The three +men walked to the door, passed through it, and joined Spider Jack in the +store--and Jimmie Dale, slipping out from behind the curtain, gained the +door of the rear room, crept through it, reached the stoop, and then, +darting like the wind across the yard, was over the fence in a second, +and in another was out of the alleyway and on the street. + +He was in time--in plenty of time. They had just left Spider Jack's, +and were, perhaps, fifty yards or so ahead of him. He slouched on behind +them--the cold, grim smile on his lips once more. It was the Crime Club +now, that hell's cradle where their devil's schemes were hatched, +that was the one thing left to him; they would lead him to that, and +then--and then it would be his turn to STRIKE! + +They turned the first corner. And suddenly, as the racing engine of an +automobile caught his ear, he broke into a run, and dashed around the +corner after them--in time to see them jump into a car, and the car +speed off along the street! He halted, as though he were suddenly +dazed--started involuntarily to run forward again--stopped with a hollow +laugh at the futility of it--and stood still and motionless on the +sidewalk. + +And then he swayed a little, and his face grew gray. Failure, defeat, +ruin--in that moment he knew them all to their bitterest dregs. How +could he go to her! How could he face her, and tell her that they were +beaten, that the last hope was gone, that he had failed! + +“God!” he cried aloud, and clenched his hands. + +Then deep in his consciousness a thought stirred, and he swept a shaking +hand across his eyes. Why had it come again, that thought! Did it mean +that HE must play--the last card! There was a way--there had always been +a way. The way the Crime Club took--MURDER. It was their own weapon! +If the man who posed as Henry LaSalle were killed! If that man--were +killed! + +“The Magpie was to be there at three!” he muttered--and started +mechanically back along the street. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE ONLY WAY + + +It was a horrible thing--and it grew upon him. In a blind, mechanical +way, his brain receptive to nothing else, Jimmie Dale walked on along +the street. To kill a man! Death he had faced himself a hundred times, +witnessed it a hundred times in its most violent forms, had seen murder +done before his eyes, had been in straits where, to save his own life, +it had seemed the one last desperate chance--and yet his hands were +still clean! To kill a man in fair fight, in struggle, when the blood +was hot, was terrible enough, a possibility that was always before him, +the one thing from which he shrank, the one thing that, as the Gray +Seal, he had always feared; but to kill a man deliberately, to creep +upon his victim with hideous, cold-blooded premeditation--he shivered a +little, and his hand shook as he drew it nervously across his eyes. + +But there was no other way! Again and again, insidiously grappling with +his revulsion, with the horror that the impulse to murder inspired, +came that other thought--there was no other way. If the man who posed +as Henry LaSalle were DEAD! If he were dead! If he were dead! See, now, +what would happen if that man were dead! How clear his brain was on that +point! The whole plot would tumble like a house of cards about the heads +of the Crime Club. The courts would require an auditing of the estate +by a trustee of the courts' own appointing, who would continue to +administer it until the Tocsin's twenty-fifth birthday, or until there +was tangible evidence of her death--but the Tocsin, automatically with +her pseudo uncle's death, could publicly appear again. Her death could +no longer benefit the Crime Club, since it, the Crime Club, with the +supposed uncle dead, could not profit through the false Henry LaSalle +inheriting as next of kin! It was the weak link, the vulnerable point in +the stupendous scheme of murder and crime with which these hell fiends +had played for and won, so far, the stake of eleven millions. Not that +they had overlooked or been blind to this, they were too clever, too +cunning for that--it was only that they had planned to accomplish the +Tocsin's death, as they had her father's and uncle's, and ESTABLISH +the false Henry LaSalle in undisputed possession and ownership of the +estate--and had failed in that--up to the present. But the material +results remained the same, so long as the Tocsin, to save her life, +was forced to remain in hiding, so long as proof that would convict the +Crime Club was not forthcoming--SO LONG AS THAT MAN LIVED! + +Time passed to which Jimmie Dale was oblivious. At times he walked +slowly, scarcely moving; at times his pace was a nervous, hurried +stride, that was almost a run. And as he was oblivious to time, so was +he oblivious to his surroundings, to the direction which he took. +At times his forehead was damp with moisture that was not there from +physical exertion; at times his face, deathly white, was full as of +the vision of some shuddering, abhorrent sight; at times his lips were +thinned into a straight line, and there was a glitter in the dark eyes +that was not good to see, while his hands at his sides clenched until +the skin, tight over the knuckles, was an ivory white. To kill a man! + +What other way was there? The proof that it had taken Hilton Travers +years to obtain, the proof on which the Tocsin's life depended, was +destroyed utterly, irreparably. It could never be duplicated--Hilton +Travers was dead--MURDERED. Murder! That thought again! It was their +own weapon! Murder! Would one kill a venomous reptile in whose fangs +was death? What right had this man to life, whose life was forfeit even +under the law--for murder? Was she to drag on an intolerable existence +among the dregs and the scum of the underworld, she, in her refinement +and her purity, to exist among the vile and dissolute, in daily, hourly +peril of her life, because the weapons that these inhuman vultures +had used to rob her, to destroy those she loved, to make of her life a +hideous, joyless thing, should not be used against them? + +But to kill a man! To steal upon a man with cold intent in the blackness +of the night--and take his life! To be a murderer! To know the horror +of blood forever upon one's hands, to rise, cold-sweated, in the night, +fearful of the very shadows around one, to live with every detail of +that fearsome act sweeping like some dread spectre at unexpected moments +upon the consciousness! He put up his hands before his face, as though +to blot out the thought from him. Mind and soul recoiled before it--to +kill a man! + +He walked on and on, until at last, conscious of a sense of fatigue, he +stopped. He must have come a long way, been walking a long time. Where +was he? He looked about him for a moment in a dazed way--and suddenly, +with a low cry, shrank back. As though he had been drawn to it by +some ghastly magnet, he found himself standing in front of the LaSalle +mansion, on Fifth Avenue. No, no; it was not for that he had come--to +kill a man! It was only--only to get that money. Yes--he remembered +now--that money from the safe, before the Magpie got it. The Magpie was +to be there at three o'clock--and the Tocsin was to be there, too. The +Tocsin! That package! He had failed! It had been her one hope, and--and +it was gone. What could he say to her? How could he tell her the +miserable truth? But--but he had not come there in the dead of night to +kill a man, these other things were what had-- + +“Jimmie!” It was a quick-breathed whisper. A hand was on his arm. + +He turned, startled. It was the Tocsin--Silver Mag. + +“Jimmie!” in alarm. “Why are you standing here like this? You may be +SEEN!” + +Seen! Suppose he WERE seen? He shuddered a little. + +“Yes; that's so!” he said hoarsely. He glanced numbly up and down the +wide, deserted, but well-lighted, avenue. It was no place, that most +aristocratic section of the city, for such as Silver Mag and Larry +the Bat to be seen at that hour of night, or, rather, morning. And if +anything HAPPENED inside that house! “I--I didn't think of that,” he +said mechanically. + +“Come across the street--under the stoop of that house there.” She had +his arm, and was half dragging him as she spoke, the alarm in her voice +intensified. And then, a moment later, safe from observation: “Jimmie, +Jimmie, what is the matter? What has happened? What makes you act so +strangely?” + +“Nothing,” he said. “I--” + +“TELL me!” she insisted wildly. + +And then, with a violent effort, Jimmie Dale forced his mind back to the +immediate present. He was only inspiring her with terror--and there was +the Magpie--and that money in the safe! + +“Where is the Magpie?” he asked, with quick apprehension. “Am I late? Is +he in there already?” + +“No,” she said. “He hasn't come yet.” + +“What time is it?” he demanded anxiously. + +“About half-past two,” she replied. “But, Jimmie--” + +“Wait!” he broke in. “Where is he now? You were both together! And +you were both to be here at three. What are you doing here alone at +half-past two?” + +A strange little exclamation, one almost of dismay, it seemed, escaped +her. + +“The Magpie left my place an hour ago--to get his kit, I think. And I +came here at once because that was what you and I understood I was to +do, wasn't it? Jimmie, you frighten me! You are not yourself. Don't +you remember the last words you said, as you nodded to me behind the +Magpie's back--that you would be here BEFORE us? There was no mistaking +your meaning--if I could get away from him, I was to come here and meet +you.” + +Jimmie Dale passed his hand nervously across his eyes. Of course, he +remembered now! What a frightful turmoil his brain had been in! + +“Yes; of course!” He tried to speak nonchalantly. “I had forgotten for +the moment.” + +She caught his arm in a quick, tight hold, shaking him in a terrified +way. + +“YOU--forget a thing like that! Jimmie--something terrible has happened. +Can't you see that I am nearly mad with anxiety! What is it? What is it? +That package, Jimmie--is it the package?” + +He did not answer. What could he say? It meant life, hope, joy, +everything that the world held for her--and it was gone. + +“Yes--it IS the package!” she whispered frantically. “Quick, Jimmie! +Tell me! It--it was not there? You--you could not find it?” + +“It was there,” he said, as though the words were literally forced from +him. + +“Then? Then--WHAT, Jimmie?” The clutch on his arm was like a vise. + +“They got it,” he said. It was like a death sentence that he pronounced. +“It is destroyed.” + +She did not speak or move--save that her hands, as though nerveless and +without strength, fell away from his arms, and dropped to her sides. It +was dark there under the stoop, though not so dark but that he could see +her face. It was gray--gray as death. And there was misery and fear +and a pitiful helplessness in it--and then she swayed a little, and he +caught her in his arms. + +“Gone!” she murmured in a dead, colourless way--and suddenly laughed out +sharply, hysterically. + +“Don't! For God's sake, don't do that!” he pleaded wildly. + +She looked at him then for a moment in strange quiet--and lifted her +hand and stroked his face in a numbed way. + +“It--it would have been better, Jimmie, wouldn't it,” she said in the +same monotonous voice, “it would have been better if--if I had never +found out anything, and they--they had done the same to me that they did +to--to father.” + +“Marie! Marie!” It was the first time he had ever spoken her name, and +it was on his lips now in an agony of tenderness and appeal. “Don't! You +mustn't speak like that!” + +“I'm tired,” she said. “I--I can't fight any more.” + +She did not cry. She lay there in his arms quite still--like a weary +child. + +The minutes passed. When Jimmie Dale spoke again it was +irrelevantly--and his face was very white: + +“Marie, describe the upper floor of that house over there for me.” + +She roused herself with a start. + +“The upper floor?” she repeated slowly. “Why--why do you ask that?” + +“Have YOU forgotten in turn?” he said, with a steady smile. “That money +in the safe--it's yours--we can at least save that out of the wreck. You +only drew the basement plan and the first floor for the Magpie--the +more I know about the house the better, of course, in case anything goes +wrong. Now, see, try and be brave--and tell me quickly, for I must get +through before the Magpie comes, and I have barely half an hour.” + +“No, Jimmie--no!” She slipped out of his arms. “Let it alone! I am +afraid. Something--I--I have a feeling that something will happen.” + +“It is the only way.” He said it involuntarily, more to himself than to +her. + +“Jimmie, let it alone!” she said again. + +“No,” he said. “I am going--so tell me quickly. Every minute that we +wait is one that counts against us.” + +She hesitated an instant--and then, speaking rapidly, made a verbal +sketch of the upper portion of the house for him. + +“It's a very large house, isn't it?” he commented innocently--to pave +the way for the question, above all others, that he had to ask. “Which +is your uncle's, I mean that man's room?” + +“The first on the right, at the head of the landing,” she answered. +“Only, Jimmie, don't--don't go!” + +He drew her close to him again. + +“Now, listen,” he said quietly. “When the Magpie comes and finds I am +not here, lead him to think that the money he gave me was too much for +me; that I am probably in some den, doped with drug--and hold him as +long as you can on the pretext that there is always the possibility I +may, after all, show up before he goes in there. You understand? And +now about yourself--you must do exactly as I say. On no account allow +yourself to be seen by ANY ONE except the Magpie. I would tell you to +go now, only, unless it is vitally necessary, we cannot afford to +arouse the Magpie's suspicions--he'd have every crook in the underworld +snarling at our heels. But you are not to wait, even for him, if you +detect the slightest disturbance in that house before he comes. And, +equally, after he has gone in, whether I have come out or not, at the +first indication of anything unusual you are to get away at once. You +understand--Marie?” + +“Yes,” she said. “But--but, Jimmie, you--” + +“Just one thing more.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “Did the Magpie +say anything about how he intended to get in?” + +“Yes--by the side away from the corner of the street,” she said +tremulously. “You see, there's quite a space between the house and the +one next door; and, besides, the house next door is closed up, there's +nobody there, the family has gone away for the summer. The library +window there is low enough to reach from the ground.” + +For a moment longer he held her close to him, as though he could not let +her go--then bent and kissed her passionately. And in that moment all +the emotions he had known as he had walked blindly from Spider Jack's +that night surged again upon him; and that voice was whispering, +whispering, whispering: “It is the only way--it is the only way.” + +And then, not daring to trust his voice, he released her suddenly, +and stepped back out from under the stoop--and the next instant he was +across the deserted avenue. Another, and he had slipped through the +iron gates that opened on the street driveway--and in yet another he was +crouched close up against the front door of the LaSalle mansion. + +It was a large house, a very large house, one of the few that, even +amid the wealth and luxury of that quarter, boasted its own grounds, and +those so restricted as scarcely to deserve the name; but it was set far +enough back from the street to escape the radius of the street lamps, +and so guarantee in its shadows security from observation. It was not +the Magpie's way, the front door--the obvious to the Magpie and his ilk +was a thing always to be shunned. Jimmie Dale's lips were set in a +grim smile, as his fingers worked with lightning speed, now taking this +instrument and now that from the leather pockets in the girdle beneath +his shirt--the penitentiaries were full of Magpies who shunned the +obvious! + +Very slowly, very cautiously the door opened. He listened breathlessly, +tensely. The door closed again--behind him. He was inside now. +Stillness! Blackness! Not a sound! A minute went by--another. And then, +as he stood there, strained, listening, the silence itself began, it +seemed, to palpitate, and pound, pound, pound, and be full of strange +noises. It was a horrible thing--to kill a man! + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +OUT OF THE DARKNESS + + +A moment later, Jimmie Dale stepped forward through the vestibule. +He was quite calm now; a sort of cold, merciless precision in every +movement succeeding the riot of turbulent emotions that had possessed +him as he had entered the house. + +The half hour, the maximum length of time before the Magpie would +appear, as he had estimated it when out there under the stoop with the +Tocsin, had dwindled now to perhaps twenty minutes, twenty-five at the +outside. Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-five minutes was so little that for +an instant the temptation was strong upon him to sacrifice, rather +than any of those precious minutes, the Magpie instead! And then in the +darkness, as he stole noiselessly across the hall, he shook his head. It +would be a cowardly, brutal thing to do. What chance would a man with a +record like the Magpie's stand if caught there? How easy it would be +to shift the murder of the supposed Henry LaSalle to the Magpie's +shoulders! Jimmie Dale's lips closed firmly. Self-preservation was, +perhaps, the first law, but he would save the Magpie if he could--the +Magpie should have his chance! The man might be a criminal, might +deserve punishment at the hands of the law, his liberty might be a +menace to the community--but he was not a murderer, his life forfeit for +a crime he had never committed! + +If he, Jimmie Dale, could only in some way have arranged with the Tocsin +out there to keep the Magpie away altogether! But it could not be done +without arousing the Magpie's suspicions; and, as a corollary to that, +afterward, with the subsequent events, would come--the deluge! The law +of the underworld was clear, concise, and admitting of no appeal on that +point; to double cross a pal meant, sooner or later, a knife thrust, a +blackjack, or--But what difference did it make what form the execution +of the sentence took? And, since, then, that was out of the question, +since he could not keep the Magpie away without practically risking his +own life, the Magpie at least must have his chance. + +Jimmie Dale was at the library door now, that, according to the plan the +Tocsin had drawn for the Magpie, and as he remembered her description +when she had told him her story earlier in the evening, was just at the +foot of the staircase. How dark it was! Though the stairs could be only +a few feet away, he could not see them. And how intense the silence was +again! Here, where he stood, the slightest stir from above must have +reached him--but there was not a sound. + +His hand felt out for the doorknob, found it, turned it, and pushed the +door open. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. +The safe, according to the Tocsin's plan again, was in that sort of +alcove at the lower end of the library. Jimmie Dale's flashlight played +inquisitively about the room. There was the window, the only one in the +room, the window through which the Magpie proposed to enter; there +was the archway of the alcove, with its--no, there were no longer any +portieres; and there was the safe, he could see it quite plainly from +where he stood at the upper end of the room. + +The flashlight went out for the space of perhaps thirty seconds--thirty +seconds of absolute silence, absolute stillness--then the round, white +ray of the light again, but glistening now on the nickel knobs and dial +of the safe--and Jimmie Dale was on his knees before it. + +A low, scarcely breathed exclamation, that seemed to mingle anxiety +and hesitation, escaped him. He, who knew the make of every safe in the +country, knew this one for its true worth. Twenty-five minutes! Could he +open it in that time, let alone with any time to spare! It was not +like the one in Spider Jack's; it was the kind that the Magpie, however +clever he might be in his own way, would be forced to negotiate with +“soup,” and, with the attendant noise, double his chance of discovery +and capture--and the responsibility for what might have happened +UPSTAIRS! No; the Magpie must have his chance! And, besides, the money +in the safe apart, why should not he, Jimmie Dale, have his own chance, +as well? All this would help. The motive--robbery; the perpetrator, +there was grim mockery on his lips now as the light went out and the +sensitive fingers closed on the knob of the dial, the perpetrator--the +Gray Seal. It would afford excellent food for the violent editorial +diatribes under which the police again would writhe in frenzy! + +Stillness again! Silence! Only a low, tense breathing; only, so faint +that it could not be heard a foot away, a curious scratching, as from +time to time the supersensitive fingers fell away from the dial to rub +upon the carpet--to increase even their sensitiveness by setting the +nerves to throbbing through the skin surface at the tips. And then +Jimmie Dale's head, ear pressed close against the safe to catch the +tumbler's fall, was lifted--and the flashlight played again on the dial. + +“Twenty-eight and a quarter--left.” + +How fast the time went--and how slowly! Still the black shape crouched +there in the darkness against the safe. At times, in strange, ghostly +flashes, the nickel dial with the ray upon it seemed to leap out and +glisten through the surrounding blackness; at times, the quick intake of +breath, as from great exertion; at times, faint, musical little clicks, +as, after abortive effort, the dial whirled, preparatory to a fresh +attempt. And then, at last--a gasp of relief: + +“Ah!” + +Came the sound, barely audible, as of steel sliding in well-oiled +grooves, the muffled thud of metal meeting metal as the bolts shot +back--and the heavy door swung outward. + +Jimmie Dale stretched his cramped limbs, and wiped the moisture from +his face--then set to work again upon the inner door. This was an easier +matter--far easier. Five minutes, perhaps a little more, went by--and +then the inner door was open, and the flashlight's ray was flooding the +interior of the safe. + +A queer little sound, half of astonishment, half of disappointment, +issued from Jimmie Dale's lips. There was money here, a great deal +of money, undoubtedly, but there was no such sum as he had, somehow, +fantastically imagined from the Magpie's evidently overcoloured story +that there would be; there was money, ten packages of banknotes neatly +piled in the bottom compartment--but there was no half million of +dollars! He picked up one of the packages hurriedly--and drew in +his breath. After all, there was a great deal--the notes were +of hundred-dollar denomination, and on the bottom were two +one-thousand-dollar bills! Calculated roughly, if each of the other +nine packages contained a like amount, the total must exceed a hundred +thousand. + +And now Jimmie Dale began to work with feverish haste. From the leather +girdle inside his shirt came the thin metal insignia case--and a gray +seal was stuck firmly on the dial knob of the safe. This done, he tucked +away the packages of banknotes, some into his pockets and some inside +his shirt; and then quickly ransacked the interior of the safe, +flauntingly spilling the contents of drawers and pigeonholes out upon +the floor. + +He stood up, and, leaving the safe door wide open, walked back across +the room to the window, unfastened the catch, and opened the window an +inch or two. The way was open now for the Magpie! The Magpie would have +no need to make any noise in forcing an entrance; he would be able to +see almost at a glance that he had been forestalled--by the Gray Seal; +and that, as far as he was concerned, the game was up. The Magpie had +his chance! If the Magpie did not take the hint and make his escape as +noiselessly as he had entered--it was his own fault! He, Jimmie Dale, +had given the Magpie his chance. + +Jimmie Dale turned from the window, and made his way out of the library +to the foot of the stairs, leaving the library door open behind him. How +long had he been? Was it more or less than the twenty-five minutes? He +did not know--only, as yet, the Magpie had not come, and now perhaps it +did not make so much difference. + +Where was he going now? His foot was on the first stair--and suddenly he +drew it back, the cold sweat bursting out on his forehead. Where was +he going now? “THE FIRST ROOM ON THE RIGHT AT THE HEAD OF THE LANDING.” + From his inner consciousness, as it were, the answer, in all the bald, +naked horror that it implied, flashed upon him. The first room on the +right--THAT man's room! God, how the darkness and the stillness began +to palpitate again, and suddenly seem to shriek out at him over and over +the one single, ghastly word--MURDER! + +It had been with him, that thought, all the time he had been working +at the safe; but it had been there then only subconsciously, like some +heavy, nameless dread, subjugated for the moment by the work he had +had to do which had demanded the centred attention of every faculty he +possessed. But now the moment had come when there was only THAT before +him, only that, nothing else--only that, the man upstairs in the first +room to the right of the landing! + +Why did he hesitate? Why did he stand there while the priceless moments +before daylight came were passing? The man was a murderer, a blotch on +society, and, his life already forfeited, he was living now only because +the law had not found him out--the man was a criminal, bloodstained--and +his life, because he had taken her father's life and had tried to take +the Tocsin's own life, stood between her and every hope of happiness, +robbing her even literally, in a material sense, of everything that +the world could hold for her! Why did he hesitate? It was that man's +life--or hers! It was the only way! + +He put his foot upon the bottom step again--paused still another +instant--and then began stealthily to mount the stairs. The darkness! +There had never been, it seemed, such darkness before! The stillness--he +had never known silence so heavy, so full of strange, premonitory +pulsings; a silence that seemed so incongruously full of clamouring +whispers in his ears! It must be those imagined whispers that were +affecting his nerve--for now, as he gained the landing and slipped his +automatic from his pocket, his hand was shaking with a queer twitching +motion. + +For an instant, fighting for his self-composure, he stood striving +to locate his surroundings through the darkness. The staircase was a +circular one, making the landing nearly at the front of the house, and +rearward from this, the Tocsin had said, a hallway ran down the centre, +with rooms on either side. The first room to the right, therefore, +should be just at his hand. He reached out, feeling cautiously--there +was nothing. He edged to the right--still nothing; edged a little +farther, a sense of bewilderment growing upon him, and finally his +fingers touched the wall. It was very strange! The hallway must be much +wider than he had understood it to be from what she had said! + +He moved along now straight ahead of him, his hand on the wall, feeling +for the door--and with every step his bewilderment increased. Surely +there must be some mistake--perhaps he had misunderstood! He had come +fully twice the distance that one would expect--and yet there was +no door. Ah, what was that? His fingers closed on soft, heavy velvet +hangings. These could hardly be in front of a door, and yet--what else +could it be? He drew the hangings warily apart, and felt behind them. It +was a window; but it was shuttered in some way evidently, for he could +not see out. + +Jimmie Dale stood motionless there for fully a minute. It seemed absurd, +preposterous, the conviction that was being forced home upon him--that +there were no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor at all! +But that was not like the Tocsin, accurate always in the most minute +details. The room must be still farther along. He was tempted to use +his flashlight--but that, as long as he could feel his way, was an +unnecessary risk. A flashlight upstairs, where a sleeping-room door +might be ajar, or even wide open, where some one wakeful, THAT man +himself, perhaps, might see it, was quite another matter than a +flashlight in the closed and deserted library below! + +He went on once more, still guiding himself by a light finger touch upon +the wall, passed another portiere similar to the first, and, after that, +another--and finally stopped by bringing up abruptly against the end +wall of the house. It was certainly very strange! There WERE no rooms +on the right-hand side of the corridor. And here, hanging across the end +wall, was another of those ubiquitous velvet portieres. He parted it, +and, a little to his surprise, found a window that was not shuttered, +but that, instead, was heavily barred by an ornamental grille work. He +could see out, however, and found that he was looking directly out +from the rear of the house. A lamp from the side street threw what was +undoubtedly the garage into shadowy outline, and he made out below him +a short stretch of yard between the garage and the house. He remembered +that now--she had described all that to the Magpie. There was no +driveway between the front and the rear. The house being on the corner, +the entrance to the garage was directly from the side street. Yes, she +had described all that exactly as it was, but--he dropped the portiere +and faced around, carrying his hand in a nonplused way to his eyes--but +here, upstairs, within the house, it was not as she had said it was at +all! What did it mean? She could not have blundered so egregiously as +that, unless--he caught his breath suddenly--unless she had done so +intentionally! Was that it? Had she surmised, formed a suspicion of +what was in his mind, of what he meant to do--and taken this means of +defeating it? If so--well, it was too late for that now! There was +one way--only one way! Whatever the cost, whatever it might mean for +him--there was only one way out for her. + +His flashlight was in his hand now, and the round, white ray shot down +the corridor--seemed suddenly to falter unsteadily--swept in through an +open door that was almost beside him--and then, as though a nerveless +hand held it, the ray dropped and played shakily on the toe of his boot +before it went out. + +A stifled cry rose to his lips. Something cold, like a hand of ice, +seemed to clutch at his heart. Those portieres, the wide, richly +carpeted corridor! It was the corridor of the night before! That room at +his side was the room where he had seen Hilton Travers, the chauffeur, +dead, lashed in a chair! He felt the sweat beads burst out anew upon his +forehead. + +IT WAS THE CRIME CLUB! + + + +CHAPTER XV + +RETRIBUTION + + +His brain seemed to whirl, staggered as by some gigantic, ghastly +mockery. The Crime Club! HERE! He had thought to creep upon that +man--and he had run blindly into the very heart and centre of these hell +fiends' nest! + +Silently he stood there, holding his breath as he listened now, +motionless as a statue, forcing his mind to THINK. He remembered that +last night his impression of the place had been that it was more like +some great private mansion than anything else. Well, he had been right, +it seemed! He could have laughed aloud--sardonically, hysterically. It +was not so strange now that there were no rooms on the right-hand side +of the corridor! And what could have suited their purpose better, what, +by its very location, its unimpeachable character, could be a more ideal +lair for them than this house! And how grimly simple it was now, the +explanation! In the five years that the false Henry LaSalle had been in +possession, they had cunningly remodelled the upper floor--that was all! +It was quite clear now why the man never entertained--why he had never +been caught or found or known to be in communication with his fellow +conspirators! It was no longer curious that one might watch the door of +the house for months at a stretch and go unrewarded for one's pains, as +the Tocsin had done, when access to the house by those who frequented it +was so easy through the garage on the side street--and from the garage, +if their work there was in keeping with their clever contrivances +within the house, by an underground connection into, say, the cellar or +basement! + +Again Jimmie Dale checked that nervous, unnatural inclination to laugh +aloud. Was there anything, any single incident, any single detail of all +that had transpired, that was not explained, borne out, as it could be +explained and borne out in no other way save that the Crime Club should +be no other than this very house itself? It was the exposition of +that favourite theory of his--it was so obvious that therein lay its +security. He had mocked at the Magpie not many moments before on that +score--and now it was the beam in his own eye! It was so obvious now, so +glaringly obvious, that the Crime Club could have been nowhere else; so +obvious, with every word of the Tocsin's story pointing it out like a +signpost--and he had not seen it! + +And then suddenly every muscle grew strained and rigid. WAS THERE SOME +ONE IN THE CORRIDOR? Was it some one moving--or was it only fancy? He +listened--while he strained his eyes through the darkness. There was no +sound; only that abnormal, heavy silence that--yes, he remembered that, +too, now--that had clung about him last night like a pall. He could +see nothing, hear nothing--but intuitively, bringing a cold dismay, the +greater because it was something unknown, intangible, he FELT as though +eyes were upon him, that even in the darkness he was being watched! + +And as he stood there, then, slowly there crept upon Jimmie Dale the +sense of peril and disaster. It was not intuition now--it was certainty. +He was trapped! It was the part of a fool to imagine that with their +devil's cunning, their cleverness, their ingenuity, he, or any one else, +could enter that house unknown to its occupants! Had he made electric +contact when he had opened the front door, and rung a signal here, +perhaps, upstairs--had he set some system of alarm at work when he had +touched that window? What did it matter--the details that had heralded +his entrance? He was certain now that his presence in the house was +known. Only, why had they left him so long without attack? He shook his +head with a quick, impatient movement. That, too, was obvious! He was +under observation. Who was he? Why had he come? Was he simply a paltry +safe-tapper--or was he one whom they had a real need to fear? And then, +too, there might well be another reason. It was far from likely, in fact +unreasonable, to imagine that all the men he had seen here the night +before were in the house now. Not many of them, if any, would LIVE here, +for CONSTANT, daily coming and going, even through the garage, could +not escape notice; and, of the servants, probably a lesser breed of +criminal, some of them, at least, no doubt, were engaged at that +moment in watching his own house on Riverside Drive! There was even +the possibility that the man posing as Henry LaSalle was, for the time +being, here alone. + +He shook his head again. He could hardly hope for that--he had no right +to hope for anything more now than a struggle, with an inevitably fatal +ending to himself, but one in which at least he could sell his life as +dearly as possible, one in which, perhaps, he might pay the Tocsin's +score with the man he had come to find! If he could do that--well, after +all, the price was not too great! + +There were no tremours of the muscles now. It was Jimmie Dale, the Gray +Seal, every faculty alert, tense, keyed up to its highest efficiency; +the brain cool, keen, and active--fighting for his life. The front door +through which he had entered was an impossibility; but there was the +window in the library that he had opened--if they would let him get that +far! That was as good a chance as any. If he made an effort to find, +say, a way to the flat above and chanced some means of escape there, it +would in no wise obviate an attack upon him, and he would only be under +the added disadvantage of unfamiliar surroundings. + +Feeling out with his left hand, his automatic thrown a little forward +in his right, he began to retrace his way along the blank wall of the +corridor, pausing between each step to listen, moving silently, his +tread on the heavy carpet as noiseless as though it were some shadow +creeping there. + +Stillness--utter, absolute! Always that stillness. Always that sense of +danger around him--the tense, bated expectancy of momentary attack--a +revolver flash through the darkness--a sudden rush upon him. But still +there was nothing--only the darkness, only the silence. + +He gained the head of the stairs and began to descend--and now the +strain began to tell upon his nerves again. Again he was possessed of +the mad impulse to cry out, to do anything that would force the issue, +that would end the horrible, unbearable suspense. Why did that revolver +shot not come? Why had they not yet rushed upon him? Why were they +playing with him as a cat with a mouse? Or was it all wild, fanciful +imagination? NO! What was that again! He could have sworn this time that +he had heard a sound, but he could neither define its character, nor +locate the direction from which it had come. + +He was at the foot of the stairs now; and, guiding himself by the wall, +moving now barely an inch at a time, he reached the library door that +he had left open, and stole in over the threshold. Halfway down the room +and diagonally across from where he stood was the window. In a moment +now he could gain that, but they would never let him go so easily--and +so it must come now, in that next moment, their attack! Where were they? +Where were they now? The table--he must remember not to bump into the +table! A pause between each step, he was crossing the room. He was +halfway to the window. Had it been all fancy, was he to--And then Jimmie +Dale stood motionless. SOME ONE HAD CLOSED THE LIBRARY DOOR SOFTLY! + +Stillness again! A sort of deadly calm upon him, Jimmie Dale felt +out behind his back for the big library table that he had been +circuiting--if the window were wide open it might be done, but to jump +for it and stand silhouetted there during the pause necessary to fling +the window up was little less than suicidal. He edged back noiselessly +until his fingers touched the table; then, lowering himself to his +knees, he backed in underneath it, and lay flat upon the floor. It was +not much protection, but it had one advantage: if they switched on +the lights it would show an EMPTY room for the first instant, and that +instant meant--the first shot! + +Where were they now? By the library door? How many of them were there? +Well, it was their move! Two could play at cat and mouse until--until +DAYLIGHT! That wasn't very far off, now, and when that came he might +still have the first shot, but after that--he turned his head quickly +toward the window. There was a faint scratching noise as of finger nails +gripping the sill; then the window, very slowly, almost silently, was +pushed steadily upward, and a dark form loomed up outside; and then, +crawling through, a man dropped, as though his feet were padded like a +cat's on the floor inside the room. The Magpie! + +A flashlight's ray shot out--and, with a twisted smile propped now +on his left elbow to give free play to his revolver arm, Jimmie Dale +followed the white spot eagerly with his eyes. But it did not circle +around; instead, the light was turned almost instantly toward the lower +end of the room--and, a second later, was holding steadily on the open +door of the safe, and the litter of papers on the floor. + +Came a savage growl of amazed fury from the Magpie: then his step +down the room; and, as he reached the safe, a torrent of unbridled +blasphemy--and then, in a sort of staggered gasp, as he leaned suddenly +forward examining the knob of the dial: + +“The Gray Seal!” + +A moment the Magpie stood there; and then, cursing again in abandon, +turned, and started back for the window, his flashlight dancing before +him--and stopped, a snarl of fury on his lips. The flashlight was +playing full on Jimmie Dale under the table! + +“Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! By God!” choked the Magpie. “You--you--” + The Magpie's flashlight, as he shifted it from his right hand to his +left and wrenched out his revolver, had fallen upon two men crouched +close against the wall by the library door--and he screamed out in an +access of fury. “De double cross! A plant! De bulls! You damned snitch, +Larry!” screamed out the Magpie--and fired. + +The bullet tore into the carpet beside Jimmie Dale. Came answering shots +from the men by the door; and then the Magpie, emptying his automatic at +the two men as he ran, the flame tongues cutting vicious lanes of fire +through the darkness, dashed for the window. There was a cry, the crash +of a heavy body pitching to the floor--and the Magpie had flung himself +out through the window, and in the momentary ensuing silence within the +room came the sound of his footsteps running on the gravel below. + +There was a low moan, the movement as of some one staggering and +lurching around--and then the lights went on. But for an instant +Jimmie Dale did not move. He was staring at the form of a man still and +motionless on the floor in front of him--the man who had posed as Henry +LaSalle. Dead! The man was dead! His mind ran riot for a moment. Where +were the others--were there only these two? Only these two in the house! +Only these two--and one was dead! And then Jimmie Dale was on his feet. +One was dead--but there was still the other, the man who was reeling +there, back turned to him, by the electric-light switch. But even as +Jimmie Dale sprang forward, this second man, clawing at the wall for +support, slipped to his knees and fell upon the carpet. + +Jimmie Dale reached him, snatched the revolver from his hand, and bent +over him. It was the man whose name he did not know, but whose face he +had reason enough to know too well--it was the leader of the Crime Club. + +The man, though evidently badly wounded, smiled defiantly in spite of +his pain. + +“So you're the Gray Seal!” he flung out contemptuously. “A clever +enough safe-cracker--but only a lowbrow, like the rest of them. Another +illusion dispelled! Well, you've got the money--better run, hadn't you?” + +Jimmie Dale made no answer. Satisfied that the man was too badly hurt to +move, he went and bent over the silent form in the centre of the room. A +moment's examination was enough. “Henry LaSalle” was dead. + +He stood there looking down at the man. It was what he had come +for--though it was the Magpie, not himself, who had accomplished it! +The man was dead! The words began to run through his mind in a queer +reiteration. The man was dead--the man was dead! He checked himself +sharply. He must think now--think fast, and think RIGHT. + +The Magpie knew that Larry the Bat was the Gray Seal--and as fast as the +Magpie could get there, the news would spread like wildfire through the +underworld. “Death to the Gray Seal! Death to the Gray Seal!” He could +hear that slogan ringing again in his ears, but as he had never heard it +before--with a snarl of triumph now as of wolves who at last had pulled +their quarry down. He had not a second to spare--and yet--that man +wounded there on the floor! What of him--guilty of murder, the brains of +this inhuman, monstrous organisation, the one to whom, more even than to +that dead man, the Tocsin owed the horror and the misery and the grief +and despair that had come into her life! What of him? What of the Crime +Club here? What of this nest of vipers? Were they to escape? Were they +to-- + +With a sudden, low exclamation, Jimmie Dale jumped for the table, and, +snatching up the telephone, rattled the hook violently. + +“Give me”--his voice came in well-simulated gasps, each like a man +fighting for every word--“give me--police--headquarters! Quick! QUICK! +I've--been--shot!” + +The wounded man on the floor raised himself on his elbow. + +“What are you doing?” he demanded in a startled way. “Are you mad! Thank +your stars you were lucky enough to get out of this alive--and get out +now, while you have the chance!” + +Jimmie Dale pressed his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the +telephone. + +“I'll go,” he said, with a cold smile, “when I've settled with you--for +the murder of Henry LaSalle.” + +“That man!” ejaculated the man scornfully, pointing to the form on the +floor. “So that's your game! Going to try and cover your tracks! Why, +you fool, I LIVE here! Do you think the police would imagine for an +instant that I killed him?” + +“I said--HENRY LASALLE,” said Jimmie Dale evenly. + +The man came farther up on his elbow, a sudden look of fear in his face. + +“What--what do you mean?” he cried hoarsely. + +But Jimmie Dale was talking again into the telephone--gasping, choking +out his words as before: + +“Police headquarters? I'm Henry LaSalle. Fifth Avenue. I--I've been +shot. Take down this statement. I'll--I'll be dead before you get +here--I'm not the real Henry LaSalle at all. We murdered Henry +LaSalle--in Australia, and murdered Peter LaSalle here. We--we tried +to kill the daughter, but she ran away. This house has been our +headquarters for the last five years. The man who shot me to-night is +the leader of the gang. We quarrelled over the division of a haul. +He's here on the floor now, wounded. Get them all, get them all, damn +them!--do you hear?--get them all! They're out of the house now, but +lay a trap for them. They always come in through the garage on the side +street. Oh, God, I'm done for! Break down the west walls of the rooms +upstairs--if--you--want proof of what--the gang's been doing. Hurry! +Hurry! I'm--I'm--done for--I--” + +Jimmie Dale permitted the telephone to drop with a clash from his hand +to the table. + +The face of the man on the floor was livid. + +“Who are you? In God's name, who are you?” he cried out wildly. + +“Does it matter?” inquired Jimmie Dale grimly. “Your game is up. You'll +go to the chair for the murder of 'Henry LaSalle'--if it is by proxy! +Those rooms upstairs alone are enough to damn you, to prove every word +of that dying 'confession'--but to-morrow, added to it, will come the +story of Marie LaSalle herself.” + +For a moment the man hung there swaying on his elbow, his face working +in ghastly fashion--and then suddenly, with a strange laugh, he carried +one hand swiftly to his mouth--and laughed again--and before Jimmie Dale +could reach him was lifeless on the floor. + +A tiny vial rolled away upon the carpet. Jimmie Dale picked it up. A +drop or two of liquid still remained in it--colourless, clear, like +that liquid this same man had dropped into the rabbit's mouth the night +before, like the liquid in the glasses they had carried into that third +room, like the liquid that his man had said was from a formula of their +own, that was instantaneous in its action, that defied detection by +autopsy! + +The set, stern features of Jimmie Dale relaxed. It was justice--but it +was also death. In a surge of emotion, the events of scarcely more +than twenty-four hours, began to crowd upon him--and then, ominously +dominant, above all else, that slogan of the underworld, “Death to the +Gray Seal!” came ringing once more in his ears. It brought him, with a +startled movement of his hand across his eyes, to a realisation of his +own desperate position. Yes, yes, he must go! The way was clear now for +the Tocsin--clear now for her! + +He dropped the vial into his pocket, and, running to the safe, quickly +scraped the gray seal from the dial's knob; then he drew the packages of +money from his shirt and pockets and tossed them on the floor among the +litter of papers already there--she would get it back again when it had +served its purpose, it would be self-evident that it was the proceeds of +that day's sale of the estate's securities over which the “quarrel” had +occurred! + +And now the window! He ran to it, closed it, and LOCKED it; then, +laying the revolver he had taken from the leader down beside the man, +he stepped across the room again and drew the body of “Henry LaSalle” + closer to the table--as though the man had fallen there when the +telephone had dropped from his hand. + +It was done now! On the floor beside him lay each man's weapon--and both +of the revolvers had been discharged several times. Jimmie Dale paused +on the library threshold for a final survey of the room. It was done! +The way was clear--for her. And now if he could only save himself! There +was no chance for Larry the Bat! Could he save--JIMMIE DALE! + +He crossed the hall, a queer, half-grim, half-wistful smile on his +lips, unlocked the front door, stepped out, locked it behind him--and +in another moment, doubling around the corner, was running along like a +hare along the side street. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” + + +On Jimmie Dale ran. Across on Fourth Avenue he swung on a car that took +him to Astor Place. Then striking east once more, making a detour to +avoid the Bowery, he ran on at top speed again. To reach the Sanctuary, +not before the Magpie should have spread the alarm, that was impossible, +but to reach it before the underworld should have had time to recover +its breath, as it were, before the underworld should have had time to +act--that was his only chance! The Magpie had, at the outside, a start +of fifteen minutes; but he, Jimmie Dale, had probably retrieved five +minutes of that in the time he had made in getting downtown. That left +the Magpie ten to the good. How long would it take the Magpie to bring +the underworld swarming like hornets around the Sanctuary? + +On Larry the Bat ran. At the Sanctuary were the clothes, the belongings +of Jimmie Dale. Could he save Jimmie Dale! If he could get there, +change, and get out again, the way was clear for him--as clear as for +the Tocsin now. In a few hours the police would have every member of +the Crime Club in the trap; there would be no watch any more around +his house on Riverside Drive; and he would be free to return there +and resume his normal life as Jimmie Dale again if he could make +the Sanctuary in time! But let the Magpie get there first, let the +underworld tear the place to pieces in its fury as it would do, let them +discover that hiding place under the flooring, for instance, and the +Gray Seal would not be merely Larry the Bat, but Jimmie Dale as well, +and--a cry escaped him even as he ran--it meant ruin, the disgrace of +an honoured name, death, crimes without number at his door. Crimes! The +Gray Seal had never committed a crime! But the crimes attributed to the +Gray Seal he could not disprove, not one of them! He had meant them +to appear as crimes--and he had succeeded so well that the Gray Seal's +name, execrated, was a synonym for the most callous, dangerous, and +unscrupulous criminal of the age! + +He was gasping for breath as finally, making for the side door, he +darted into the alleyway that flanked the Sanctuary. What story would +the Magpie tell? Not the truth, of course--that would let the Magpie in +for what had happened that night, for the Magpie must be well aware +that he had shot at least one of the two men in that room. But the +truth wasn't necessary; it was foreign, and had no bearing on the one +outstanding fact--the Gray Seal was Larry the Bat. At the present moment +the Magpie had a double incentive for “getting” the Gray Seal--the Gray +Seal was the only one who could prove murder against him that night +in the LaSalle mansion. And afterwards, when the police version of the +affair was made public, the Magpie, to save himself, would be careful +enough to do or say nothing to contradict “Henry LaSalle's” confession! + +Larry the Bat slipped in through the door, halted there, listened; and +then began to mount the rickety stairs, with his silent tread. At the +top he paused again. Nothing--no sound! They were not here yet--so far +he was in time! He stepped to the Sanctuary door, unlocked it, passed +into the squalid, miserable room that had harboured him for so long as +Larry the Bat, locked the door behind him, crossed quickly to the window +to make sure that the shutters were closed--and then, for the first +time, as the gray light streaked in through the interstices, he was +conscious that it was already dawn. So much the more need for haste +then! + +He whipped out his revolver and laid it at his hand on the dilapidated +table; then the flooring in the corner was up in an instant, and he +began to strip off the rags of Larry the Bat. Boots, mismated socks, the +torn, patched trousers, the greasy flannel shirt, the threadbare coat, +the nondescript slouch hat were thrown in a pile on the floor; and +with them, from their hiding-place, the grease paints and heterogeneous +collection of make-up accessories. This done, he began to slip on the +clothes of Jimmie Dale; and, when half dressed, turned to the table +again to remove the characteristic grime, stain, and paint of Larry the +Bat from face, hands, wrists, throat, and neck. This was a longer, more +arduous task. He reached for the cracked pitcher to pour more water into +the basin--and, snatching up his revolver instead, whirled to face the +door. + +Some one was outside! He had caught the creak of a footstep upon the +stairs. In a flash he was across the room and crouched by the door. Yes, +the step was nearer now--at the head of the stairs--on the landing. His +revolver lifted, holding a steady bead on the door panel. And then there +came a low voice: + +“Jimmie! Jimmie! Are you there? Quick, Jimmie! Are you there?” + +The Tocsin! What was she doing here! Why had he not warned her up there +on the avenue, fool that he was, that of all places she was to keep away +from here! + +She slipped into the room as he unlocked the door. + +“They're coming, Jimmie!” she panted breathlessly. “There's not an +instant to lose! Listen! When the Magpie ran from the house, I ran with +him--but it”--she tried to smile--“it wasn't to obey you, to run away--I +had made up my mind I wouldn't do that--it was to find out from him what +had happened. He told me you were the Gray Seal. He did not suspect me. +He thinks you were no more than just Larry the Bat to me, as you were +to everybody else. He went straight to Chicago Ike's gambling rooms and +found the Skeeter's gang there--you know them, Red Mose, the Midget, +Harve Thoms, and the Skeeter--you remember your fight with them over +old Luddy's diamonds! Well, they have not forgotten, either! They are on +their way here, now! The news that you are the Gray Seal is travelling +like lightning all through the underworld--there will be a mob here on +the Skeeter's heels. So, Jimmie--quick! Run!” + +Run! Half Larry the Bat, half Jimmie Dale--and run! In another five +minutes, perhaps--yes. But there probably would not be five minutes--and +she--if she were found here! + +“Yes,” he said quietly. “I'll get away in a moment. You go at once. +I'll”--he was smiling at her reassuringly--“I'll meet you at--” + +She looked at him then for an instant--interrupting him quickly, as she +shook her head. + +“I didn't notice, Jimmie. You cannot go like that--can you? It would +be even worse than being caught as Larry the Bat. Hurry then--I am not +going without you.” + +“No!” he said. “Go now! Go at once, Marie--while you can. You have +risked your life as it is to come here and tell me this. For God's sake, +go now!” + +The great, brown eyes were smiling bravely through a sudden mist. She +shook her head again. + +“Not without you, Jimmie.” + +It brought a fierce, wild throb of joy upon him--and then a cold, +sickening fear. + +“Listen!” he cried out desperately. “You must go now! You cannot take +any chances now, Marie. Everything is right for you. That man who posed +as your uncle is dead--the leader of the Crime Club is dead. Don't you +understand what that means! You have only to be Marie LaSalle again and +claim your own. I cannot tell you all now--there's no time. That house +was the Crime Club itself. The police will get them all. Don't you see! +Don't you see! Everything is clear for you now--and now go! Go--you must +go!” + +She was staring at him, a strange wonder in her face. + +“Clear! All clear--for me! I--I can go back to--to my own life again!” + It was as though she were whispering some amazing thing of unbelievable +joy to herself. + +“YES!” he cried out again. “Yes! But go--go, Marie!” + +But now, for answer, suddenly she reached out and took the key from the +door and put it in the pocket of her dress. + +“We will go together, Jimmie--or not at all,” she said simply. “We are +wasting precious moments. Hurry and dress!” + +He hesitated miserably. What could he do--if she WOULD not go! And it +was true--the moments were flying. Better, rather than futile argument, +to use them as she said. There was still a chance! Why not! Five +minutes! He could do better than that! He MUST do better than that! + +Without a word, he ran back across the room. In frantic haste, from +face, hands, wrists, and neck came the stain. There was still time. She +was standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she whom +he loved, she who, all through the years that had gone, had been so +strangely elusive and yet so intimately a part of his life, SHE was +standing there now, here with him--in peril with every second that +passed! + +He had only to slip on his coat and vest now--and make a bundle of +Larry the Bat's things on the floor, so that he could carry them away +to destroy them. He stooped to gather up the clothes--and straightened +suddenly--and jumped toward the door again. + +“They are coming, Jimmie!” she called, in a low voice. But he had +already heard them--the stairs were creaking loudly under the tread of +many feet. He pushed the Tocsin hurriedly back against the wall at the +side of the door. + +“Stand there!” he said, under his breath. “Out of the line of fire! +Don't move!” + +There was a rush against the door--and then a voice growled: + +“Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do--scare him away by bustin' it! +Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up.” + +It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang--the worst apaches +in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death contractors, +he had called them--and the lowest bidders! A man's life any time for +twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to forget the affair of +the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to forget--the +Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard of what was to come! + +Some one was working at the lock now. There was one way to stop that. It +would not take them long to find out that he WAS there once the door +was opened! Better know it with the door SHUT! Jimmie Dale lifted his +revolver coolly and fired through the panel. + +A burst of yells answered the shot; and among them, high above the +others, the Magpie's scream: + +“We got him! We got him! He's dere now!” + +And then it seemed that pandemonium broke loose--there was a volley of +shots, the bullets splintering through the door panels as from a machine +gun, so fast they came--and then another rush against the door. + +Flat on the floor, but well back and to one side, Jimmie Dale fired +steadily--again and again. + +Came screams of pain, yells, and oaths--and they fell back from the +door. + +And now from above, from overhead, came tumult--windows thrown up, the +stamp of feet, cries of fright. And from the street, a low, sullen roar. +The underworld was gathering fast! + +Once more the rush upon the door--and Jimmie Dale, a grim, twisted smile +upon his lips, emptied his revolver into the panels. Once more they +fell back--and then there came the Skeeter's voice, snarling like an +infuriated beast: + +“He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have de +bulls down here in a minute--an' he's OUR meat, not theirs. Dey'd be +too damned soft wid him--dey'd only send him to de chair. Youse chase +upstairs, Mose, an' pass de word to beat it--an' beat it quick. We'll +BURN de skunk out--dat's wot. An' de bulls can stand alongside an' +watch, if dey likes--but he's our meat.” + +Jimmie Dale did not dare to look at the Tocsin's face. Mechanically he +refilled the magazine of his automatic--and lay there, waiting. The roar +from the street grew louder. They seemed to be fighting out there, as +though an inadequate number of police were trying to disperse a mob--and +not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the riot call in, there would probably +be a battle--for the Gray Seal! Sublime irony! It was death at the hands +of either one! + +Children whimpered on the stairs outside, men swore, women cried, feet +shuffled hurriedly by as the tenement emptied. Occasionally, a pertinent +invitation to him to remain where he was, there was a vicious rip +through the panel, and the drumming whir of a bullet flying through the +room. And then a curious, ominous crackling sound--and then the smell of +smoke. + +Jimmie Dale stood up, his face drawn and haggard. The tenement would go +like matchwood, burn like a bonfire, with any kind of a start--and there +was no doubt about the start! The Skeeter, the Magpie, and the rest +would have seen that it had headway enough to serve their purpose before +either firemen or police could thwart them. He, Jimmie Dale, could +take his choice: walk out into a bullet, or stay there and--he smiled +miserably as his eyes fell upon the pile of Larry the Bat's clothing on +the floor. There was no longer need to worry about ITS destruction--the +fire would take care of that only too well! And then a low, bitter +cry came to his lips, and he clenched his hands. If it were only +himself--only himself! He crossed to the Tocsin and caught her in his +arms. + +“Oh, my God--Marie!” he faltered. + +The cape and hood had fallen from her, and with the hood had fallen the +gray-streaked hair of Silver Mag--and now as she smiled at him it was +from a face that was very beautiful and very brave and very full of +tenderness. + +And he held her there--and neither spoke. + +It seeped in under the threshold of the door, it came from everywhere, +filling the room--the black, strangling smoke. Outside in the hall all +was silence now--save for that crackle of flame that grew in volume, +that came now in quick, sharp reports, like revolver shots. From out in +the street swelled a cry: “Death to the Gray Seal!” Then the clang of +bells, the roar and rattle of fire apparatus, strident voices bellowing +orders, and the crowd again, blood hungry: “Death to the Gray Seal!” + +There was a chance, just one--if the fire had no headway along the upper +end of the landing--and if they had not thought to set a watch for +him ABOVE! They--the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang--must have been +driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame. + +“Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie,” he said quietly. +“Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to the LEFT to +the next flight of stairs. There are two flats above this--we'll make +the roof if we can. Now--are you ready?” + +It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she lifted +her face to his, and held his face between her two hands--and then: + +“I am ready, Jimmie.” + +He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward--and +instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush of +the draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed the +flames leaping from the stair well. + +And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of the +stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another--and fell +again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she had +staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs grew +weak and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The nauseating +fumes suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He gained the first +landing above. There was one more--one more! If he could only rest here +for a moment! Yes, that was it--rest. It wasn't so bad here now. She +stirred in his arms, struggled to her feet--and he was helping her on +again, and up the next flight of stairs. + +And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria--for they were +climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper landing, +and the open skylight was above them, and they were drinking in the +pure, fresh air--and now they were out upon the roof, and the roar from +the street was in their ears, like the roar of great waters from some +canyon far below. Jimmie Dale tried to speak, and found his lips were +cracked and dry. He wet them with his tongue. + +“Don't stand up--we'd be seen--CRAWL,” he mumbled hoarsely. + +It took a long time--over one roof, and then another, and yet +another--and then through the skylight of a tenement whose occupants +were either craning from the front windows, or were on the street below. +It was, perhaps, half an hour--and then they, too, were standing in the +street, and all about them the crowd was shouting in wild excitement. + +Up the block, inside the fire lines, the Sanctuary was blazing +furiously--and now suddenly the wall seemed to bulge outward. It brought +a yell from the crowd: + +“Death to the Gray Seal!” + +She pulled at his arm. + +“Let us get away! Let us get away, Jimmie!” she whispered frantically. + +A strange smile was on Jimmie Dale's lips. + +“We're safe now--for always,” he whispered back. “Look!” + +The Sanctuary wall bulged farther outward, seemed to hang an instant +hesitant in mid-air--and fell with a mighty crash. + +The Gray Seal was dead! + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Adventures of Jimmie Dale, by Frank L. Packard + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1218 *** |