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THE ADVENTURES
OF JIMMIE DALE
BY FRANKL. PACKARD


BY FRANK L. PACKARD
THE ADVENTURES OF
JIMMIE DALE
THE BELOVED THAITOR
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN
THE MIRACLE MAN
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK


TF
THE
ADVENTURES OF
JIMMIE DALE
BY
FRANK L. PACKARD
AUTHOR OF “THE MIRACLE MAN," "GREATER LOVE
HATH NO MAN." ETC.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


HARWARD COLLEGE LIBRARY
BEQUEST OF
WINWARD PRESCOTT
JANUARY 27, 1933
copyright, 1917,
BY Grottue he donax company
COPYRIGHT, 1914, 1915, by street & surrºr
Phunted in the traitºto states or amºus. A
w


CONTENTS
PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE
charºtte Page
I. THE GRAY SEAL . . . . . . . . . . . 9
II. BY PROxY . - - - - - - - - - - 31
III. THE MoTHER LoDE . . . . . . . . . . 61
IV. THE CounterFEIT FIVE . . . . . . . . . 89
W. THE AFFAIR of THE PUSHCART MAN . . . . . 118
WI. DEVIL's WoRK . . . . . . . . . . . 143
VII. THE THIEF - . . . . . . . . . . 173
VIII. THE MAN HIGHER UP . . . . . . . . . 202
IX. Two Crooks AND A KNAVE . . . . . . . 230
X. THE ALIBI - - . . . . . . . . . 258
XI. THE Stool-PIGEON - . . . . . . . . 286
PART TWO : THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
I. BELow THE DEAD LINE . . . . . . . . . .315
II. THE CALL to ARMs . . . . . . . . . 324
III. THE CRIME CLUB . . . . . . . . . . 333
IV. THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER . . . . . . . . .345
W. ON GUARD - . . . . . . . . . . .354
WI. THE TRAP - - . . . . . . . . . 361
VII. THE “HotJR" - - - - - - - - - - 372
VIII. THE Tocs IN . . . . . . . . . . . .382
IX. THE Tocs IN's STORY . . . . . . . . . 389
X. SI.VFR MAG - - - • * . . . . . . 403
XI. THE MAGPIE . . - . . . . . . . . 412


vi CONTENTS
charter-
XII. John Johansson-Fouh-Two-EIGHT
XIII. THE ONLY WAY . . . - -
XIV. OUT of THE DARKNEss - - -
XV. RETRIBUTION . . . .
XVI. "DEATH To THE GRAY SEAL1 " . .
Paar
422
434
442
450
400


PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE





PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE
CHAPTER I
THE GRAY SEAL
MONG 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 some-
times 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, profes-
sional 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.
9


10 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Is there any doubt that Jimmie Dale was a gentleman—an
i nate gentleman? Jimmie Dale's father had been a member
ºf the St. James Club, and one of the largest safe manu-
facturers 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
“m 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 ménage 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 GRAY SEAL 11
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 every-
thing 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 some-
where where it would be the first thing your eyes would
light upon when you reached the scene, and --


12 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"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 reſ ºrter 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 an-
swered, with a wry grimace. “He knew me, all right, con-
found 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 some-
thing 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," asserted 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 ap-
preciation."
"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," com-
mented 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


THE GRAY SEAL 18
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 dis-
covered the “woman in the case ’7”
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 nerv-
ously 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 origi-


14 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
nality," 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 Jimmie 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
intust --
"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
* *
"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—"


THE GRAY SEAL 15
“Jason"—Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sud-
den, 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,” com-
mented Jimmie Dale, with a curious tinge of bitterness in
his voice. “I'd have given a year's income for your op-
portunity 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 im-
perative 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 in-
veigle her, use force; capture her, pull her in, do anything
—do anythi.g., 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?”


16 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“On the table in your studio, sir," said Jason mechani-
cally.
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
cory, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-


THE GRAY SEAL 17
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 haunt-
ing, 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 cpen 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.


18 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 portière 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 plan-
ning 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 portière 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 oppo-
site way 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


THE GRAY SEAL 19
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 caress-
ing touch over the vicious little implements, and from one
of the pockets extracted a thin, flat metal case. This Jim-
mie 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. Shef 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 them-
selves into a frenzy over the Gray Seal, the papers had
grown absolutely maudlin—and she had written, in her
characteristic way:


20 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 be-
gun 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 suc-
ceeded. 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


THE GRAY SEAL 21
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 follow-
ing the Maiden Lane affair, indeed, before he had breal:-
fasted, 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


22 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Broad-
way 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 swing-
ing 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 Jim-
mie 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 début of the Gray Seal.


THE GRAY SEAL 23
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


THE GRAY SEAL 25
Dale listened—there was a scraping noise in the rear--some
one was climbing the fence that he had climbed!
In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dºle'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 Jf it—I swear I
could have cut Carruthers’ profile in the hole in less that, n
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, listen-
ing 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


26 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 some-
what 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 con-
fused 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 ami-
ably to himself. “And to think of that cop running away
with the idea that I didn't see him when he hid in a door-
way 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


THE GRAY SEAL 27
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 lin-
gering 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 ob-
taining 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 sin-
gle 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


28 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 here 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–


THE GRAY SEAL 29
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


30 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, when-
ever 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 River-
side 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
---
"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, lis-
ten--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 début, 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, unbe-
lievable 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 de-
nunciations 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
31


32 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, in-
heritor 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 him-
self, 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 par-
ticular 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


BY PROXY 33
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 con-
fidence, 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 fra-
grance 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 occurence in Jimmie Dale's life-


84 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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
caine.
“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 ex-
tended to pick up the telephone. How explain to Carru-
thers 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 Car-
ruthers. 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 blasé


BY PROXY - 35
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 installa-
tion, 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 in-
side 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 at-


86 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
tempt 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, recog-
nised 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 ab-
horrence 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 dis-
tracted 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 pro-
tection 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. Car-
ruthers was but an example. Carruthers now would hunt
the Gray Seal like a mad dog. The Gray Seal, to Carruthers


BY PROXY 37
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 be-
tween 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 Jim-
mie 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,


38 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 side-
walk 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 in-
side, 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 Car-
ruthers, 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


BY PROXY 39
voice rose above the others, heavy and gratingly com-
placent.
“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 inspec-
tor.
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


40 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
bed, one arm outflung across the bedspread, the other dang-
ling, 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 car-
pet, 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, dia-
mond 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, Carru-
thers.”
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 evi-
dence we wanted at eight o'clock to-night.”


BY PROXY 41
Jimmie Dale was listening—to every word. But he
stooped now again over the murdered man's head delib-
erately, 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 1" 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 ner-
vously 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


42 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 sig-
nificantly. “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—Metzerlaying 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. Jim-
mie 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 In-
spector 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 re-
porter 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


BY PROXY 43
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 note
book in his pocket.
An officer entered the room hurriedly, and, drawing Clay-
ton aside, spoke in an undertone. A triumphant and mali-
cious 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 whim-
sically. “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 act-
ing 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,


44 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"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 photo-
graph 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 considera-
tion—whatever he asks—I'll pay for it.”
“But what for?" demanded Carruthers. “I don't un-
derstand."
"Because," said Jimmie Dale very seriously, “put it down
to imagination or whatever you like, I think I smell some-
thing 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


BY PROXY 45
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, de-
serted. 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 stair-
way, 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 be-
hind 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 ad-
vantage 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 Sancuary, but there had been times when it
was no more nor less than exactly what he called it—a
sanctuary 1
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, fur-
nished in the most scanty fashion. Neither, apparently, was
there anything suspicious about it to reward one curious


46 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Carru-
thers 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 be-
fore a cracked mirror. Who was it that would have access
to the gray seals in the possession of the police, since, ob-
viously, 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 for-
ever 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


BY PROXY 47
touch—and then the spruce, muscular Jimmie Dale, trans-
formed into a slouching, vicious-featured denizen of the un-
derworld, 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 élite
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, care-
fully 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 sen-
sational 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 re-
sort to another he hurried, talking in the accepted style
through one corner of his mouth to hard-visaged individ-
uals 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


48 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, compre-
hensive 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 signifi-
cantly 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?" in-
quired the Runt.
“Nuthin' much," said Jimmie Dale. “Only It'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.
I 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."


BY PROXY 49
“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


50 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 after-
noon?" demanded Jimmie Dale.
“He was broke," the Runt answered. “We was gettin'
de coin fer him ter fade away widter-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,


BY PROXY 51
and the occupants were swarming to the sidewalk. A pa-
trol 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, yegg-
man 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 In-
spector 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 noth-
ing 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


52 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
before breakfast—and examined it again minutely, even re-
sorting 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 be-
tween 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 Car-
ruthers came.
Jimmie Dale started to undo the string, then laid the pack-
age 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 be-
tween 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 eves, and his lips moved
"I've won," said Jimmie Dale, with ominous softness
"I've fºom ' "
He was standing beside the rosewood desk, and he reached


BY PROXY 53
for the phone. Carruthers would be at home now—he called
Carruthers there. After a moment or two he got the connec-
tion.
“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, be-
gan 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 himslf, an in-
decipherable 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. Jim-
mie 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 an-
other 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


54 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 sud-
denly over the desk.
“Yes,” he said slowly, a grim intonation in his voice, “I’m
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 re-
markable—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, inspec-
tor, so remarkable, in fact, that it's almost—suspicious.
Don't you think so? No? Well, that's what Mr. Carru.
thers 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 mo-
ment—then swung on his heel. “Good-afternoon, gentle-
men,” 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.


BY PROXY 55
“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 hesi-
tated—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 Car-
ruthers—“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 dis-
trict. 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 after-
noon 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


56 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 de-
manded.
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 mum-
bled.
Jimmie Dale reached over and took back the sheet.
"You're wrong again, Clayton," he said calmly. “It
tras quite blank before I handed it to you—but not now. 1
noticed yesterday that your hands were generally moist. I
am sure they are more so now—excitement, you know. Car-
ruthers, 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


BY PROXY 57
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 photo-
graph; that, too, in its enlargement, showed, sharply de-
fined, 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. Mois-
ture 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 Jim-
mie 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.


58 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 con-
victed 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 stam-
mered eagerly.
Jimmie Dale whirled on him in a sudden sweep of pas-
sion.
“No, you curl" 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 Car-
ruthers 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 forc-
ing 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.


BY PROXY 59
Carruthers' face was hard. “What did you let him go
for, Jimmie?” he said uncompromisingly.
“Selfishness. Pure selfisheness,” 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, Carru-
thers. 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 un-
iverse. “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 an-
swered thoughtfully, with artfully puckered brow. “I re-
membered 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 dis-
turbed; 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 af-
fected 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 re-
ward, 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.”


60 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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:
Only there were no finger prints 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 Car-
ruthers 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 pom-
posity and a smirk, now ” Jimmie Dale shrugged his
shoulders.
Carruthers laughed—and then glanced ludicrously at Jim-
mie Dale, as the door, ajar, was pushed open, and a man en-
tered.
“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
61


62 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Carruthers several times—used his sheet more than once to
advertise a new bond flotation."
The dominant note in Markel's voice was an ingratiat-
ing and unpleasant whine, and Carruthers nodded, not very
cordially—and shook hands.
Markel went back to the door, closed it carefully, and re-
turned 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 out-
ward 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 photo-
graph of it, and one of Mrs. Markel–ch? Please her, you
know---he's crazy on this ºxiety stunt—all flubdub to me.
of course. How's it strike you, Carruthers?"


THE MOTHER LODE 63
Carruthers, very evidently, liked neither the man nor his
manners, but Carruthers, above everything else, was a gentle-
man.
“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 them-
selves 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, Mar-
kel, 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, Carru-
thers?” .
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 thou-
sand, you said. Any special-er—significance to the occa-


64 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
sion, if the question's not impertinent? Birthday, wedding
anniversary—or something like that?"
“No, nothing like that!" Markel grinned, winked secre-
tively, 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 Car-
ruthers' 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
nºt.
“Say it!" prodded Jimmie Dale sweetly. “Don’t feel
restrained because you are a guest-I absolve you in ad-
vance."
"Rotter!" said Carruthers.
“Well," said Jimmie Dale softly. “You see–Car-
ruthers?"
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 ( lub."
"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


THE MOTHER LODE 65
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 intro-
duced 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 any-
thing 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 morn-
ing'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 sub-
ject 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.”


66 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"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 chauf-
feur, 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 side-
walk. What, however, did it matter? It was there
mysteriously, as scores of others had come to him myste-
rously, with never a clew to her identity, to the identity of
his—he smiled a little grimly—accomplice in crime.


THE MOTHER LODE 67
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 stand-
ing, 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


68 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, Car-
ruthers 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 amaz-
ing 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—chercher
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 an
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.


THE MOTHER LODE 69
but to get out of it himself with a whole skin. Markel—eh?
Jimmie Dale leaned back in his seat, clasped his hands be-
hind his head—and his eyes, half closed now, were study-
ing 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
is 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


70 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 at-
tachment 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 occa-
sionally 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


THE MOTHER LODE 71
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 surround-
ings, 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


72 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 oc-
cupied 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.


THE MOTHER LODE 73
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, per-
haps—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 connec-
tion 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 with-
out 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.


74 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 mur-
mured. “And one of the best we ever made. Pretty tough.
But I've done it before. Say, half an hour of gentle persua-
sion. 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 MOTHER LODE 75
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 com-
pared 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 flash-
light 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


76 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 flaunt-
ingly 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 noise-
lessly 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 to-
ward 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 dis-


THE MOTHER LODE 77
tance 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-


78 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 sug-
gest 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


THE MOTHER LODE 79
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, uncom-
promising. “And step lively 1"
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 fascina-
tion. 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 under-
stand?”
“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


80 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
for an instant looking at the other with cool insolence; then:
“Good-night, Markel"—and five minutes later a great tour-
ing 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 in-
candescents 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 in-
ner office beyond. Jimmie Dale drew the black silk mask
from his pocket, adjusted it, tried the door, found it un-
locked, 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 thresh-
old.
An elderly man, white-haired, kindly-faced, kindly-eyed.
save now that the face was drawn and haggard, the eyes fun
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


THE MOTHER LODE 81
you were going to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur,
Henry Wilbur, isn't it?”
Unmanned, trembling, the other stood—and nodded me-
chanically.
“It's really not a nice thing to do,” said Jimmie Dale con-
fidentially. “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 anx-
iety 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 criti-
cally.
“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 phys-
ical way.”
“Strange!" whispered Wilbur, in a numbed tone to him-
self: 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!"


82 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 break-
down. 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 fig-
ure 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 unrecog-
nisable bass.
“Mr. Carruthers? Yes. I thought it might interest you
to know that Mr. Theodore Markel purchased a very val-
uable 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. Mar-
kel'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 ungratful for, I might say, the eulogistic manner in
which the Morning News-Argus treated me in that last at-
fair, 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


THE MOTHER LODE 83
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. Car-
ruthers, 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 un-
necessarily. 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 rep-
resented 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


84 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 fig-
ure. 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 crip-
pled me both financially and in the progress of the work be-
gan 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 1
came back Fast 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 or
our way to New York. On the run across the continent


THE MOTHER LODE 85
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 thou-
sand 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?"


86 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 re-
verting 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 car-
ried 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 dis-
grace—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.”


THE MOTHER LODE 87
“Paste!” exclaimed Wilbur, in a slow way.
“Paste,” said Jimmie Dale placidly, dropping the neck-
lace 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 be-
fore.”
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 Wil-
bur; 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 any-
thing else but the necklace, with which you have no connec-
tion—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 quiver-
Ing.
“To Markel,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Write him
in reply to his letter of the afternoon, and post it before you


88 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
leave here—just as though you had written it at once,
promptly, on receipt of his. He will still get it on the morn-
ing delivery. State that you will take up the note immedi-
ately 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, Wil-
bur repeated the word.
“In a month or two or three, as the case may be." ex-
plained 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 under-
stand. 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, jounc-
ing 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, dis-
turbed, 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 suc-
cession—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 com-
plete, that was the only result for the month of ceaseless,
unremitting, doggedly-expended effort, even as it had been
89


90 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 resource-
fulness, 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 amaz-
ing, 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 com-
mitted!
Jimmie Dale's strong, fine-featured face lighted up.


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 91
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 bless-
ings were worth a thousandfold the risk and peril of dis-
aster 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 thresh-
old 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 use-
less—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 iden-
tity.
It was baffling, puzzling, unbelievable, bordering, indeed,
on the miraculous--herself, everything about her, her acts,


92 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 face-
tiously. "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 de-
cline, 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 roué! I guess I'll have to
mind myself, though. Even Carruthers detached his mind
far enough from his editorial desk and the hope of ex-
clusively 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 1"
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, in-
voluntarily, 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 thou-
sand times, and—"
A bus, rumbling cityward, went by him, squeaking, creak-
ing, and rattling in its uneasy joints—and out of the noise,


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 98
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 emctions, surprise, fierce exulta-
tion, 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 over-
looked—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 num-


94 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
ber! 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 con-
trary, 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 un-
der 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, neath
folded, was a black silk mask, and, relics of his rôle of
Larry the Bat, an automatic revolver, an electric flashlight.
a steel jimmy, and a bunch of skeleton keys, were dis-
tributed among the other pockets of his smart tweed
Sult.


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 95
Jimmie Dale changed from the bus to the subway, leav-
ing 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, display-
ing 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 it 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


96 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 enter-
ing 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 em-
bodied 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, satisfies:
that he was fairly safe from observation, stole softly for.


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 97
ward. 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 Washing-
ton 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


98 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 in-
dicating 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 gur-
gled 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. “Sam-
my, 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, with-
out 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 rat-
ting 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, mechani.
cal 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


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 99
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 des-
troyed; instead, it shows up in the hands of a gang of coun-
terfeiters 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
•hat you are the one who delivered the plate to them. Be-
*ween him and Gregor and what I know myself, I've got
-vidence enough for any jury against every one of the rest
*f voti."
Horror, fear, helplessness seemed to mingle in the sick
aman's staring eyes, and he swayed unsteadily upon his feet.
“I’m innocent!" he screamed out. “But I'm caught, I'm
:aught 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,


100 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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. Mat-
thews' 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


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 101
question of duty, even if I succeeded in hushing the matter
up, I would probably at least be suspected and certainly dis-
charged, 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 some-
how. 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—"
1 *


102 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 him-
self as he turned the key, opened the door noiselessly until
it was just ajar, and turned the key in the lock again, leav-
ing the bolt protruding out. One step backward, and he was
rapping on the counter with his knuckles. "Isn't anybºy
here?" he called out loudly. “Isn't any—oh!"—as Mr.
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 tremu-
lously.


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 103
“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 nod-
ded.
“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.


104 THE ADVENTU"RES OF 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 Jim-
mie 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 up-
per 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, bewilder-
ing, 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 swing-
ing 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, re-
traced 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.


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 105
“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 him-
self. 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 prob-
ably accomplice—be careful that he does not hear you mov-
ing overhead"—Jimmie Dale's mind, with that curious fac-
ulty 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 for-
eigners 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 care-
lessly half open.
Jimmie Dale's slouch hat was pulled a little farther down
over his eyes as he mounted the steps and entered the hall-
way. 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 stair-
ways 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


106 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 be-
fore. Without moving the bolt, he turned—and his flash-
light 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 lift-
ing it an inch or two—it slid easily in its grooves.
He stood then for a moment, hardfaced, a frown gather-
ing his forehead into heavy furrows, as the flashlight's ray
again and again darted hither and thither. There was noth-
ing, 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 COUNTERFEIT FIVE 107
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 attempt-
ing 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 ad-
vantage 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 flash-
light—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 flash-
light'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


108 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 com-
pliments of "-above the gray seal. He surveyed the re-
sult 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 ex-
actly 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 re-
spect—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 COUNTERFEIT FIVE 109
“The Cap'll be along in a minute,” one of them said.
“Turn on the light.”
A switch clicked, flooding the room with sudden brilli-
ancy from half a dozen electric bulbs.
“Too many l’ 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 ob-
solete 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 com-
panions 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 !” Ma-
lone 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


110 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
aggressiveness in both features and physique, edged for.
ward.
“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 fall-
ing 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 secre:
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 hun-
dred 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


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 111
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 mus-
tache 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 shoul-
der.
“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 be-
cause 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 fif-
teen 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 ex-
tremely 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


112 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
had picked out, like a touch of magic, appeared a veritable
printing plant, an elaborate engraver's outfit—a highly effi-
cient 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 appurte-
nanºs.
“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 warm-
ing 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


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 118
sprang at Malone. The man reeled back, with a cry. Moul-
ton 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. Jim-
mie 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, work-
ing 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 away”—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 re-
volver 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—under-
stand!"
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,


114 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Jim-
... mie Dale ran.
A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alley-
way, 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 sacrific-
ing 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 authori-
tative 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


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 115
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 gar-
ments 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
otit-
“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 ser-
vice, 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, thump-


116 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
ing 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 respira-
tion.
“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 Morphina. “Shake him again!” he com-
manded.
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?"


THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE 117
“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 compli-
ments 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 fore-
head.


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, millionairs 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 curi-
ous, 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 in-
mate 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
118


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 119
contrived opening in the floor under the oilcloth in the cor-
ner, 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 surveil-
lance 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 re-
source 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 even-
ing, two nights before, walking along Riverside Drive, when
from the window of the limousine she had dropped the let-
ter 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 as-
sume the rôle of Larry the Bat.
That was really the gist of it. And yesterday morning he


120 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 thought-
fully 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 of
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 million-
aire. 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


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 121
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 Bow-
ery.
There was a saloon two blocks away that boasted a pri-
vate telephone booth. Jimmie Dale made that his destina-
tion.
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 clus-
tered at the rail as he entered; Larry the Bat, as befitted one
of the élite 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, pos-
sibly 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 dis-
reputable, loose-jointed frame of Larry the Bat suddenly
erect—and a strained whiteness crept over the dirty, un-
washed face.


122 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“Go on, Jason," said Jimmie Dale, without a quiver in
his voice.
"It came this morning, sir—that shuffer with his auto-
mobile 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 instru-
ment, 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,
air," said the old man eagerly. "And I've been trying that,
sir, all day. They've all come from different pay stations,
sir."
A mirthles, little smile tinged Jimmie Dale's lips. Of
course! He might have known! It was always that way-


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 123
always the same. He was as near to the solution of her iden-
tity 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, to-
ward 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 ar-
rest as Larry the Bat, Jimmie's Dale would automatically
disappear. Would follow then the suspicion that Jimmie


124 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 ex-
ceedingly 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 disrep-
utable 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 inconspicu-
ous, 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 recep-
tion 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


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 125
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 watch-
ful," 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
portière, 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
ino the interior of the safe. Whatever it was, it must be
performed in the rôle 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


126 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 still-
ness of the room, the telephone bell on the desk rang out
clamourously.
Jimmie Dale's face set hard, as he leaped out from be-
hind 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 --


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 127
“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, re-
placing the receiver bitterly on the hook, he jumpd for the
curtain.
He reached it none too soon. The door opened, an elec-
tric-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 portière he watched the
other's actions.
Jason picked up the telephone.
“Hello! Hello!” he called—then began to click im-
patiently with the receiver hook. “Hello! . . . Who?
- - Central? . . . I don't want any number—some-
body 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,


128 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 him-
self 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 dis-
tended 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 portiºres
together,” directed Jimmie Dale.
Jason, still overwrought and excited, obeyed a little awk-
wardly.
“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 re-
turned 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.


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART, MAN 129
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 corn r
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?


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 131
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 al-
ways policed in pairs!
They passed on, turned the corner, and went down the
narrow cross street that Jimmie Dale had just been in-
specting. He started to follow—and drew back again
abruptly. A form flitted suddenly across the road and dis-
appeared 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—
and the lowest bidders! Professional assassins, and a man's


132 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Göd'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 him-
self 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 deah 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


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 133
was bathed in perspiration, and he wiped it off with his coax
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 scream-
ing 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!


134 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 who-
ever 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 bring 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


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 135
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, defense-
less old man, for committing as vile and pitiful a crime as
had ever stirred New York! Even Carruthers, of the Morn-
ing 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,


136 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 instru-
ment 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 dismav
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.
too—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, indescrib-
able sound of movement. Somebody, apart from old Luddy.
tvas 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-


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 137
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 mis-
take—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, ap-
parently, 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. Al-


138 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
ready 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:


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 139
“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 him-
self 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 sud-
denly breast high in front of him. He flung himself up, re-
gained his feet—and ducked instantly behind a chim-
ney.
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,


140 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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. an-
swered this—then the crunch of racing feet on the gravel


THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN 141
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 ex-
tended 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 ar, 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


142 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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
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 dis-
reputable, but harmless, dope fiend of the underworld.
Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! Jimmie Dale the mil-
Honaire! What if it were ever known that that strange
143


144 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 remem-
bered 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 sensi.
tive 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. Herº"
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 twice—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 clover, far too
clever for that—she, too, would know that he could and
would recognise her voice where he could recognise nothing
else.


DEVIL’S WORK 145
And then, suddenly, he realised that he was attracting at-
tention. 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 pocket-
book, 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 be-
hind 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 élite of the under-
world. The Wowzer, beyond a shadow of doubt, in his own
profession stood upon a plane entirely by himself—among


146 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 para-
mount 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 rôle, 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 op-
portunity 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 posses-
sion, 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.


DEVIL’S WORK - 147
He hurried on. People still passed by him—too many.
And then a café, 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 non-
chalantly 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 ex-
clamation of annoyance, he flung it away. The third was
making a fitful effort at life, as another man emerged hastily
from the café's side door, hurried to the corner, joined the
man who was still loitering there, and both together dis-
appeared 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 Jim-
mie 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


148 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 pick-
pocket in the United States! For a moment he could have
laughed aloud in a sort of ghastly, defiant mockery—he him-
self 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 im-
pulse 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, im-
passive, debonair, composed.
There was yet a chance. As Larry the Bat he knew


150 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 pocket-
book, 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 ap-
plause, 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 hard-
wood 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.


DEVIL’S WORK 151
“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.”
“Tanks!” 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 harde,
than it had before, as he swung on again down the Bowery.
Yes; he knew Chang Foo's—too well. Underground China-
town—where a man's life was worth the price of an opium


152 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 con-
tents 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


DEVIL’S WORK 158
"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, wrin-
kled-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 ex-
pense that the company is able exclusively to gain an entrée
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 ex-
periences” 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.


DEVIL’S WORK 155
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 un-
derworld 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, with-
out 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 es-
cape 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 un-


156 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
steadily 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, Jim-
mie 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 woº
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 furi-
ously.
“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


DEVIL’S WORK 157
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 grasp-
ing 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 an-
other 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 trick-
ling 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 com-
motion—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


158 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 an-
other 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 the:
surprise against the opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale
raced down the passageway. Doors were opening every-
where now, forms were pushing out into the semi-darkne--
—only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale's aut-
matic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead . .
him. And then, behind, the Wowzer's voice shrieked ºr
“Soak him! Kill de guy! He's croaked Dago Jir
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 raci-
as though a Gatling gun were in play with the fusillade •
revolver shots. But Jimmie Dale was at the opening now.—
and, like a base runner plunging for the bag, he flung himse”
in a low dive through and into the open cellar beyond. He
was on his feet, over the boxes, and dashing up the sta-
in a second. The door above opened as he reached the toº—
Jimmie Dale's right hand shot out with clubbed revolver–
and with a grunt Chang Foo went down before the blºs
and the headlong rush. The next instant Jimmie Dale h--
sprung through the tea shop and was out on the street.
A minute, two minutes more, and Chinatown would be -
an uproar—Chang Foo would see to that—and the Wow - -
would prod him on. The danger was far from over x-
And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale gave a little gasp of r-
lief. Just ahead, drawn up at the curb, stood a taxica-
waiting, probably, for a private slumming party. Jimr-r
Dale put on a spurt, reached it, and wrenched the door
open.


DEVIL’S WORK 159
“Quick!" he flung at the startled chauffeur. “The near-
est 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, pant-
ing, 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 cen-
tre 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 memoris-
ing, as it were, snatches of it here and there.


160 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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, Jim-
mie 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 Book-
keeper 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 cafés? If the for-
mer, 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 apartme-
houses, and, apart from a few belated pedestrians, was de-
serted. Jimmie Dale strolled leisurely down one side.
crossed the street at the end of the block, and strolled les-
surely back on the other side—there was no sign of either
Burton or Lannigan. It was a fairly safe presumption the


DEVIL’S WORK 161
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 num-
ber 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 in-
tently, 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 cor-
ners. It was a little sitting room, cheaply but tastefully
furnished, and a young woman, Bookkeeper Bob's wife evi-
dently, 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


162 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 1:
tle 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 an-
other. He straightened up, a bundle of crisp new hundred-
dollar notes in each hand—and on the top of one, slipped un-
der 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 mi-
nute 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 Jim-
mie 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 side-
walk-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.


DEVIL’S WORK 163
“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 1"
“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 combina-
tion 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


164 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
closed now behind him—and on Jimmie Dale's face was a
black silk mask.
For an instant neither man spoke nor moved; then Car-
ling, 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 poss-
tion, his automatic, whipped from his pocket, held a discon-
certing 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


DEVIL’S WORK 165
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 at-
tention, 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-mut-
tered 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, Jim-
mie Dale took the two packages of banknotes, and, still with-
out a word, pushed them across the desk until they lay un-
der 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 cir-


166 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
cumstances, 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 for-
ward over the desk for the telephone. “I'll telephone head-
quarters 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 any-
thing 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


DEVIL'S WORK 167
jaw were quivering, his words rasping, choked with the
sweep of fury that, held back so long, broke now in a pas-
sionate 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 cover-
ing Carling.
“You curl" 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? Roué, 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


168 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
deeper in his chair—a dawning look of terror in the eyes
that held, fascinated, on Jimmie Dale.
“You curl” said Jimmie Dale again. “You cur, with
your devil's work! A year ago you saw this night com-
ing—when you must have money, or face ruin and exposure.
You saw it then, a year ago, the day that Moyne, conceal-
ing 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
hel” 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 mut-
tering.
“I’ll not waste words,” said Jimmie Dale, in his grim
montone. “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 dis-
cover 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 sus-
picion 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 yeº
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'


DEVIL’S WORK 169 |
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 askep 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 circum-
spect 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 your-
self 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 ficti-
tious 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


170 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 h ad huddling into
his shoulders.
"No!" he cried. “I won't—I can't—my God!—I–1–
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 bab-
bling. “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-an-
other. 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


DEVIL's work 171
up the sheet of paper. It was a miserable document, mis-
erably 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 my-
self 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 al-
monds was telltale evidence enough. It was prussic, or hy-
drocyanic 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 care-
fully, 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


172 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
paper seals. He moistened the adhesive side, and, still hold.
ing 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 "crimc."


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. Never-
theless, it was Marlianne's—and Jimmie Dale liked Marli-
anne'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'hôte with win 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 ex-
perience 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, sing-
ing, and the clatter of dishes, reached him:
173


174 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 any-
where 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. Jim-
mie 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 fel-
low 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 dar-
zling, impersonal existence across his path, and the next, leav-
ing him battling for his life where greed and passion and
crime swirled about him, was gone!


176 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
arette, 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 ex-
clamation, 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 bºr-
terly. 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 multi-
tude 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 recog-
nise 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 -
crest: a bell, surmounted by a bishop's mitre—the bell, quare


THE THIEF 177
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: Sonnes le Tocsin.
He straightened up, the glove and ring in his hand, a puz-
zled 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. Sonnes la
Tocsinſ Ring the Tocsin' Sound the alarm! The Tocsinſ
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 vis-
ualise 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 Toc-
sin ! --
He folded the glove very carefully, placed it with the ring


178 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 ap-
peared 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, for-
getting her glove and fearful of risking his attentiºn by at-
tempting 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 Jim-
mie Dale—then he turned impulsively to the letter. All this


THE THIEF 179
was extraneous, apart—for another time, when every mo-
ment 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, deci-
sions 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 rôle, 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 cañon 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 nightstick, 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


THE THIEF 181
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 Mad-
don 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 1
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 at-
tendant's hand, accompanied by an injunction to keep an
eye on the machine, and entered the café.
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
A


182 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 nar-
row 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 busi-
ness 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 him-
self, 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 de-
tails. 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


THE THIEF 183
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 some-
where 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 re-
leased, 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 fighted 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


184 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, un-
natural, 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 door-
way of Isaac's den above. Ramshackle old place, low ceil-
ings. 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 sub-
consciously 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 a 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


THE THIEF 185
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 pur, 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 the 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 rose shrill, then dropped
to a half sob. “No, no, Isaac, I don't mean that. Only,
for God's sake be merciful! It isn't 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,


186 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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. Other-
wise"—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 noth-
ing 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 after-
noon 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


THE THIEF 187
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 l 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 borrow-
ing 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.


188 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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
hand--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


190 THE ADVENTUREs of JIMMIE DALE
the first time, his words coming in a quick, nervous rush.
"Listen! You don't—"
“Hold your tongue!" cried old Isaac, with sudden fierce-
ness. “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!
“Sol" 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 Dal-
He lifted the revolver, its muzzle on old Isaac, examines.
the mechanism thoughfully, 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—"


THE THIEF 191
He stopped—the words cut short off on his lips. It came
without warning—a crash, a pound on the door below—an-
other.
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 pound-
ing 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 vici-
ously 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 neighbour-
hood! It is true, in a moment we will have the police run-
ning in from the street. But wait—wait—I'll teach the fool
a lesson' " He dashed around the table, ran for the win-
dow, 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.


192 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“He's dead,” said Jimmie Dale laconically.
Burton flung out his hands.
“Dead!” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I think I'm go-
ing 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 to-
gether!”
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 togeher," 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. "Sº
down!" He pushed the other into the chair. “There's no
one will disturb us here for some time at least. What is a
that I don't know? That three nights ago you were in a
gambling hell, Sagosto's, to be exact, one of the most dis.
reputable in New York—and you went there on the invi
tation of a stray acquaintance, a man named Perley—sha-
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. |


194 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE D.ALE
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 be-
side 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 hap-
pened. 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 car-
tridges, the blood you saw was the old, old trick—a punc-
tured bladder of red pigment concealed under the vest."


THE THIEF 195
“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 l”
“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


196 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 authori-
ties in every police headquarters on both sides of the At-
lantic, and raved at by a virulent press whose printed re-
productions 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 hand-
kerchief, and pressed it down firmly on the inside of the
cover of the jewel case. He put both cases back in his pock-
ets, 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 corn-
bination of Mr. Maddon's safe?"
"No," said Burton.
"And the safe would be locked, wouldn't it?"
++ Yes."


THE THIEF 197
“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 Mad-
don 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 search-
ingly, 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."


198 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 in-
clined 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"—Jim-
mie Dale pushed it a little farther across the table, and Bur-
ton, mechanically, his eyes still on Jimme Dale, loosened the
catch with his thumbnail—" 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 notori-
ous 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 blunth
“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!"


THE THIEF 199
“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
t --
“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 mo-
ment 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? . . . Per-
sonally, 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


200 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 com-
posure 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 plain-
tive. “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 tempo-
rarily—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 esti-
mable 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 here—and the sooner
you reach Fifth Avenue and Mr. Maddon's house the better.
No; not that way!" They had reached the hall, and Bur-
ton had turned toward the side door that opened on the
alleyway. “Whoever they were who settled their last ac-
count 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 win-
dow 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


THE THIEF - 201
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 gen-
eral appearance leaving the premises. Now keep close—and
follow me.”
They passed the door of Isaac's den, turned down a nar-
row 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 an-
other 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 min-
ute 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 straight-
ened up, slipped the mask from his face to his pocket,
stepped out on the street—and five minutes later was pass-
ing through the noisy bedlam of the Hungarian restau-
rant on his way to the front door and his car.
“Sonner 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
thr MAN HIGHER UP
T HE 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 develop-
ments 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 himsel:
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 care-
fully 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 wire
202


THE MAN HIGHER UP 203
lently, “to discover at the bottom of these abominable at-
trocities 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 rob-
beries, 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. Seem-
ing 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, club-
man, 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 con-
sequences!
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.


204 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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-Kensing-
ton 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 nonappear-
ance 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 noth-
ing had been seen of him at his home, the police were noti-
fied. Followed then several hours of fruitless search, un-
til 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 re-
late, 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


THE MAN HIGHER UP 205
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 cau-
tion 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, incredu-
lity, amazement, and, finally, a strange menace mirroring it-
self 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, unbeliev-
able, mystifying as were the means by which she acquired
her knowledge not only of this, but of countless other af-


206 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
fairs, 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 over-
coat, 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 lim-
ousine.
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
orobably be late to-night."
“Very good, sir," replied the chauffeur.
“You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?" ob-
served 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
SCat.
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


THE MAN HIGHER UP 207
even after he himself had started briskly along the avenue
in a downtown direction. It was invariably the same, al-
ways 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 rôle he was
going to play to-night. That at least was one thing that
surely she did not know about him; the rôle 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 sur-
rounded herself; the rôle, too, that often enough had been
a bulwark of safety to him when hard pressed by the police;
the rôle out of which he had so carefully, so painstakingly
created a now recognised and well-known character of the
underworld—the rôle 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 miser-
able tenement, he glanced sharply behind and about him;
and, at the alleyway itself, without pause, but with a curious
fightning-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 on
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 noise-


THE MAN HIGHER UP 209
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 fea-
tures was not due to the stain alone.
“Dear Philanthropic Crook”—his eyes were on the Toc-
sin'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 writ-
ten. 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 per-
sonnel even of the thugs, all, everything—except the proof.
“Get him, Jimmie—the man higher up. Get him, Jim-
mie—before another pays forfeit with his life”—the words
seemed to leap out at him from the white page in red, danc-
ing 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 frag-
ments. His fingers delved into the box again, and the trans-
formation 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 be-
hind 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


210 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 pro-
tection—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 ven-
geance! He knew Stangeist—not personally; not by the rep-
utation 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 crim-
inals 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 cun-
ning, 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 Stan-
geist.
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 cheekbones, which, with the pro-


212 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 prob-
ably 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 exist-
ence, 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 out-
rages, 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


THE MAN HIGHER UP 218
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, sweep-
ing 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 under-
world, alias Jimmie Dale, the lionised of clubs, the matri-
monial 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 to-
ward 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 even-
ing, 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 Stan-
geist might get back—as for the servants, that did not matter


214 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 lit-
tle 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 al-
ready 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 re-
peat itself over and over again in his mind. The two
little kiddies—it seemed as though he could see them stand-
ing there—and from Jimmie Dale's lips, not given to prº-
fanity, 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 men-
tion, 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 Stance is:
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 “irely.
just as certainly, once that paper was in his prºse--ºn:


THE MAN HIGHER UP 215
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 ex-
ecute it, in his own safe; for, in a day or two, the Tocsin
had hinted at this, after holding it over the heads of Aus-
tralian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane again to drive the
force of it a little deeper home, he would undoubtedly de-
stroy 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, glanc-
ing 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 win-
dow. 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 Tat.
A minute passed—two of them. Again Jimmie Dale lis-
tened. 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


21.6 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 nod-
ded—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 flash-
light played again—this time reflecting back from the glisten-
ing 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


THE MAN HIGHER UP 217
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 flood-
ing a nest of pigeonholes and little drawers. The pigeon-
holes 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 fingers rolled the rounded
end of one of his collection of little steel instruments under
the flap of the envelope, turned the flap back, and drew out
the folded document inside. There were four sheets of legal
foolscap, neatly fastened together at the top left-hand corner
with green tape. He opened them out, read a few words


218 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
here and there, and turned the pages hurriedly over to
scrutinise the last one—and noded 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 dis-
covering 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 like-
wise 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 for-
ever 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


THE MAN HIGHER UP 219
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 kneel-
ing 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 portières, the open
window—and escape. He straightened up, stepped back,
the portières 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 portières, but yet if they were watch-
ing—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


220 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 portiéres.
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 portiºres widened a little more, a very
little more, slowly, imperceptibly, until Jimmie Dale, by the
simple expedient of moving his head, could obtain an un-
obstructed 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


THE MAN HIGHER UP 221
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 Mar-
tindale-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


222 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, grasp-
ing a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended on
Stangeist's head– and Stangeist went down in a limp hean
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 More. pur'e-
faced with race, little black eves glittering, mouth working
under a flattened nose that some nrevious enrºnter tº:
broken and bent over the side of his face, advanced bellig-
erently.


THE MAN HIGHER UP 223
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 portières
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 portières, 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 dawn-
ing intelligence came, and his face, that had been white be-
fore, took on a pasty, grayish pallor.
“You—the three of you!” he mumbled. “What's this
mean?” º
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.


224 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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' hap-
pen 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 for-
ward, “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 to-
ward 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 afernoon, 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 any-
thing happened you she was ter wise up the district attor-
new 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
In ore.
"That's all right," submitted Clarie Deane grimly.
"There's a quarter of that minute gone."


THE MAN HIGHER UP 225
“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, “sup-
pose 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—”


226 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his
eyes for the second time, and, with lips working, went un-
steadily 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 portiºres—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 re-
volver 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 liott--. He heard a thud behind him, still an-


THE MAN HIGHER UP 227
other, and yet a third—they were dropping through the win-
dow 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, run-
ning at top speed. Something that was like a hot iron sud-
denly 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.
* Jimmieſ"
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 auto-
mobile. 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
see your face!"
A bullet split the back panel of the car—little spurting
Harries were dancing out from the roadway behind.
* *


228 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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, jow-
ial-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 of 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 Han-
son. 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,


THE MAN HIGHER UP 229
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 morn-
ing the four where they should be. There were a few arti-
cles 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 1 *


CHAPTER IX
Two crooks and A. RNAVE
HE 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 million-
aire, 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 antic-
ipated 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
2.90.


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 231
an unconscious state, telephoned Jason that he had been un-
expectedly called out of town for a few days, and returned
to the Sanctuary in New York. And here, to his grim dis-
may, 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 Seall” sounding in his ears; with the news-
papers 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 cun-
ning brain had stood as a rampart between the underworld


232 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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”
If 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 Sanctuarv. The
police were bad enough, the papers were worse: but this
was a still graver peril. With every denizen of the under-
world below the dead line suspicious of each other, their
lives, the penitentiary, or a prison sentence the stakes agains
which each one played, the rôle 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 thrºº
slowly the net was beginning at last to tighten around him.
The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered sudden's
as though in acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrir
of Jimmie Dale's shoulders—and Jimmie Dale, bending to
neer into the cracked mirror that was propped up on ºr
broken-legged table, knotted his dress tie almost fastidioerss
The hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar on his


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 233
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 re-
placed 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 dis-
carded.
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


234 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 mar-
ble.
Some one was knocking at the door!
For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale stood motion-
less. 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 uncon-
scious, 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 tº
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 sur-
rounding blackness, stealing across the floor.
Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 235
ceased. He listened intently. It was not repeated. In-
stead, 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 knock-
ing 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 sat-
isfied 1 Jimmie Dale turned the key noiselessly in the lock.
He opened the door cautiously—a half inch—an inch.
There was no sound of footsteps now. Occasionally a lodger
moved about on the floor above; occasionally from some-
where in the tenement came the murmur of voices as from
behind closed doors—that was all. All else was silence and
darkness now.
The door, on its well-oiled hinges, swung wide open. Jim-
mie 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 P 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; gang-
land struck more swiftly, with less finesse than that—the


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 237
Seal to act, another peril invited, would be the last? There
must be an end some day; luck and nerve had their limita-
tions—it had almost ended last week!
“Dear Philanthropic Crook”—it was the same inevitable
beginning. “You are well enough again, aren't you, Jim-
mie?—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 cir-
cumstances—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, speci-
fic 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 prom-
ised now, this might well be the last letter. Who knew?
There would be need of all the wit and luck and nerve to-
raight that the Gray Seal had ever had before.
With a jerk, Jimmie Dale rotised himself from the mo-
rºzentary reverie into which he had fallen: and all action


288 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 oil-
cloth, 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—them
Jhe 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 Riverº-de
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 chauf-
feur, 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 correcte-
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—


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 23.9
past No. 148. At the lower end of the hall a group of peo-
ple 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 an-
other, 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 instru-
ment 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
-traightened intently. The step passed on down the hall-
way and died away. A false alarm! Jimmie Dale smiled


240 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 p-ril 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 pur-
suits, a man most earnestly desired by the police, provided
the latter could catch him “with the goods.” As for Ham-
vert, 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 clair-
had barely got back home before he died, and only in time
to hand his wife the strange legacy of a roughly scrawle:
little piece of paper, and—Jimmie Dale straightened tº
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. *-
tinctly 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 so-
to wash pay-dirt to-night.”
“Aw, dat's all right!" responded another voice—gº-
evidently the Weasel's. “Don’t youse worry—de game -
cinched to a fadeaway.”
There was the sound of chairs being moved acrºss tº
floor. Jimmie Dale slipped the black silk mask over -
face, opened the door on his side of the bathroom cauticº
and, without a sound, stepped into the bathroom that was


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 241
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 con-
cern. 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 in-
side 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


242 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
case to his pocket—and in its stead the blue-black ugly mur-
zle 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 dol-
lare 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"vouse
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
tinkyouse are? D'youse t'ink dis is a tee-ayter, an’ dat youse


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 245
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 pur 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 partic-
ularly dark, objects and surroundings at best were blurred
and indistinct; but that, after all, was a matter of little con-
cern 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 ap-
peared 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, sud-
denly 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 popu-
lar 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 dis-


244 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“That was a bit theatrical, Weasel," he said apologeti-
cally; " 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 bath-
room by which he had entered, but the door of the room ºt-
self 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 in-
ward, 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 en-
trance, passed out—and a moment later, after drawing on
a linen dust coat which he took from under the seat. and ex-
changing 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.


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 245
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 pur 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 partic-
ularly dark, objects and surroundings at best were blurred
and indistinct; but that, after all, was a matter of little con-
cern 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 ap-
peared 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, sud-
denly 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 popu-
lar 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
vide window. Jimmie Dale was figuring the time and dis-


246 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
tance 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 mo-
ment—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. sar-
donic, creeping into his face. The robbery had already Mºre
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 sud-
denly 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!"


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 247
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. Mittell Mr. Mittell” shrieked the maid—she had


248 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 mechan-
ism, 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—Mit-
tel, 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.


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 249
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 for-
ward. 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 re-
ports 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 be-
fore 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 per-
haps a mile ahead, as well as he could judge, the land seemed
to run out into a point. Jimmie Dale headed for it instantly.


250 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 oil-kins 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.


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 251
then another, and another. They were firing in a continuous
stream again. It was fairly long range, but there was al-
ways 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 be-
hind 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!"


252 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 perso-
“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


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 253
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 carry-
ing 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."


254 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 Hamwert.
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 Fºr
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 open-
ing 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


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 255
You were unwilling to turn over the map until you had re-
ceived your share of the money, and you were equally un-
willing to turn it over until you were safe; that is, until you
had engineered your fake robbery even to the point of notify-
ing 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 him-
self 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 pro-
duced 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.


256 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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. “Hamwert
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 thou-
sand 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 lins with the tip of his tongue.
“What do you want?" he whispered hoarsely.
"The balance of the amount." There was an ominous


TWO CROOKS AND A KNAWE 257
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. dis-
reputable in appearance, supposed dope fiend, a figure
familiar to every denizen below the dead line, skulked along
the narrow, ill-lighted street of the Fast Side that, on the
corner ahead, boasted the notorious resort to which Bristul
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
25A


THE ALIBI 259
evening, half-naked children played in the gutters; hawkers
of multitudinous commodities cried their wares under gaso-
line 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 sub-
consciously 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 rôle 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


260 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
certain suspicion, where all were suspicious of each other,
it was to invite certain disaster. He had now either to carry
the rôle 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 rôle 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 replenish-
ment. 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 élite 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 ºn
some other equally notorious dive, he would be sitting ºn
for a rubber of bridge at that most exclusive of all club-- the
St. James, where none might enter save only those whose
names were vouched for in the highest and most select cºr-
cles, 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 soºe-


THE ALIBI 261
thing 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
-martest 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
Ik. “white stones,” that had earned him the sobriquet of
'Whitey.” Lannigan of headquarters, Whitey Mack of
he underworld, sworn enemies those two—in secret session!
3ristol Bob might well play the part of outer guard. If a
hoice few of those outside in the dance hall could get a


262 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE I)ALE
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 fearless-
ness that had made him an object of unholy awe and re-pect
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.


THE ALIBI 263
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—
-ne, 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're found out who the Gray Seal is t”
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—Lan-
nigan 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


264 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 try-
ing 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 par-
lour 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
horn in on. I'd swipe it all myself, don't you make any mis-
take 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!


266 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 pres-
ently emerged into the full tide of the Bowery. It was
garishly lighted; people swarmed about him. Subcon-
sciously, 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: " IT
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 Crºw
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 panºr
spread slowly. His fingers were plucking at the frayed
edge of his inside vest pocket. The dark eyes seemed to tºrm
coal black. A laugh, like the laugh of one damned. rose re
his lips, and was choked back. It was gone! Gone? Tº
thin metal case, like a cigarettº case, that, between the ºrie
sheets of oil paper, held those diamond-shaped, gras-
coloured, adhesive seals, the insignia of the Gray Seal—was
gone! Clew! It seemed as though there were an over-


THE ALIBI 267
powering 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 ob-
vious 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 2 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 per-
sonality 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


268 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, sud-
denly forced themselves in concrete form upon his conscious-
ness. Letters a foot high leaped out at him: "THE DOU-
BLE 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 Sanc-
tuary, became Jimmie Dale and got away again, even ºf
Whitey Mack knew him as Jimmie Dale, there was still a
chance. It was his life or Whitey Mack's—Whitev Mack.
with his lean-jawed, clean-shaven wolf's face! If he cºuld
get Whitey Mack before the other was ready to tell Lanni-
gan! 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


THE ALIBI 269
was there any other way in event of Whitey Mack know-
ing 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 to-
gether—the odds would be two to one against him—and he
had no quarrel with Lannigan—somehow he must let Lanni-
gan 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 2. 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 Brisol 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 Sanc-
tuary 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,


270 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 possi-
bility 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 be-
tween 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 spec-
tre figure, a little blacker than the surrounding darkness.


THE ALIBI 271
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 min-
utes 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 al-
ways 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 go-
ing 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 auto-
matic, from his side pocket, concealed in his hand. Was that
some one there? He could have sworn he saw a shadow-like


272 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
form start out from behind the steps of the house on the op-
posite side of the street as he had emerged from the alley-
way. 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 Bri-tol Rob's.
He kept on down the Bowery, hurrying with growing in-


THE ALIBI 278
patience 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 invol-
untarily 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 pos-
sessed 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, any-
where, 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 use-
less from the instant he had heard her voice. It was always


274 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, every-
thing that was common to them both was at stake, in deasily
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 fol-
lowed; 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 re-
lief in a way to know that it was she, not Whitey Mack.
who had been lurking there; but her persistent, incompre-
hensible 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 can
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 word-
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.


THE ALIBI 275
For once his immobility had forsaken him. He laughed
again—a sort of unnatural, desperate indifference to every-
thing 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 or-
dered a drink. The man returned in a moment, and Jim-
mie 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 mistak-
ing 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,


276 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 so-
ciety 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 com-
bined 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 lit-
erally 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


THE ALIBI 277
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 intrust-
ing 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-glycerine—
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 signifi-
cant! Max Diestricht was scrupulously honest, a genius
in orginality and conception of design, a master in the per-
fection and delicacy of his finished work—he had been com-
missioned 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, follow-
ing 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 be-
gan 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


278 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
scraps of paper in his hand. He thrust them suddenly into
his pocket, and jerked out his watch. It was nearly mid-
night. 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 move-
ment he emptied his glass into the cuspidor, set the glass
back on the table, and stepped out from the stall. His des-
tination 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 quick-
est 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 Wash-
ington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment later, turned
from that thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth Ave-
nue, along one of those streets which, with the city's north-
ward trend, had quite lost any distincitve 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, al-
most 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 Destricht
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.


THE ALIBI 279
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, steped inside, and closed it quietly behind him. The
place was in blackness. He stood for a moment silent, strain-
ing 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 dis-
order, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn with-
out 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 acquaint-
ance 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
scarcly 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. It 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 cur-
tain hanging part way down in front of it, evidently to pro-
tect such things as might be stored away beneath it from


280 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
dust, and Jimmie Dale sprang for it, whipped back the can-
vas, 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 spar-
klers 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 por-
tion 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


THE ALIBI 281
regular, repressed breathing of Whitey Mack, who was much
the nearer of the two men. And, once noticeable, almost im-
perceptible 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 mo-
tionless once more. Time in any concrete sense ceased to
exist. Fancied shapes began to assume form in the dark-
ness. 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, lower-
ing 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 satisfac-
tion, 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


282 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 creep-
ing 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-hºſ”
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 imply
to the floor. Lannigan was floundering down the shop, leap-
ing 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 cocºy
"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


THE ALIBI 283
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 sud-
denly, 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.


284 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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—ex-
cept 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 mught
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 in lignity. 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 stºpped back. The electric-light switch


THE ALIBI 285
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 mes-
senger 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 ºn
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 them-
selves 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 nine more letter came!
º


THE STOOL-PIGEON 287
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 ap-
parent, 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 un-
usually 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 elec-
tric-light switch beside the door, pressed it—and, his finger
still on the buttom, 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 under-
world? 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


288 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 at-
tack! 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! Hºrrº. 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 read-
ing 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


THE STOOL-PIGEON 289
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, trust-
ing 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, Jim-
mie? 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 an-
other 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


290 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE ) \LE
way Still silence. She neither moved nor spol. His hand
dropped slowly to his side. There was a queer, twisted smale
upon his lips.
“You win!” he said hoarsely.
“Thank you, Jimmie," she said simply.
“And your name, who you are"—he was speaking. be
he did not seem to recognise is 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 sup-
pressed 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 eager-
ness.
“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."


THE STOOL-PIGEON 291
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 sen-
tences 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 rea-
son 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.


292 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 some-
where 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. Dur-
ing these eight or nine years he has lived by himself in the
same old family house where he had lived with his parents, in
alonely 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 dementua.
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 trust-
ing 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 calcula-
tion, 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 Conrºe
Myers tried to rob him, but the money was too securely hº-
den. 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, ºn 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 ºn
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 de-
manded wildly. “How do you know all these things?"
"Does that matter now?" she answered tensely. "You


THE STOOL-PIGEON 293
will know that when you know the rest. Oh, don't you un-
derstand, 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 Con-
nie Myers when he could much more easily have been put
out of the way in his own house? Jimmie, there is some-
thing 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 alway settled upon him at her call to arms.
His brain was already at work in its quick, instant way,
robing, sifting, planning. She was right! It was strange,
was more than strange that, with the added risk, the
anger, the difficulty, the man should have been brought
miles to be done away with in that tenement! Why? Connie


294 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 an-
other 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, Jim-
mie, 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


THE STOOL-PIGEON 295
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 con-
crete around him, that he was living through some fantas-
tical 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 ap-
plicable 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 mur-
der under circumstances that pointed strongly to some hid-
den 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,
zot out at Astor Place, and a few minutes later was walking
apidly 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


296 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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. head-
ing 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 Pel.
ham, 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 prac-
ticed, 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 élite 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 en-


THE STOOL-PIGEON 297
trance. 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 evi-
dence 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 hun-
dredfold 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, Jim-
mie Dale, or rather, Larry the Bat, had come to earn Mrs.
Hagan's enmity. He had found Mike Hagan drunk one


298 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 pur-
pose 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, whº
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


800 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 trap-
door 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 de-
molished, 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 bear:
and mustache the man wore would deceive no one who knew
Connie Myers! And that he should be wearing them nos.
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 Jim-
mie Dale could not see his face.


THE STOOL-PIGEON 301
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 1 Mrs. Hagan's husband Mike Hagan 1"
“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 be-
fore 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 im-
portunately, 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 un-
believable but for the evidence before his own eyes now.
The man had faults, brawled enough, and drank enough to


302 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 for-
ward on his face, an inert and huddled heap. A half lauch.
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 Mvers was eagerly collecting handfuls of
banknotes that were rolled up into the shape of little


THE STOOL-PIGEON 303
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 consciousess. 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 pitfully
ironic in the elaborate, insane craftiness of the old man's
fear-twisted, demented mind.


304 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 hypoderms:
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 Par-
pose!” 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. * *-
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 my-
self."
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


THE STOOL-PIGEON 305
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 even-
ing 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 oil 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, l 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.


THE STOOL-PIGEON 307
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


308 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 torm
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? ſh
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 Fºe
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 torm le”
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 e
that he had heard Connie Myers read, seemed to burn itseº
into his brain. “If you want to know who did it. lººk a
Mike Hagan's room on the floor above.” And then, sº
denly, like light through the darkness, came a ray of hºr
He pulled Hagan to the cellarway, and stealthily lifted ºre
side of the double trapdoor. There was a chance, despera-
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 evidenth =
inside. From the road in front showed the lamp glare ºf
their automobile.


THE STOOL-PIGEON 309
“Run for the car!” Jimmie Dale jerked out from be-
tween 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 tele-
phone the contents of the dead man's half of the letter to the
New York police. Could he get to Hagan's room first 1
“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 ques-
tion 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 com-
plete 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 be-
ginning 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 out-
skirts of a town, and off to the right he caught the twinkling
lights of a street car.


THE STOOL-PIGEON 311
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!”


312 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 hand-'
“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


THE STOOL-PIGEON 318
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 Dale
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, reach-
ing 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 up-
right 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!”


814 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Iarry 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 out-
rage, 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
HISPERINGS1 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 gar-
ments. 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 be-
side 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 in-
teresting 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.
315


BELOW THE DEAD LINE 317
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 flutter-
ing 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 pur-
pose 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 under-
world'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


318 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 over-
head came occasionally the muffled tread of feet. He feº
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 stºl
listening. There was nothing—not a sound. He tried the
door cautiously. It was locked. The slim, sensitive. taper-
ing fingers of Jimmie Dale, unrecognisable now in the gri-
digits of Larry the Bat, felt tentatively over the lock. He
fingers that seemed in their tips to possess all the hu-
senses, that time and again in their delicate touch upon the
dial of a safe had mocked at human ingenuity and drive
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


BELOW THE DEAD LINE 819
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 un-
usual excitement in the neighbourhood. From open win-
dows above him and from adjoining houses came the
ordinary, commonplace sounds of voices talking and laugh-
ing, 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 him-
self, 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


320 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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."
“It'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. Slong, 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 élite of gangland, and, with a somewhat arrogan:
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 be-
low 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


BELOW THE DEAD LINE 321
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 gather-
ing. 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 Tocsinſ
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,


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, illumina-
ting the miserable, squalid room—the Sanctuary—the home
of Larry the Bat. There was need for silence, need for can-
tion. 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 poºrt
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 ring-
ing 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 re-
ceive this, if all goes well, you shall know everything-
everything. Who I am-yes, and my name. It has been
3.24.


THE CALL TO ARMS 325
more than three years now, hasn't it? It has been in-
comprehensible 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, Jim-
mie, 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, “Sonnes 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 tele-
phone 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 ab-
solutely.”


826 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 oil-
cloth, and lifted up the loose plank in the flooring, so in-
nocently dustladen, as, more than once, to have eluded the
eyes of inquisite 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 re-
moved 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 met-
amorphosis that had taken place—the coarse, brutal-fra-
tured, blear-eyed, leering countenance of Larry the Bat was
gone, and in its place, clean-cut, square-jawed, clear-ened.
was the face of Jimmie Dale. And where before had
slouched a slope-shouldered, misshapen, flabby creature. -
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


THE CALL TO ARMS 327
himself critically, methodically, and, with a nod of satisfac-
tion, 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 de-
stroyed, 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!” for-
ever 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 bar-
riers 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 piti-
less 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,


328 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 expo.e him
to the risk. Risk! Was there any risk that the Gray Seal
had not taken, and at her instance! He did not under-
stand. 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 ac-
knowledged 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 lead
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,


THE CALL TO ARMS 329
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 direc-
tion, swung in to the curb.
“Taxi, sir? Yes, sir?” Then, with an admirable min-
gling of eagerness to secure the fare and a fear that his con-
fession 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.


330 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"I'm afraid I've been watched," he said tersely. "Los
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 set.
tled 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 mur-
vellous, 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 Broad-
Way,
“About the same distance behind," Jimmie Dale an-
swered.
“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 slºp
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 tº
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 CALL TO ARMS 831
The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speed-
ing up faster and faster, began to tear down Lower Broad-
way.
“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 chauf-
feur.
“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.”


THE CRIME CLUB 835
There was a chill now where before there had been re-
assurance, something ominous in the very quiet and refine-
ment 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 fright-
fully! 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 watch-
ing 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 un-
derstand. 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 in-


836 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
trude. 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 tax-
cab."
Jimmie Dale's smile was equally polite, equally depre-
cating.
“I fail to see how it could be of the slightest possible in-
terest to you,” he replied. “However, I have no objection
to telling you. I hailed the taxi at the corner of Sixth Ave-
nue 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 Broad.
way 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. “Never.
theless I told the man to drive me to the St. James Club
We came across Waverly Place, but on reaching Broad.
way, 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 kno-
vet 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 *
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!"
-


THE CRIME CLUB 837
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 owner-
ship of the taxicab you so inadvertently entered they
will have no difficulty in establishing—you, perhaps, how-
ever, are in a better position than I am to appreciate the fact
that the establishment of its ownership will lead them no-
where. 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 disas-
ter, 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
1ay 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


838 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 irºn
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, ex-
amined 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 mistak-
ing 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 !
do not wish to be theatrical about this, but we do not trº-
porise here. You will either answer both of those que-twº
to my satisfaction, or you will never leare this place are "
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 mºv
freedom at a price. A sort of up-to-date game of holdº'
The penalty of being a wealthy man! If you had named


THE CRIME CLUB 839
your figure to begin with, we would have saved a lot of idle
talk, and you would have had my answer the sooner: Noth-
ing!”
“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 thresh-
old, 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


340 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 ex-
aggerated 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 portières. 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 pow:r and re-
source at our command, and also with the class of men
with whom you are dealing. There is not one among as
whose education is not fully equal to your own; not one.
indeed, but who is chosen, granting first his criminal ten-
dencies, 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


THE CRIME CLUB 341
organisation. Quite so, Mr. Dale. I only ask you to con-
sider 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 ap-
proximate 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, extend-
ing the entire length of the room.
“The wall is purely a matter of mechanical construc-
tion, operated hydraulically.” The man was speaking softly
at Jimmie Dale's side. “The room beneath is built to corre-
spond; the base, ceiling, and wall mouldings here do not have
to be very ingenious to effect a disguise. I might say, how-
ever, 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,


3:2 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 pro-
cured 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 in-
stance, 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 pleas-
antry. “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," con-
tinued the other, “only, instead of one drop, three are re-
quired. 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 descrip-
tion, 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 is
evening dress, all masked, in the room with him.
A wave of the leader's hand, and the two men carrying


344 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
They still stood before the door. There was that un-
canny silence again—it seemed to Jimmie Dale to last in-
terminably. 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
HERE was not a sound. That stillness, weird, unnerv-
ing, that permeated, as it were, everywhere through
that mysterious house, was, if that were possible, accen-
tuated 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 func-
tions, 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!
345


346 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 co-
mand, 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 regree
to admit that your pseudo taxicab driver was so ill-advised
as to refuse to answer the same questions that I have pº
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 ful
glass out of that man's hand, and gain the door, then per-
haps—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 rôle 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 smir


THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER 847
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 con-
scious, 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 im-
mediately 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 ap-
palling force the realisation of his position. He was stand-
ing 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


848 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 be-
longs, 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 s
the act of—a fool. Now—your answer!"
"I have answered you," said Jimmie Dale—and, relax
ing the muscles in his arms, let them hang limply for as
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 ar-
tion. The limp arms tautened into steel as he wrenched their
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 back-
ward, 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 of—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 se!
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 be
fore 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 the


THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER 349
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
his 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 phys-
ical, 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 remem-
bered! It took more than one drop for a man; and besides,
this was diluted. One drop had no effect on a man; it re-
quired 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 him-
self 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 con-
fused.
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


350 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Eps.
Some of the contents spilled and trickled upon his chº
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 in
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 cleare
He roused up with a startled exclamation. He was back
in the same room in which he had first returned to cº-
sciousness after the accident. He was on the same couch
The same masked figure was at the same desk. Had be
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 torm.
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


THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER 351
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 pres-
ence in the taxicab was only suspicious. There was always
the possibility that you might be one of those ubiquitous ‘in-
nocent bystanders.’ Your name, your position, the improb-
ability 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,


352 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE I). ALE
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 sicken-
ing impotence. It was as though he stood defenceless, ºn-
armed, 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 ar-
mistice. 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, pre-
monitory intuition that, in some way which he could nºt
explain, the honours were not entirely his.
He was apparently—the "apparently" was a mental res.
ervation—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 hºtº
sarcastically at himself for his trouble. It was unloaded.


CHAPTER V
on Guard
AS 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 momen:
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 ac-
centuated 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 can
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 nose
whatever-even if the car had not been persistently swerv-
ing and changing its course every little while. If he had
been able to form even an approximate idea of the compas
304


ON GUARD 355
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, re-
morselessly 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 in-
stead, the hours since then, had brought a nightmare of
events so incredible as to seem but phantoms of the imagina-
tion.
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.


356 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Jimmie Dale was scarcely conscious of the act. With
that face before him, with the scene reenacting 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 fathed
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 dº
of poison had passed the chauffeur's lips. The man had nºt
been murdered in that room. He had not. in a sense. ber-
murdered at all. The man, absolutely, unquestionably, with-
out a loophole for doubt, had either been killed outricº
in the automobile accident, or had died immediately after-
ward, probably without regaining consciousness, certainly
without supplying any of the information that was so de-
terminedly sought.
Yes, he saw it now! Their backs were against the was.
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 be-
fore they had wormed out of him what they wanted to know.
or, at least, until, by holding him a prisoner, they had ex-
hausted 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 ºr
intuitive sense, that they were in the country. Well, evº


ON GUARD 857
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 desti-
nation 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 de-
liberately 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 chauf-
feur 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 con-
vincing, 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,


358 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Jim-
mie 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 vital,
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 broº
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 elaborateº
and scientifically equipped for their monstrous purpose."
And then Jimmie Dale, in the darkness, smiled agº.
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 enroº
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 =
dozen other things, believing that it only remained for h=
to return and destroy them at his leisure as a finishing toº
to the Gray Seal's career—and now, instead, he was face tº
face with the gravest and most dangerous problem that *
had ever called upon him to undertake!


ON GUARD 359
Well, at least, the odds were not all in the Crime Club's
favour. Where they now certainly believed him to be en-
tirely off his guard, he was thoroughly on his guard; and
where they might suspect him, watch him, they would sus-
pect 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 satis-
factorily 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 irrita-
tion 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


860 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 co-
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
HAP 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 esti-
mate, 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
361


362 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 softh.
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 of the
light; then stood hesitant in the darkness. Was there any-
thing to be gained by rousing Jason now and telling him what
he intended to do—to instruct him to answer any inquires
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 Tocsºn'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: be
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 2 He would not be able
to get back as easily as he got out! Money! He shoº.


THE TRAP 863
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 still-
ness, 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 fasten-
ings! 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 beforel 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


364 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 wreh-
out 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 nº
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 merry
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 de-
manded 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!"


THE TRAP 365
“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 show-
ing 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
-verything 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


THE TRAP 367
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 any-
thing.”
“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.”


THE TRAP 369
through forever with his dual life, that would not have mat-
tered, the underworld would have been welcome to make
what it chose of it—but now the preservation of the char-
acter of Larry the Bat was more vital and necessary to him
than it had ever been before. It as 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 watch-
ing, 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 black-
ness, 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 ordi-
nary 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 Jim-
mie 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.


THE TRAP 871
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 some-
where 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 be-
gan to grew, to take form and shape in his mind, to dove-
tail, to knit the integral parts into a comprehensive whº
There was a way—but he must have assistance. Jason—
yes, assuredly. Benson, his chauffeur—yes, equally as trust-
worthy 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 waſ
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, mingºing.
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
72


THE “HOUR " 373
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 ner-
vous 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
fearf 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


374, THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 verdºr:
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 engage-
ment 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 be-
fore, 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 fol-
lowing 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


THE “HOUR " 375
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 whim-
sically, 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-mor-
row 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,


376 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
displayed more money than was wise in that East Side neigh-
bourhood."
* I remember,” said Benson, with a sudden start: the
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 a
watched. For reasons that I cannot explain, I am in grea:
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 coº
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 nº
here in my bed, ill. That, Jason, is your task. "You wº
allow no one to wait on me but yourself; you will bring the
meal trays up regularly—and eat the food yourself. Yoº
will answer all inquiries, telephone and otherwise, in per-
son—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 shoºt
know and be able to recognise you again—to disabuse threr
minds later on of the possibility that I might be masquerad.
ing in your clothes; and also, of course, that they should
know who you were, and what your position was in the house-
hold. Very well! To-night, at eight o'clock exactly, wou are
to go out frºm the back door of the house to the rarape


THE “HOUR '' 377
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 diffi-
culty in finding it again, move about a little to force any one
that may be lurking by the garage to retreat around the cor-
ner. 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 natu-
rally. 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, ex-


378 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
cept 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, Ben-
son?”
“Yes, sir,” said Benson earnestly.
“Very well, then,” said Jimmie Dale. “Eight o'clock
to the dot, Benson—compare your time with Jason's An:
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 tram
“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, Maste
Jim, sir”—the old man twisted his hands nervously—" 1–
you'll excuse my saying so, sir—I do hope you'll be caref=
to-night, sir. I can't help being afraid that something:
happen to you, Master Jim.”
“Nonsense, Jason!” Jimmie Dale laughed cheerfuß,
“There's nothing going to happen—to me! You go aba-
now and stay with the servants, and get them out of the roº
at the proper time.”
He bathed, dressed, ate his dinner, and was slipping car.
tridges into the magazine of his automatic when, within a
minute or two of eight o'clock, Jason's whisper came frº-
the doorway.
“It's all clear now, Master Jim, sir."
“Right!" Jimmie Dale responded—and followed Jas
down the stairway, and to the head of the cellar stairs.
Here Jason halted.
“God keep you, Master Jim!" said the old man husº
“Good-night, Jason," Jimmie Dale answered softly: an-
with a reassuring squeeze on the other's arm, went on doºr
to the cellar.
Here he moved quickly, noiselessly across to the window-
not the window of the night before, but another of the same


380 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 accomo-
date themselves to your new speed. You are going too fast
for me to jump, and I don't want them to notice any chance
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 *
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 Tirº.
mie 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 nonchalanº
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 rº
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 finaº
reached the Bowery, and, walking then, rapidly approache:
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 herº"
In a few moments he would be at the Sanctuary; in a few


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 Jim-
mie 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 brai-
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
38.2


THE TOCSIN 383
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 pur-
chase of her pitiful wares!
He laughed a little—buoyantly. He had never pictured a
first meeting such as this! A hag 2 Yes! And one as dis-
reputable 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 ac-
quired 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 mys-
tery no more!
Ah! She had turned from the Bowery, and was heading
east. He shuffled on after her, guardedly, a half block be-
hind. It was well that Jimmie Dale had disappeared, that
he was Larry the Bat again—the neighbourhood was grow-
ing 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 su-
preme moment of his life. Yes, it was that—the fulfill-
ment 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


384 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
in the almost total darkness of the ill-lighted street, a small
and tumble-down, self-contained dwelling that bordered or
what seemed to be an unfenced store yard of some descrip-
tion. 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 o'
some strange, exhilarating elixir–he reached her sºde
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, cº-
scious 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 cº,
Jimmie, what have I done! What have I done to bring
you into this—only—only—I was so sure, so sure, Jimmºr.
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 hea
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 ºn
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. hthe
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 up-
him, as though all the world were at his feet, and viriley,
and a great, glad strength above all other men's, and a sºr
was in his soul, a song triumphant-for she was his'
"You!" he cricq out—and strained her to him. "You!"


THE TOCSIN 385
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 be-
cause 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, Jim-
mie, 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.


CHAPTER IX
THE TOCSIN’s STORY
ASALLE! The old French name! That old French
inscription on the ring: “Sonneg le Tocsin!” Yes;
he began to understand now. She was Marie LeSalle! He
began to remember more clearly.
Marie LaSalle! They had said she was one of the most
beautiful girls who had ever made her entrée into New
York society. But he had never met her—as Marie La-
Salle; 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 for-
gotten 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
389


390 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 Jºn-
mie 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 compara-
tive 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 birth-
day. It provided for a certain sum each year to be paid
to my uncle for his services as executor; and at the ex-
piration 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, hesitat-
ing 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 clever-
ness 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 de-
tant connections in France, from where, generations back.


THE TOCSIN'S STORY 391
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 ordi-
narily attached to each other. Letters passed regularly be-
tween 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 con-
sequently 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 Aus-
tralian 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 de-
cided 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 con-
tinued 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


396 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
‘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. Every.
thing went black for a moment before my eyes. It was the
first suspicion I had had that my father had met with foºd
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 a-
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 yo-
not see something of that laboratory in the Crime Club your
self the night before last—enough to understand?"
“Good God!” muttered Jimmie Dale, in a startled was
then: “Go on! Go on! What happened then?"
She passed her hand a little wearily across her eyes—sº
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 hard -
another murder—in hers! My God, I won't—I won't. I tº
you! It's horrible!”
“‘Look here, you fool!' the man who was posing as rº
uncle broke in then. “You're in this too deep to get ºr
now. If you know what's good for you, you'll do as yº-
told 1."
“Jimmie, I shall never forget Travers' face. It see-
to have changed from white to gray, and there was bºr-
in his eyes; and then he seemed to lose all control of *-


THE TOCSIN'S STORY 397
self, 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 hap-
pened 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


398 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 with-
out 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 LeSalle, 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
hand 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 sup-
posed of embezzling from father on a large scale. Then
father died, and Travers was instructed to cable my uncle.


THE TOCSIN'S STORY 399
. 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, in-
genious 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, ap-
peared 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 fur-
nished 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


400 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 woºd
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 ques-
tioning 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 abso-
lute, 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 be-
lieve 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 in-
fluential 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. *
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


THE TOCSIN'S STORY 401
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, un-
known 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 dis-
appear 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, tell-
ing 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 consider-
able sum, into cash. And then, Jimmie, I came to-this.
I have lived like this and in different disguises, as a settle-
ment 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
hings that I wrote to the Gray Seal, how the life that I
ave led, how this life here in the underworld, how the con-
tant search for some clew on my own account brought
hem to my knowledge; and you can understand now, too.
why I never dared to let you meet me, for I knew well


402 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 com-
ing, 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 res:
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 orgart
sation 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 nº
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."


SILVER MAG 407
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 eccen-
tricity. 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 La-
Salle. I told them that he had had me arrested for some-
thing I never stole while I was working for him as a char-
woman, 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 eccentric-
ity 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 re-
sult 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. “Won-
derful! 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 accom-
plices. He must have been We would be blind fools to
argue against it! It could not, on the face of it, have been
otherwise!”


408 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 in-
clined 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. Thrºugh 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 saftey-deposit vault, perhaps, that he has taken some-
where," 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 *.
readily accessible—and at any hour. Now go over every.
thing 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.


410 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
He was beside her now, his hands pressed upon her shoul-
ders, his face flushed.
“Box number four-two-eight!" He laughed out hyster-
cally 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 under-
ground 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. Teſ.
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 regis-
tered 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


THE MAGPIE 413
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 Magº 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 preeminence the Mag-
pie, 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 for-
ward 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 be-
fore, “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 petu-


414 THE ADVENTU'RES OF JIMMIE DALE
lantly. “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 saw
youse can take it from me dat mabbe youse'll be glad I bºrº
around. I was lookin' fer a guy about yer size fer a little jº
to-night, an' I was t'inkin' of lettin' Young Dutchy in on e
but seein' 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 Mag-
pie 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 Mag-
pie 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 fer.
vency—and stared, anxiously expectant, at the Magpie
"Sure, I'm on, Slimmy! Sure, I am! Cut it loose! Spº
de story!"
“Well, den," said the Magpie, "I wants—"
“Youse ain't through yet!" interrupted the Tocsin tarº


THE MAGPIE 417
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 Mag-
pie 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, Magº 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 trucu-
lently. “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, ques-
tioning, 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 tinkin' 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 Toc-
sin.
“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.


418 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“I ain't never drawed plans," she said anxiously
“Mabbe"—she glanced at Jimmie Dale—"mabbe I during
how to do it right.
“Aw, go ahead!" nodded Larry the Bat. "Youse car
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 a-
Mag. Just mark de rooms out on de first floor, an de
basement. Youse can explain wot youse 're doin' as yourse
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 chºn
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, photo-
graphing every detail of the plan in his mind. And as he
watched, there seemed something that was near to the arme
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 proj.
ected theft—of her own money! How far would he ºr
the Magpie go? He did not know. Perhaps—who coºd
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 custodia-
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 awaº
with it! On the other hand, if he failed at Spider Jack".
if, after all, he was wrong, and the package had never bers
there, or if they had forestalled him, turned the trick upº
him, already secured it, then–Larry the Bat's lips, wºrk -º
on his cigarette, formed in a twisted smile—then, well tº


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 mid-
night!
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-whºr
equally strong was the cold, stubborn logic that bade him ge
first to the Sanctuary. There were things that he needed
there that would probably be absolutely essential to him be-
fore 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—depend.
ing 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 earºº
midnight though it was: though, on the other hand ºf
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 -
422


JOHN JOHANSSON.—FOUR-TWO-EIGHT 423
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 floor-
ing 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 be-
side 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 re-
placed, 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


JOHN JOHANSSON.—FOUR-TWO-EIGHT 425
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 win-
dows 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 cir-
cumstances. 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


426 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 sud-
denly—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 orderºy
enough in appearance, bare-floored, with boxes and packing
cases piled neatly against the walls. In one corner a stair-
case 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 surround-
ings. 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 fore-
gone 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 tºta-
tively 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 combºne
a sort of office, with a lounging room, in which Spider Jack
no doubt, entertained his particular cronics. There was a
table in the centre, cards still upon it, chairs about it


JOHN JOHANSSON–FOUR-TWO-EIGHT 427
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 pur-
pose 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 in-
stant, 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, un-
wieldy 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


428 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
back inside again. For an instant he did not move, and them
a queer, hard, mirthless smile drew down the corners of his
mouth. With a sort of bitter, expectant nod of his head be
turned the light upon the door of the safe. Yes, there were
the scratches that the tools had left; and, as though in sar-
donic jest, the holes, where the steel bit had bored, were
plugged with putty and rubbed over with some black sub-
stance 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 minº
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 at
critical would disclose immediately what had been done."
Why should they need to cover their tracks at all; or, if a
was necessary, why, above all, in such a pitifully inadequate
way! His mind harked back to the same ghastly refrain—
“the game was up!"
Not 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


JOHN JOHANSSON.—FOUR-TWO-EIGHT 429
that chance, and one thing was grimly certain—Spider Jack
would, at least, show him where the package had been 1
And then, halfway to the door, he halted suddenly, and
stood still—listening. An electric bell was ringing loudly,
imperiously, somewhere upstairs. Followed almost im-
mediately 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 door-
way 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 door-
way, 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—dream-
ing? 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 1
“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.


430 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
The chauffeur lowered his voice a little.
“I suppose we're alone here, eh, Spider? Yes? Wel
then, you know what I've come for—that package—Marvin
and Stead, here, are the ones that are in on it with me. Ge:
it for me, will you, Spider?"
“Sure—Mr. Johansson!" Spider grinned. "Sure"
Come on into the back room and make yourselves cº-
fortable. 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 re-
fuse its functions. Travers, the chauffeur—alitºr? He drew
in his breath sharply. That curtain in the corner! He mºst
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 be.
hind him, waved them toward the chairs around the table
"I'll just ask you gents not to leave the room," he sand
meaningly, over his shoulder, as he stepped toward the rear
door. “It's kind of a fad of mine to keep some things ever
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 wº
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


432 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
been too close a call. After we've had a look at it. we'll per
it out of harm's way on the spot, here, while we've got *-
before we leave!”
He ripped the package open, and disclosed perhaps a doºrs
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 terseh
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 them
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 fare. At least. that was
left to him—perhaps the master trump of all. It would nº
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 tº "
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 donr 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.


THE ONLY WAY 435
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 sur-
roundings, 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,


THE ONLY WAY 439
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 l”
“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 base-
ment 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 in-
nocently—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.


440 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“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 vitably
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 P"
“Yes—by the side away from the corner of the street."
she said tremulously. “You see, there's quite a space be-
tween 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 thº
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, whis-
pering: “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. An-
other, 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.


CHAPTER XIV
OUT OF THE DARKNESS
AMQMENT later, Jimmie Dale stepped forward through
the vestibule. He was quite calm now: a sort of coºd.
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 per-
haps 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 ºn-
stead! 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 ha
chance! The man might be a criminal, might deserve punish-
ment at the hands of the law, his liberty might be a menace
to the community—but he was not a murderer, his life forte:
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 alto-
gether! 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
442


OUT OF THE DARKNESS 447
whispers in his ears! It must be those imagined whispers
that were affecting his nerve—for now, as he gained the land-
ing 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 be-
wilderment 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 de-
tails. 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 unnecesary 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!


448 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
He went on once, more, still guiding himself by a lºgº
finger touch upon the wall, passed another portiere simula:
to the first, and, after that, another—and finally stopped tº
bringing up abruptly against the end wall of the house. --
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 porteres
He parted it, and, a little to his surprise, found a window
that was not shuttered, but that, instead, was heavily barre-
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 describeſ
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—be
dropped the portière and faced around, carrying his hand a
a nonplused way to his eyes—but here, upstairs, within the
house, it was not as she had said it was at all! What dº:
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 be
meant to do—and taken this means of defeating it? If so-
well, it was too late for that now! There was one way—ory
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 roundſ. whº
ray shot down the corridor—seemed suddenly to falter us
steadily—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 portiºres, the


452 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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 horse
now. Not many of them, if any, would lite here, for ros-
stant, 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 ſºm-
mie 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 disad-
vantage 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. Al-
ways that sense of danger around him-the tense, bated


RETRIBUTION 453
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 be-
tween each step, he was crossing the room. He was half-
way 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 fin-
gers 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!


462 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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, wrests.
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 Magpº-
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 Move, 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!


464 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
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. Bet-
ter, 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 frantºr
haste, from face, hands, wrists, and neck came the stan
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 eha-
sive and yet so intimately a part of his life, she was stand-
ing 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 creak-
ing 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 in-
side till he shows up."
It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gan-
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 dol-
lars! No, they were not likely to forget the affair of the
pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to for-


466 THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
—and not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the riot call in.
there would probably be a battle—for the Gray Seal! Sub-
lime 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 re-
main 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 be-
fore either firemen or police could thwart them. He, Jim-
mie 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 chang of
bells, the roar and rattle of fire apparatus, strident voices