THE FURTHER
ADVENTURES
ОЕ
JIMMIE DALE
OV
FRANK L.PACKARD


AL 2012.19
SHORT
STORY
COLLECTION

IPITIXARD PRESCOTT
Harvard College Library
THE BEQUEST OF
WINWARD PRESCOTT








THE FURTHER ADVENTURES
OF JIMMIE D A L E
BY FRANK L. PACKARD





The Further Adven-
tures of Jimmie Dale
By FRANK L. PACKARD
AUTHOR OF
“The Adventures of Jimmie Dale,”
“The Wire Devils,”
“The Sin that was His,” Etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York
Published by arrangement with George H. DORAN COMPANY


AL : fizolo
HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY
BEQUEST OF
WINWARD PRESCOTT
JANUARY 27, 1933
COPYRIGHT, 1919,
BY GEORGE E. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916, 1917, BY THE
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
.
. 19
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.
115
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131
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148
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58
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I SMARLINGHUE . . . . . . . .
II THE WARNING . . . . . . . .
III THE MAN WITH THE SCAR . . .
IV THE DIAMOND PENDANT . . .
V “DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” .
VI THE REAABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT .
VII THE BOND ROBBERY · · · ·
VIII AT HALFPAST ONE . . . . . .
IX 'WARE THE WOLF! . .
.
X THE CHASE . . . . . . . .
XI THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD
XII IN THE SANCTUARY. ..
XIII THE SECRET Room . .
XIV THE LAST CARD . . . . . . .
XV CAUGHT IN THE ACT
XVI ONE CHANCE IN TEN ..
XVII THE DEFAULTER . .
XVIII ALIAS ENGLISH DICK . . . . .
XIX THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XX THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP
XXI SILVER MAG . . . . .
XXII ThÐ Tocsin's STORY . . . . . .
XXIII HUNCHBACK JOE . . . . . . . .
XXIV AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE . . . .
·
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72
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. 184
199
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.................
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219
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233
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244
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2
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. 296
. 311
. 330





THE FURTHER ADVENTURES
OF JIMMIE DALE





THE FURTHER ADVENTURES
OF JIMMIE DALE
CHAPTER I
SMARLINGHUE
A DIMINUTIVE gas-jet's sickly, yellow flame illu-
A minated the room with poverty-stricken inadequacy;
high up on the wall, bordering the ceiling, the moonlight,
as though contemptuous of its artificial competitor,
streamed in through a small, square window, and laid
a white, flickering path to the door across a filthy and
disreputable rag of carpet; also, through a rent in the
roller shade, which was drawn over a sort of antiquated
French window that opened on a level with the floor and
in line with the top-light, the moonlight disclosed a
narrow and squalid courtyard without.
In one corner of the room stood a battered easel,
while against the wall near it, and upon the floor, were
a number of canvases of different sizes. A cot bed,
unmade, its covers dirty and in disorder, occupied the
wall space opposite the door. In the centre of the mean
and uninviting apartment stood a table, its top littered
with odds and ends, amongst which the remains of a
meal, dishes and food, fraternised gregariously with a
painter's palette, brushes and paint tubes. A chair or
two, long since disabled, and a rickety washstand com-
pleted the appointments.


10
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
The moonlight's path across the floor wavered sud
denly, the door opened, was locked again, and with a
quick, catlike step a man moved along the side of the
wall where the shadows lay thickest near the door,
dropped on his knees, and began to fumble hurriedly with
the base-board of the wall, pausing at every alternate
second to listen intently.
A minute passed. A section of the base-board was
lifted out, the man's hand was thrust inside and
emerged again with a large roll of banknotes. He turned
his head for a quick glance around the room, his eyes,
burning out of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, pallid face, held
on the torn window shade—and then, in almost frantic
haste, he thrust the banknotes back inside the wall, and
began to replace the base-board. But it was not the
window shade, nor yet the courtyard without with which
he was concerned—it was the sound of a heavy footstep
outside the door.
And now the door was tried. The man on the floor,
working with desperate energy to replace the base-board,
coughed in an asthmatic, wheezing way, as there came
the imperative smashing of a fist upon the door panels,
coupled with a gruff, curt demand for admittance.
Again the man coughed—to drown perhaps the slight
rasping sound as the base-board slid back into place-
and, rising to his feet, shuffled hastily to the door and
unlocked it.
The door was Aung violently open from without, a
heavy-built, clean-shaven, sharp-featured man stepped
into the room, slammed the door shut behind him, re-
locked it, and swept a shrewd, inquisitive, suspicious
glance about the place.
"It took you a damned long time to open that door,
Mister Smarlinghue!” he said sharply.


SMARLINGHUE
The man addressed touched his lips with the tip of his
tongue nervously, shrank back, and made no reply.
The lapel of the visitor's coat thrown carelessly back
displayed a police shield on the vest beneath; and now,
completing a preliminary survey of the surroundings,
the man's eyes narrowed on Smarlinghue.
"I guess you know who I am, don't you? Heard of
me perhaps, too-eh? Clancy of headquarters is my
name !" He laughed menacingly, unpleasantly.
Smarlinghue's clothes were threadbare and i!l-fitting;
his coat was a size too small for him, and from the short
sleeves protruded blatantly the frayed and soiled wrist-
bands of his shirt. He twined his hands together anx-
iously, and retreated further back into the room.
"I haven't done anything, honest to God, I haven't !"
he whined.
"Ain't, eh?” The other laughed again. "No, of course
not! Nobody ever did! But now I'm here just
dropped in socially, you know I'll have a look around.”
He began to move about the room. Smarlinghue, still
twining his hands in a helpless, frightened way, still
circling his lips nervously with the tip of his tongue,
followed the other's movements in miserable apprehen-
sion with his eyes.
Clancy, as he had introduced himself, shot up the
roller shade, peered out into the courtyard, yanked the
shade down again with a callous jerk that almost tore it
from its fastenings, and strode over toward the easel,
contemptuously kicking a chair that happened to be in
his way over onto the floor. Reaching the easel he picked
up the canvas that rested upon it, stared at it for a
moment-and with a grunt of disdain flung it away from
him to the ground.
There was a crash as it struck the floor, a ripping


12
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
sound as the canvas split, and with a pitiful cry Smar-
linghue rushed forward and snatched it up.
"It-it was sold,” he choked. “I-I was to get the
money to-morrow. I have had bad luck for a month
nothing sold but this—and now—and now " He
drew himself up suddenly, and, with the ruined painting
clutched to his breast, shook his other fist wildly. “You
have no right here!” he screamed in fury. “Do you hear!
I have not done anything! I tell you, I have not done
anything! You have no right here! I will make you pay
for this! I will! I will!” His voice was rising in a
shrill falsetto. “I will make you— ".
“You hold your tongue,” growled Clancy savagely, “or
I'll give you something more than an old chromo to
make a row about! I don't want any mass meeting of
your kind of citizens. Get that?" He caught Smarling-
hue roughly by the shoulder, and pushed him into a chair
near the table. "Sit down there, and close your jaw!"
Cowed, Smarlinghue's voice dropped to a mumble,
and he let the torn canvas slip from his fingers to the
floor.
Clancy laughed gruffly, pulled another chair to the
opposite side of the table, sat down himself, and eyed
Smarlinghue coldly for a moment.
"Sold it, eh?” he observed grimly. "How much were
you going to get for it?”.
A cunning gleam flashed in Smarlinghue's eyes and
vanished instantly. He wet his lips with his tongue
again.
"Ten dollars," he said hoarsely.
Clancy brushed aside the litter on the table, and non-
chalantly laid down a ten-dollar bill.
With a sharp little cry that brought on a fit of cough-
ing, Smarlinghue stretched out his hand for the money
cagerly.


SMARLINGHUE
tel!
Clancy drew the money back out of reach.
"Oh, no, nothing like that!” he drawled unpleasantly.
“Don't make the mistake of taking me for a fool. I'm
not buying any ten-cent art treasures at ten dollars a
throw !”
Smarlinghue's eyes remained greedily riveted on the
ten-dollar note. He began to twine his hands together
once more.
"I don't know what you mean," he muttered tremu-
lously.
"Don't you!" retorted the other shortly. “Well, I
mean exactly what I say. I'm not buying any pictures,
I'm buying—you. I have been keeping an eye on you for
the last three or four months. You're just the guy I've
been looking for. As far as I can make out, there ai i't
a dive or a roost in the Bad Lands where you don't get
the glad hand-eh?”
"I—I haven't done anything! Not a thing! I-I
swear I haven't !” Smarlinghue burst out frantically.
"Aw, forget it!” Clancy permitted a thin smile to
flicker contemptuously across his lips. “You've got a
whole lot of friends that I'm interested in. Get the idea ?
There ain't a crook in New York that's shy of you.
You got a 'stand-in' everywhere.” He held up the ten-
dollar bill. “There's more of these-plenty of 'em.”
Smarlinghue pushed back his chair now in a fright-
ened sort of way.
"You—you mean you want me for-for a stool
pigeon ?” he faltered.
“You got it!” said Clancy bluntly.
Smarlinghue's eyes roved about the room in a furtive,
terror-stricken glance, his hand passed aimlessly over
his eyes, and he crouched low down in his chair.
"No, no!'' he whispered. “No, no—for God's sake,
Mr. Clancy, don't ask me to do that! I can't I can't!


14 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
I-I wouldn't be any good. I–I can't! I–I won't!"
Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across
the table. will—if you what's moreira
“You will—if you know what's good for you!” he
said evenly. “And, what's more, there's a little job
you're going to break your hand in on to-night.”
“No! No, no! I can't! I can't!" Smarlinghue flung
out his arms imploringly.
Clancy lowered his voice.
"Cut that out!” he snapped viciously. “What's the
matter with you! You'll be well paid for it-and have
police protection. You ought to know what that'll mean
to you—eh? You live like a gutter-snipe here-half
starved most of the time, for all you can get out of those
ungodly daubs!"
A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat up-
right.
"It is my art," he said. “I have starved for it many
years. Some day I will get recognition. Some day
I-
"Art-hell!” sneered Clancy; and then he laughed
coarsely, as, his fingers prodding under the miscellany
of articles on the table, he suddenly held up a hypodermic
syringe. “This is your art, my bucko! Why, you poor
boob, don't you think I know you! Cocaine's the one
thing on earth you live for. You're stewed to the eyes
with it now. Here, just watch me! Suppose”—he
caught the syringe in a quick grip between the fingers
of both hands—"suppose I just put this little toy out of
commission now, and "
With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his
chair, and clawed like a demented man at the other's
hands for possession of the hypodermic.
Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin,
and shoved Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.


SMARLINGHUE
15
"Oh, yes; you're an artist all right-a coke artist !” he
remarked coolly. “But that's what makes you solid in
every den in New York, and that's how you come in use-
ful-to me. Well, what do you say?”.
There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue's eyes.
“They'd—they'd kill me,” he said huskily.
"Sure, they would !” agreed Clancy easily. "If they
found you out it would be good-night, all right-that's
what you're getting paid for. But”-his voice hardened
-"if you don't come across, I'll tell you what I'll do to
you. I'll "
"You can't do anything! Not a thing !" Smarlinghue
cried wildly. “You haven't anything on me at all. I've
never done a thing, not a single ”.
"Oh, I guess there's enough to make you sweat,”
Clancy cut in brutally. “You give me the icy paw, and
I'll see that the tip leaks out from the right quarters
that you are a stool pigeon. That'll take care of your
finish, too, won't it-good and plenty!"
Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his
tongue circled his lips. Twice he tried to speak—and
only succeeded in mumbling inarticulately.
Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and,
standing over the crouched figure in the chair, tapped
with his finger on the hypodermic in Smarlinghue's hands.
"And that ain't all,” he announced with a malicious
grin. “You come in and play the game with me, or I'll
fix it so that you'll never get another squirt of dope if
you had a million bucks to buy it with-ah, I thought
that would get you!"
Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the
damned was in his face.
"No! No! My God-no-not that! You-you
wouldn't do that!” He reached out his arms to the other.


16 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“You know, I've gone too far to do without it. If I
didn't have it, I- "
"I've seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams,"
said Clancy malevolently. "You can't tell me anything
about it. If you appreciate it, that's enough-it's up to
you. You heard what I said. If you're looking for that
particular kind of hell, go to it. Only don't kid yourself.
When I pass the word to put the screws on, the lid's
down for keeps. Well, what's the answer? Coming
across? Quick now! I haven't got all night to spend
here!"
Smarlinghue's hands were trembling violently; he sat
down in his chair in a pitiful, uncertain way.
“Yes, yes!” he whispered. “Yes! I got to do it. I'll
do.it, Mr. Clancy, I'll do it! I'll—I'll do anything!"
A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy's face, as he
stood regarding the other.
"I thought you would !” he grunted roughly. "Well
then, we'll get down to business—and to-night's business.
You know the back entrance to Malay John's hang-out?”
Smarlinghue's eyes widened a little in a startled way.
He nodded his head.
“Very good,” said Clancy gruffly. "You'll have no
trouble in getting in there. And once in there you'll
have no trouble in getting up to Malay's private den.
I've been wised up that Malay and a few of his pals
are getting ready to pull off a little game uptown. I
want the dope on it—all of it. They've been meeting in
Malay's den for the last few nights—understand? They
drift in between halfpast eleven and twelve-you get
there a little before halfpast eleven. You haven't any-
thing to be afraid of, so don't lose your nerve. Malay
himself is away this evening and won't be back before
midnight; and the door won't be locked, as otherwise
the others couldn't get in. Everything's clear for you.


SMARLINGHUE
17
Savvy? Once you're in the room, there's plenty of places
to hide—and that's all you've got to do, except keep
your ears and eyes open. Get the lay?”
Again Smarlinghue nodded-unhappily this time.
"All right!” said Clancy crisply. "I'm not coming
around here any more-unless I have to. It might put
you in bad. You can make your reports and get your
orders through Whitie Karn at his dance hall.”
"Whitie Karn!" The exclamation seemed to come in-
voluntarily, in a quick, frightened way from Smarling-
hue.
Clancy's lips twisted in a smile.
"Kind of a jolt-eh-Smarlinghue? You didn't sus-
pect he was one of us, did you?-and there's more than
Whitie Karn. Well, it will teach you to be careful. Sup-
pose Whitie, for instance, passed the word that you were
a snitch-eh? It won't do you any harm to keep that
in mind once in a while.” He moved over to the door.
"Well, good-night, Smarlinghue! I guess you under-
stand, don't you? You ought to be a pretty valuable
man, and I expect a lot from you. If I don't get it- "
He shrugged his shoulders, held Smarlinghue for an in-
stant with half-closed, threatening eyes and then the
door closed behind him.
Smarlinghue did not move. The steps receded from
the door, and died away along the passage. A minute,
two minutes went by. Suddenly Smarlinghue pushed back
the wristband of his shirt, and pricked the skin with the
needle of the hypodermic. The door, without a sound,
swung wide open. Clancy stood in the doorway.
“Good-night again, Smarlinghue,” he said coolly.
The 'hypodermic fell clattering to the floor; Smarling-
hue jumped nervously in his chair.
Clancy laughed-significantly; and, without closing the
door this time, strode away again. His steps echoed


18
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
back from the passageway, the front door opened and
shut, his boot heel rang on the pavement without-and
all was silence.
Smarlinghue rose from his chair, shuffled across the
room, closed the door and locked it, then shuffled back
again to the roller shade over the little French window,
and, taking a pin from the lapel of his coat, fastened
the rent together.
A passing cloud for a moment obscured the moonrays
from the top-light; the gas-jet choked with air, splut-
tered, burning with a tiny, blue, hissing flame; then the
white path lay across the floor again, and the yellow
flare of gas spurted up into its pitiful fulness—and in
Smarlinghue's stead stood another man. Gone were the
stooping shoulders, gone the hollow cheeks, the thin,
extended lips, the widened nostrils, as the little distorting
pieces of wax were removed; and out of the metamor-
phosis, hard and grim, set like chiselled marble, was re-
vealed the face of–Jimmie Dale.
stoopings hue's stead stp into its pigiain, and


CHAPTER II
THE WARNING
TOR a moment Jimmie Dale stood there hesitant, the
T long, slim, tapering fingers curled into the palms of
his hands, his fists clenched tightly, a dull red suffusing
his cheeks and burning through the masterly created pal-
lor of his make-up; and then slowly as though his mind
were in dismay, he walked across the room, turned off
the gas, and going to the cot flung himself down upon it.
What was he to do? What ghastly irony had prompted
Clancy to sort him out for a police spy? If he refused,
if he attempted to stall on Clancy, Clancy's threat to
stamp him in the eyes of the underworld as a snitch
meant ruin and disaster, absolute and final, for "Smarl-
inghue” would then have to disappear; on the other hand,
to be allied with the police increased his present risks a
thousandfold-and they were already hazardous enough!
It meant constant surveillance by the police that would
hamper him, rob him of his freedom of movement, add-
ing difficulties and perils innumerable to the enacting of
this new dual personality of his.
Jimmie Dale's hands clenched more fiercely. It was
an impossible situation—it was untenable. That he could
play his role in the underworld with only the under-
world to reckon with-yes; but with the police as well,
watching him in his character of a poor, drug-wrecked
artist, constantly in touch with him, likely at any moment
to make the discovery that Smarlinghue and Jimmie Dale,
19


20 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
common seal was ands like ay Seal
the millionaire clubman, a leader in New York's most
exclusive set, were one and the same-no! And yet what
was he to do? With the Gray Seal it had been different.
Then, police and underworld alike were openly allied as
common enemies against him—but none had known who
the Gray Seal was until that night when the Magpie had
roused the Bad Lands like a hive of swarming hornets
with the news that the Gray Seal was Larry the Bat;
none had known until that night when it was accepted as
a fact that Larry the Bat, and therefore the Gray Seal,
had perished miserably in the tenement fire.
Around the squalid room, lighted now only by the
moonrays, Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled slowly, abstract-
edly. Yes, in that one particular it was different; but
here was the New Sanctuary, and again he was living
the old life in close, intimate companionship with the
underworld—the old life that only six months ago he
had thought to have done with forever!
He turned his face suddenly to the wall, and lay very
still-only his hands still remained tightly clenched, and
the hard, set look on his face grew harder still.
Six months ago, like some mocking illusion, like some
phantom of unreality that jeered at him, it seemed now,
he had lived for a few short weeks in a dreamland of
wondrous happiness, a happiness that all his own great
wealth had never been able to bring him, a happiness that
no wealth could ever buy—the joy of her—the glad
promise that for always their lives would be lived
together-and then, as though she had vanished utterly
from the face of the earth, she was gone.
The Tocsin! Marie La Salle to the world, she was als
ways, and always would be, the Tocsin to him. Gone!
A hand unclenched and passed heavily across his eyes
and flirted the hair back from his forehead. She had
taken her place in her own world again; her fortune had


THE WARNING
21
been restored to her, its management placed in the hands
of a trust company; the interior of the mansion on Fifth
Avenue, with its sliding walls and secret passages, that
had served as headquarters for the Crime Club, was in
the process of reconstruction and she had disappeared.
It had come suddenly, and yet—as he understood now,
though then he had only attributed it to an exaggerated
prudence on her part-not without warning. In the three
weeks that had intervened between the night of the fire
in the old Sanctuary and her disappearance, she had per-
mitted him to see her only at such times and at such
intervals as would be consistent with the most casual of
acquaintanceships. He remembered well enough now
her answer to his constant protests, an answer that was
always the same. “Jimmie,” she had said, “a sudden
intimacy between us would undo all that you have done-
you know that. It would not only renew, but would be
almost proof positive to those who are left of the Crime
Ciub that their suspicions of Jimmie Dale were justified,
and from that as a starting point it would not take a very
clever brain to identify Jimmie Dale as Larry the Bat-
and the Gray Seal. Don't you see! You never knew me
before all the misery and trouble came-there was noth-
ing between us then. To see too much of each other
now, to have too much in common now would only be
to court disaster. Our intimacy must appear to come
gradually, to come naturally. We must wait-a year at
least— Jimmie.”
A year! And within a few hours following the last
occasion on which she had said that, Jason, his butler,
had laid the morning mail upon the breakfast table, and
he had found her note.
It seemed as though he were living that moment over
again now, as he lay here on the cot in the darkness-
his eagerness as he had recognised the well-known hand


22
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
amongst the pile of correspondence, the thrill akin to
tenderness with which he had opened the note; and then
the utter misery of it all, the room swirling about him,
the blind agony in which he had risen from his chair, and,
as he had groped his way from the room, the sudden, piti-
ful anxiety on the faithful old Jason's face, which, even
in his own distress, he had not failed to note and under-
stand and be grateful for.
There had been only a few words in the note, and those
few carefully chosen, guarded, like the notes of old, lest
they should fall into a stranger's hand; but he had read
only too clearly between the lines. She had had only
far too much more reason for fear than she had ad-
mitted to him; and those fears had crystallised into
realities. One sentence in the note stood out above all
others, a sentence that had lived with him since that
morning months ago, the words seeming to visualise her,
high in her courage, brave in the unselfishness of her
love: “Jimmie, I must not, I cannot, I will not bring you
into the shadows again ; I must fight this out alone.”
He recalled the feverish haste in which he had acted
that morning—the one thought that had possessed him
being to reach her if possible before she could put her
designs into execution. Benson, his chauffeur, reckless
of speed laws, had rushed him to the hotel where, pend-
ing the remodelling of the Fifth Avenue mansion, she
had taken rooms. Here, he learned that she had given
up her apartments on the previous afternoon, and that it
was understood she had left for an extended travel tour,
and that her baggage had been taken to the Pennsylvania
Station. From the hotel he had gone to the trust com-
pany in whose hands she had placed the management of
her estate. With a few additional details, disquieting
rather than otherwise, it was the story of the hotel over
again. They did not know where she was, except that


THE WARNING
23
she had told them she was going away for a long trip,
had given them the fullest powers to handle her affairs,
and, on the previous afternoon, had drawn a very large
sum of money before leaving the institution.
He had returned then, like a man dazed, to his home on
Riverside Drive, and had locked himself in his den to
think it out. She had covered her tracks well—and had
done it in a masterly way because she had done it
simply. It was possible that she had actually gone away
for a trip; but it was more probable that she had not.
He had had, of course, no means of knowing; but the sort
of peril that threatened her, his intuition told him, was
not such as to be diverted by the mere expedient of
absenting herself from New York temporarily; and, be-
sides, she had said that she would fight it out. She could
hardly do that in the person of Marie LaSalle, or away
from New York. She was clever, resourceful, resolute
and fearless and those very traits opened a vista of
possibilities that left his mind staggering blindly as in
a maze. She was gone—and alone in the face of deadly
menace. He remembered then the curious, unnatural
calmness underlying the mad whirling of his brain at
the thought that that was not literally true, that she was
not, nor would she ever be alone-while he lived. It
was only a question of how he could help her. It had
seemed almost certain that the danger threatening her
came from one of two sources—either from those who
were left of the Crime Club, relentless, savage for ven-
geance on account of the ruin and disaster that had over-
taken them; or else from the Magpie, and behind the
Magpie, massed like some Satanic phalanx, every denizen
of the underworld, for Silver Mag had. disappeared
coincidently with Larry the Bat, coincidently with the
Magpie's attempted robbery of the supposed Henry La-
Salle's safe, to which plot she was held by the under-


24
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Silver the riddle_did it World, prompted
world to be a party, coincidently with the dispersion of
the Crime Club, and coincidently with the reappearance
of the heiress Marie LaSalle-and, further, Silver Mag
stood condemned to death in the Bad Lands as the ac-
complice of the Gray Seal. But Silver Mag had disap-
peared. Had the underworld, prompted by the Magpie,
solved the riddle did it know, or guess, or suspect that
Silver Mag was Marie La Salle ?
Which was it? The Crime Club, or the Magpie ?
Here again he could not know, though he inclined to the
belief that it was the latter ; but here, in either case, the
means of knowing, of helping her, the way, the road,
was clearly defined-and the road was the road to the
underworld. But Larry the Bat was dead and the road
was barred. And then a half finished painting standing
on an easel at the rear of his den had brought him in-
spiration. It was one of his hobbies—and it swung wide
again for him the door of the underworld. None, in a
broken-down, disappointed, drug-shattered artist, would
recognise Larry the Bat! The only similarity between
the two-the one thing that must of necessity be the same
in order to explain plausibly his intimacy with the dens
and lairs of Crimeland, the one thing that would, if noth-
ing more, assure an unsuspicious, tolerant acceptance of
his presence there, was that, like Larry the Bat, he would
assume the role of a confirmed dope fiend; but as there
were many dope fiends, thousands of them in the Bad
Lands, that point of similarity, even if Larry the Bat
were not believed to be dead, held little, if any, risk. For
the rest, it was easy enough; and so there had come into
being these wretched quarters here, the New Sanctuary
-and Smarlinghue.
But the mere assumption of a new rôle was not all
it was not there that the difficulty lay; it was in gaining
for Smarlinghue the confidence of the underworld that
the role of Was that, lilas, tolerant:


THE WARNING
25
Larry the Bat had once held. And that had taken time-
was not even yet an accomplished fact. The intimate,
personal acquaintance of Larry the Bat with every crook
and dive in Gangland had aided him, as Smarlinghue, to
gain an initial foothold, but his complete establishment
there had necessarily had to be of Smarlinghue's own
making. And it had taken time. Six months had gone
now, six months that, as far as the Tocsin was concerned,
had been barren of results mainly, he encouraged him-
self to believe, because his efforts had been always limited
and held in check; six months of anxious, careful build-
ing, and now, just as he was regaining the old-time con-
fidence that Larry the Bat had enjoyed, just as he was
reaching that point where the whispered secrets of the
underworld once more reached his ears and there was a
promise of success if, indeed, she were still alive, had
come this thing to-night that spelt ruin to his hopes and
ultimate disaster to himself.
If she were still alive! The thought came flashing
back; and with a low, involuntary moan, mingling
anguish of mind with a bitter, merciless fury, he turned
restlessly upon the cot. If she were still alive! No
sign, no word had come from her; he had found no clue,
no trace of her as yet through the channels of the under-
world; his surveillance of the Magpie, whose friendship
he had begun to cultivate, had, so far, proved fruitless.
It came upon him now again, the fear, the dread,
which he had known so often in the past few months,
that seemed to try to undermine his resolution to go for-
ward, that whispered speciously that it was useless-
that she was dead. And misery came. And he lay there
staring unseeingly into the moonrays as they streamed
in through the top-light. ,
Time passed. Then a smile played over Jimmie Dale's
lips, half grim, half wistful; and the strong, square jaw


26
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
should.come, wouldrers, whether the man
was suddenly out-flung. If she was alive, he would find
her; if she was dead-his clenched hand lifted above his
head as though to register a vow—the man or men, her
murderer or murderers, whether to-morrow or in the
years to come, would know a day of reckoning when they
should pay the debt!
But that was for the future. To-night there was this
vital, imminent danger that he had to face, this decision
to make whose pros and cons seemed each to hold an
equal measure of dismay. What was he to do?
He laughed shortly, ironically after a moment. It was
as though some malignant ingenuity had conspired to
trap him. He was caught either way. What was he
to do? The question kept pounding at his brain, grow-
ing more sinister with each repetition. What was he to
do? Defy the police—and be branded as a stool-pigeon,
a snitch, an informer in every nook and cranny of the
underworld! He could not do that. Everything, all
that meant anything in life to him now would be swept
from his reach at even the first breath of suspicion. Nor
was it an idle threat that his unwelcome visitor had
made. He was not fool enough to blind himself on that
score-it could be only too easily accomplished. And
on the other hand—but what was the use of torturing
his brain with a never-ending rehearsal of details? Was
there a middle course? That was his only chance.
Was there a way to safeguard Smarlinghue and, yes,
this miserable hovel of a place, priceless now as his new
Sanctuary.
He followed the moonpath's slant with his eyes to
where it touched the floor and disclosed the greasy,
threadbare, pitiful carpet. A grim whimsicality fell upon
him. It would be too bad to lose it! It was luxury to
what Larry the Bat had known! There had not even
been a carpet in the old Sanctuary, and—he sat sud-


THE WARNING
27
denly bolt upright on the cot, his eyes, that had mechan-
ically travelled on along the moonpath, strained now
upon where the light fell upon the threshold of the door.
There was a little white patch there, a most curious little
white patch-that had not been there when he had
thrown himself on the cot. Came a sudden, incredulous
thought that sent the blood whipping fiercely through his
veins; and with a low cry, in mad, feverish haste row,
he leaped from the cot and across the room.
It was an envelope that had been thrust in under the
door. In an instant he had snatched it up from the
floor, and in another, acting instinctively, even while he
realised the futility of what he did, he wrenched the door
open, stared out into a dark and empty passageway-
and, with a strange, almost hysterical laugh, closed and
locked the door again.
There was no writing on the envelope; there was not
light enough to have deciphered it if there had been-
but he had need for neither writing nor light. Those
long, slim, tapering fingers, those wonderful fingers of
Jimmie Dale, that seemed to combine all human faculties
in their sensitive tips, had already telegraphed their mes-
sage to his brain-it was the same texture of paper that
she always used-it was from her—it was from the
Tocsin.
Joy, gladness, a relief so terrific as it surged upon him
as to leave him for the moment physically weak, held
him in thrall, and he stumbled back across the room, and
slipped down into a chair before the table, and dropped
his head forward into his arms, the note tightly clasped
in his hand. She was alive. The Tocsin was alive
and well—and here in New York—and free and they
had not caught her. It meant all those things, the com-
ing and the manner of the coming of this note. A deep
thankfulness filled his heart; it seemed that it was only


28 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
now he realised the full measure of the fear and anxiety,
the strain under which he had been labouring for so
many months. She was alive—the Tocsin was alive.
It was like some wonderful song that filled his soul,
excluding all else. How little the contents of the note
itself mattered—the one great, glorious fact for the
moment was that she was alive!
It was a long time before Jimmie Dale raised his head,
and then he got up suddenly from his chair, and lit the
gas. But even then he hesitated as he turned the note
over, speculatively now, in his fingers. So she knew
him as Smarlinghue! In some way she had found that
out! His brows gathered abstractedly, then cleared
again. Well, at any rate, it was added proof that so far
her cleverness had completely outwitted those who had
pitted themselves against her-so much so that even her
freedom of action, in whatever rôle she had assumed,
was still left open to her.
He tore the envelope open. There was no preface to
the note, no “Dear Philanthropic Crook" as there had
always been in the old days--instead, the single, closely-
written sheet began abruptly, the writing itself indicating
that it had been composed in desperate haste. He glanced
quickly over the first few lines.
"You should not have done this. You should never
have come into the underworld again. I begged, I im-
plored you not to do so. And now you are in danger
to-night. I can only hope and pray that this will reach
you in time, and " He read on, in a startled way
now, to the end; then read the note over again
more slowly, this time muttering snatches of it aloud:
"... Chicago ... Slimmy Jack and Malay ... Birdie
Lee . . . released from Sing Sing to-day ... triangular
scar on forehead over right eye. ..."
And then, for a little while, Jimmie Dale stood there


THE WARNING
29
staring about the room, motionless, rigid as stone, save
that his fingers moved in an automatic, mechanical way
as they began to tear the note into little shreds. But
presently into his face there crept a menacing look,
and an angry red began to tinge his cheeks, and his
jaws clamped ominously.
So that was the game at Malay John's, was it? Birdie
Lee was out again! She had not needed to mention any
scar to enable him to identify Birdie Lee. He knew the
man of old. The slickest of them all, the cleverest of
them all, before he had been caught and sent to Sing
Sing for a five-years' term, was Birdie Lee the one
man of them all that he, Jimmie Dale, might regard as
a rival, so to speak, where the mastery of the intricate
mechanism of a vaunted and much advertised “guaran-
teed burglar-proof safe” was concerned! And Birdie
Lee was out again!
There was danger if he went to Malay John's, she
had said-and it was true. But what if he did not go!
What, for instance, if Birdie Lee went through with this
night's work!
Jimmie Dale walked slowly across the room, halted
before the wall near the door, stood for an instant
hesitant there-and then, as though in a sudden, final
decision, dropped down on his knees, and, working swift-
ly, removed the section of the base-board from the
wall for the second time that night.
Out came the neatly folded clothes of Jimmie Dale;
and with them, serving him so well in the days gone by,
the leather girdle, or undervest, with its stout-sewn,
upright pockets in which nestled, in an array of fine,
blue-steel, highly tempered instruments, a compact
powerful burglar's kit. It was the one thing that he
had saved from the fire in the old Sanctuary—and that
more by accident than design. He had been wearir.g the
cision, drop the section that night. of Jimmie I


B0 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
girdle that night when he had stolen into the Crime
Club, and afterwards had returned to the Sanctuary with
the intention of destroying forever all traces of Larry
the Bat; and then, only half dressed, as he was changing
into the clothes of Jimmie Dale, the alarm had come
before he had taken off the girdle, and, without thought
of it again at the time, he had still been wearing it when
he had made his escape. He looked at it now for a
moment grimly-and smiled in a mirthless way. He had
not used it since that night, and that night he had never
meant or thought to use it again—only to destroy it!
He reached into the aperture in the wall once more,
drew out a pocket flashlight and an automatic pistol, and
laid them down beside the clothes and the leather girdle;
then, pulling off his coat and shirt, he ran noiselessly
across the room to the washstand. A few drops from a
tiny phial poured into the water, and the pallor, the
sickly hue from his face was gone. It was to be Jimmie
Dale—not Smarlinghue—who would keep the rendezvous
at Malay John's!
And now he was back across the room once more,
turning out the ligl't as he passed the gas-jet. The
leather girdle, that went on much after the fashion of a
life-preserver, was fastened over his shoulders and se-
cured around his waist. The remainder of his clothes
were stripped off with lightning speed, and in their place
were donned the fashionably tailored, immaculate tweeds
of Jimmie Dale. It was like some quick-moving,
shadowy pantomime in the moonlight. He gathered up
the discarded garments, tucked them into the opening in
the wall, replaced the baseboard, slipped the automatic
and flashlight into the side pockets of his coat—and
stood up, his fingers feeling swiftly over his vest and
under the back of his coat to guard against the pos-


THE WARNING
31
Laul,
carefully now was litt
wall.essly, closed
sibility of any tell-tale bulge from the leather girdle
underneath.
An instant he stood glancing critically about him; then
the roller shade over the window was lifted aside, the
window itself, on carefully oiled hinges, was opened
noiselessly, closed again-and, hugged close against the
wall of the building, hidden in the black shadows, Jim-
mie Dale, so silent as to be almost uncanny in his move-
ments, crept along the few intervening feet to the fence
that enclosed the courtyard. Here, next to the wall, a
loosened plank swung outward at a touch, and he was
standing in a narrow, black areaway beyond. There was
only the depth of the house between himself and the
street, and he paused now, crouched motionless against
the wall, listening. He heard no footfalls from the pave-
ment-only, like a distant murmur, the night sounds from
the Bowery, a block away—only the muffled roar of an
elevated train. The way was presumably clear, and he
moved forward again-cautiously. He reached the front
of the building, which, like the old Sanctuary, was a
tenement of the poorer class, paused once more, this
time to peer quickly up and down the dark, ill-lighted
cross street-and, satisfied that he was safe from obser-
vation, stepped out on the sidewalk, and began to walk
nonchalantly along to the Bowery.
And here, at the corner, under a street lamp he
consulted his watch. It was ten o'clock! He smiled a
little ironically. Certainly, they would hardly expect
him as early as that! Well, he would be a little ahead
of time, that was all!
tion, stepped o, Satisfied that has the dark, ill-ic thiş
bim as early as thCertainly, then o'clock! He samp he


CHAPTER III
.
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
ind a bachis hands unt, if he own cha
TIMMIE DALE walked on again, rapidly now, heading
J down the Bowery. At the expiration of perhaps ten
minutes, he turned east; and still a few minutes later, in
the neighbourhood of Chatham Square, plunged suddenly
into a dark alleyway there was, of course, as there was
to all such places, an unobtrusive entrance to Malay
John's.
His lips tightened a little as he moved quietly forward.
To venture here in an unknown character was not far
from being tantamount, if he were discovered, to taking
his life in his hands. Malay John was a queer customer
and a bad enemy, though counted "straight” by the
underworld, and trusted by the crooks and near-crooks as
few other men were in the Bad Lands. And, if Malay
John was queer, the place he ran was queerer still.
Ostensibly he conducted a dance hall, and a profitable
one at that; but below the dance hall, known only to
the initiated, deep down in a sub-cellar, was perhaps the
most remunerative gambling joint and pipe lay-out in
Crimeland.
Jimmie Dale halted before a doorway in the alley. The
rear of a low building rose black and unlighted above
him. A confused jangle from a tinny piano, accompany-
ing a blatant cornet and a squeaky violin, mingled with
the dull scrape of many feet, laughter, voices, singing
the dance hall at the front of the building was in full


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 33
swing. He glanced sharply up and down the dark alley-
way, then, leaning forward, placed his ear to the panel
of the door-and the next instant opened the door softly
and stepped inside.
It was pitch black here, but it was familiar ground to
Larry the Bat in the old days, and therefore te Smarling-
hue in the new. The short passageway in which he was
standing terminated, he knew, in a rear entrance to the
dance hall, which was always kept locked and used only
by Malay John himself, and which was just at the foot
of the stairs that led upward to Malay John's combina-
tion of private den, office, and sleeping apartment; while
at the side of the passage, half way along, was that other
door, always guarded on the inside, that required an
“open sesame” to gain admittance to the dive below.
And now he crept stealthily past this latter door,
reached the staircase, and went swiftly up to the landing
above. Here another door barred his way, and here
again he placed his ear to the panel--but this time to
listen, it seemed, interminably. Every faculty was
strained and alert now. He could take no chances here,
and the uproar from the dance hall below, while it had
safeguarded his ascent of the stairs, was confusing now
and by no means an unmixed blessing.
Still he crouched there, his ear to the panel--and then,
satisfied at last, he tried the door. It was locked.
“The penalty of being early!" murmured Jimmie Dale
softly to himself.
His hand reached in under his vest to one of the
pockets in the leather girdle, and a tiny steel instrument
was inserted in the lock. There was a curious snipping
sound, the doorknob turned slowly under his hand; then
cautiously, inch by inch, he pushed the door open,
slipped through-and stood motionless on the other side
of the threshold. Save only from the dance hall below,


34 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
there was not a sound. The door closed again; again
that snipping sound as it was relocked-and then the
round, white ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight circled his
surroundings.
There was a sort of barbaric splendour to the place.
Malay John was something of a sybarite! It was a single
room, whose floor was covered with rich Turkish rugs,
whose walls were covered with Oriental hangings, and
in one corner was a great, wide divan, canopied, also
with Oriental hangings at head and foot, serving presum-
ably for a bed; but, striking a somewhat incongruous
note, others of the appointments were modern enough
the flat-topped desk in the centre of the room with its
revolving chair, for instance, and a large, ponderous safe
that stood back against the rear wall.
Jimmie Dale crossed the room for a closer inspection
of the safe, and, as his flashlight played over the single
dial, he shook his head whimsically. No, it would be
hardly true to call that modern; it was only an ancient
monstrosity, a helpless thing at the mercy of any cracks-
man who
The flashlight in his hand went out. Like lightning,
Jimmie Dale, his tread silent on the heavy rugs, leaped
back across the room, and in an instant slipped in behind
the end hangings of the divan and stood, pressed closely,
against the wall.
A key turned stealthily in the lock, the door opened
as stealthily—then silence—then a flashlight swept sud-
denly around the room-darkness again-and then a
hoarse whisper:
"All clear, Birdie. Lock the door."
The door closed. The flashlight played down the room
again-and upon Jimmie Dale's lips came a twisted smile,
as, his fingers edging the hanging slightly to one side,
he peered out.


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 35
The light ray moving before them, two dark forms
stole across the room to the safe.
"There you are, Birdie!” said one of them. “Ain't she
a beaut! Say, a kid could open it! Didn't I tell you I
was handing you one on a gold platter!”
The light ray now flooded the front of the safe, and
outlined the forms of the two men. One of them, hold-
ing the flashlight, dropped on his knees, and began to
twirl the dial tentatively; the other leaned negligently
against the corner of the safe.
"I ain't so sure it's easy, Slimmy," replied the man
on his knees, after a moment. He stopped twirling the
dial, and looked up. “Mabbe it'll take longer than we
figured on. Are you sure there ain't no chance of Malay
gettin' back? I'd rather stack up against every bull in
New York than him.”
The twisted smile on Jimmie Dale's lips still lingered.
So that was Slimmy Jack there, leaning against the
safe! Slimmy Jack-and Birdie Lee! His fingers drew
the hangings a little further apart. The room was in
complete darkness except for the circle of light around
the safe, and it was as though what was being enacted
before him were some strange, realistic film thrown upon
a screen-just two forms in the white light, their faces
masked, against the background of the safe, with its
glittering nickel dial. And now Slimmy Jack, from his
negligent pose, straightened sharply and leaned towar:1
Birdie Lee.
"Say, what's the matter with you, Birdie!” he exclaimed
roughly. “You didn't let 'em get your nerve up tho
river, did you? You've been acting kind of queer 2'1
day. I told you before, Malay wouldn't be back in
time to monkey with us. We don't have to stand for
this-I told you that, too. You don't think I'm a fool,
do you, to steer you into a lay that's got a come-back on
1 I told you in us. We don't, nahink I'm a fool,


36 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
myself unless the thing was planted right? Why, damn
it, Malay knows I saw the coin put in there. D'ye
think I'd give him a chance of suspecting me! It's all
fixed-you know that. Now, go to it-there's a nice
little piece of money in there that'll keep us going till
we pull that Chicago deal.”
“All right!" Birdie Lee answered tersely. "Keep
quiet, then, and I'll see what I can do."
He laid his ear against the safe, listening for the
tumblers' fall, as, holding the flashlight in his left hand,
its rays upon the dial, the fingers of his right began to
work swiftly again with the glistening knob.
From below, the confused, dull medley of sound from
the dance hall seemed only to intensify the silence in the
room. Slimmy Jack stood motionless at the side of the
safe, his elbow resting against the old-fashioned, pro-
truding upper hinge. A minute, two, another, and still
another dragged by. Came then a short ejaculation
from Birdie Lee.
Slimmy Jack bent forward instantly.
“Got it?” he demanded eagerly.
“No-curse it !” gritted Birdie Lee. "My fingers seem
to have lost their touch—I ain't had much practice for
the last five years up there in Sing Sing !"
"Well, then, ‘soup' it!” grunted Slimmy Jack. “You
could blow the roof off, and no one would be the wiser
with that racket downstairs. We can't waste all night
over it.”
"What are you going to ‘soup' it with ?” Birdie Lee
flung back gruffly. “We didn't bring nothing. You
said "
"I know I did !” A sullen menace had crept suddenly
into Slimmy Jack's voice. "I said you could open an
old tin can like that with your hanás tied-and so you
can. Try it again!"


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 37
Jimmie Dale's fingers stole inside his shirt, and into a
pocket of the leather girdle, and brought forth a black
silk mask. He slipped it quickly over his face. Birdie
Lee was at work once more. It was about time to play
his own hand in the game. The Tocsin had made no
mistake, he was sure of that now, and
Birdie Lee spoke again.
"It's no use, Slimmy!” he muttered. "I guess I ain't
any good any more. I can't open the damned thing!"
"Try it again !" ordered Slimmy Jack shortly.
"But it's no use, I tell you!" retorted Birdie Lee. "I
ain't got the feel in my fingers."
"You—try-it-again!" There was a cold, ominous
ring in Slimmy Jack's voice.
Birdie Lee drew back a little on his knees, glancing
quickly up at the other.
"What-what d'ye mean by that, Slimmy!” he ex-
claimed in a startled way.
"I'll show you what I mean, and I'll show you blamed
quick if you don't open that safe!" Slimmy Jack threat-
ened hoarsely. “Blast you, you're stalling on me—that's
what you're doing! I've seen you work before. You
could open that thing with your finger nails, if you
wanted to! Now, open it!"
“But, I can't !” protested Birdie Lee. “I wouldn't
hand you anything like that, Slimmy-you know that,
Slimmy. I- "
"Open it! And open it-quick!” Slimmy Jack's hand
was wrenching at his side pocket.
“But, I tell you, I can't, Slimmy!” cried Birdie Lee,
almost piteously. “It's queered me up there in the pen.
I'She was rising to his feet—"Slimmy-for God's
sake—what are you doing—you—".
There was a flash, the roar of the report, a swaying
form a revolver clattering to the floor-and with a


98
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
crash Slimmy Jack pitched forward and lay motionless.
Then silence.
It had come without warning, in the winking of an eye,
and for a moment it seemed to Jimmie Dale that he
could not grasp the full significance of what had hap-
pened—that Slimmy Jack, his sleeve catching on the
hinge of the safe as he had finally succeeded in jerking
his revolver from his pocket, had, a grim, ironical trick
of fate, accidentally shot hmself! Mechanically, auto-
matically, Jimmie Dale's hands went to his pockets and
produced his own flashlight and revolver-but he did not
move. His eyes now were on Birdie Lee, who, like a
man dazed and terror-stricken, had lurched back against
the safe, the flashlight that dangled in his hand sweep-
ing queer, aimless patches of light about the floor.
Still silence only the uproar from the dance hall that
would have drowned out to those below the sound of the
revolver shot. Then Birdie Lee staggered forward, and
knelt beside the prostrate form on the floor. He stood
up again presently, swaying unsteadily on his feet, turn-
ing his head wildly about, now this way, now that. And
then his whisper, broken, hoarse, quavered through the
room:
"He's dead. My God-he's—he's dead."
“Drop that flashlight!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang cold,
imperative. “Drop it! And, sweeping the hangings
aside, the ray of his own light suddenly full upon Birdie
Lee, he leaped forward.
With a low, terrified cry, the other let the flashlight
fall as though from nerveless fingers, and shrank back
against the safe.
"Now put your hands above your head!" directed
Jimmie Dale curtly.
The man obeyed.
Dark, frightened eyes stared out at Jimmie Dale from


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 39
.
behind the mask that covered Birdie Lee's face. Swiftly,
deftly, Jimmie Dale felt over the other's clothing for
a weapon. There was rone. Then, himself in darkness,
the blinding light in Birdie Lee's face, he pulled off the
other's mask, and with a grim, quick touch of his revol-
ver muzzle traced out the white, pulsing, triangular
scar on the man's forehead.
"So you're up to your old tricks again, are you,
Birdie?” he inquired coldly. “Five years up the river
wasn't enough for you—eh?”
The man drew himself up suddenly, and, squaring his
shoulders, made as though to speak—and then, with a
swift, hopeless gesture, turned his back, and, leaning
over the top of the safe, buried his head in his arms.
A strange smile touched Jimmie Dale's lips. He
stooped down, picked up the revolver from the floor,
slipped it into his pocket, bent over Slimmy Jack for an
instant to assure himself that the man was dead—then
stepping back to the safe, he laid his hand on the ex-
convict's shoulder.
“Birdie," he said quietly, "could you open this safe if
you wanted to ?”
The man swung sharply around, the prison pallor of
his face a pitiful, deathlike colour in the flashlight's rays.
“Who are you?” he asked thickly.
"A friend perhaps—if you can open that safe,” Jimmie
Dale answered.
A puzzled look crept into Birdie's eyes.
"W-what do you mean?” he stammered.
“I mean that I want the proof that you are straight,"
Jimmie Dale said softly. “I've been here in the room
all the ime. I want to know whether you were stalling
on Slimmy Jack, or not. And I want to know, if you
were stalling, how you came to be here with him."
“That's a queer spiel,” said Birdie Lee, in a troubled


40
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
way. “I thought at first you were a bull—but you don't
talk like one. Mabbe you're playin' with me; but,
whether you are or not, I guess it won't make much
difference what I say. You couldn't help me if you
wanted to now—with him dead there"-he jerked his
head toward the form on the floor.
“Tell me, anyhow," insisted Jimmie Dale quietly.
Birdie's hand lifted and swept across his eyes.
"Well, all right,” he said, after a moment; "I'll tell
you. Me and Slimmy used to work together all the
time in Chicago and out West after I left New York,
and until I came back here one day and pulled one alone
and got sent up for it. Well, to-day, when they let me
out of Sing Sing, Slimmy had come on from Chicago
and was waitin' for me. He had a deal all fixed in
Chicago that we was to pull together, a big one, and this
little one here was to keep us goin' until the big one came
off. He was with Malay John in this room to-day when
a gambler from up the State somewhere blew in with a
roll of about three thousand dollars, and handed it over
to Malay to keep while he knocked around town for a
day or two. Malay put the money in this safe here, and
that's what Slimmy was after for a starter. I told
Slimmy I was all through-that I was goin' straight. He
wouldn't believe me. I guess you don't. I guess no-
body will. I got a record that's mabbe too black to live
down, and-oh, well, what's the use! I meant to live
decent, but I guess any chance I had is gone now."
His voice choked. “That's the way I had doped it out
up there in the pen—that I was goin' straight. That's
all, isn't it? į told Slimmy I was through—but Slimmy
held something over me that was good for twenty years.
What could I do? I said I'd come in on this, figurin' that
I could queer the game by stallin'. I-I tried it. If


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
41
you were here, you saw me. I pretended that I couldn't
open the safe, and "
"Can you ?" inquired Jimmie Dale gently.
"That thing!” Birdie Lee smiled mirthlessly. “Why
it's only a double combin "
"Open it, then,” prompted Jimmie Dale.
Birdie Lee stooped impulsively to the dial of the safe;
hesitated, then straightened up again, and shook his head.
"No," he said. “I guess I'll take my medicine. I don't
know who you are. I might just as well have opened
it for Slimmy as for you. It looks as though you were
after the same thing he was.”
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"Stand a little away from the safe, Birdie--there," he
instructed. And, as the other obeyed wonderingly, Jim-
mie Dale knelt to the dial. “You see, I trust you not
to move," he said. The dial was whirling under the
sensitive fingers, and, like Birdie before him, his ear was
pressed against the face of the safe.
The moments went by. Birdie Lee was watching in
an eager, fascinated, startled way. Came at last a sharp,
metallic click, as Jimmie Dale flung the handle over-
and the door swung wide. He shut it again instantly-
and locked it.
“It's your turn, Birdie," he said calmly. "You see
that, as far as I or my intentions are concerned, it
doesn't matter whether you open it or not.”
"Who are you?” There was awed admiration in
Birdie's voice. "You're slicker than ever I was, even
in the old days. For God's sake, who are you?"
"Never mind,” said Jimmie Dale. "Open the safe, if
you can.”
"I can open it all right," said Birdie, moving slowly
forward; "and quicker than you did, because I got the


42 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
combination when I was workin' on it with Slimmy
watchin'. Throw the light on the knob, will you ?”
It was barely an instant before Birdie Lee swung
back the door.
"Now lock it again," directed Jimmie Dale. And
then, as the other obeyed, he held out his hand to Birdie
Lee. “You're clear, Birdie.”
A tremor came to the other's face.
“Clear?” repeated Birdie unsteadily.
“Yes—you get your chance. That's one reason why
I came here to-night-to spoil Slimmy Jack's play, to
see that you got your chance if you really wanted it,
as”—he added whimsically—“I was informed you did.
Go ahead, Birdie—make your get-away-you're free."
But Birdie Lee shook his head.
“No,” he said, and his voice caught again. “It's no
good." He pointed to the still form on the floor. “I
guess I go up for more than safe-crackin' this time. I-
I guess it'll be the chair. When they find him here-
dead-shot-they'll call it murder—and they'll put it
onto me. The police know we have been together for
years. They know he came here to-day when I got out.
We've been seen together to-day. Wewe were seen
quarrelling this afternoon in a saloon over on the Bow-
ery. That was when I was refusin' to start the old play
again. They'd have what looked like an open and shut
game against me. I wouldn't have a hope."
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale answered. What
the man said was true-he would not have a hope-for
an honest life-after five years in the penitentiary. He
lifted his flashlight again and played it over Birdie Lee.
They showed, those years, in the pallor, the drawn lines,
the wan misery in the other's face.
And then Jimmie Dale's lips set firmly under his mask.
There was a way to save the man. It was something


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 43
he had never intended to do again—but it was worth the
price-to save this man. It would be like a bombshell
exploded in the underworld; it would arouse the police
to infuriated activity; it would stir New York to its
depths—but, after all, it could not touch Smarlinghue.
It would only instil the belief that somehow Larry the
Bat had escaped from the tenement fire; it would only
mean a hunt for Larry the Bat day and night—but Larry
the Bat no longer existed-and it would save this man.
He clamped the flashlight between his knees, leaving
his hands free, and from the leather girdle drew the
old-time metal case, thin, like a cigarette case, and from
the case, with a pair of little tweezers that precluded the
possibility of telltale finger prints, lifted out a small,
diamond-shaped, gray-coloured paper seal, adhesive on
one side, which he moistened now with his tongue-and,
stooping quickly, attached it to the dead man's sleeve.
There was a sharp, startled cry from Birdie Lee.
"The Gray Seal! You're—you're Larry the Bat!
They passed the word around in Sing Sing that you were
dead, and "
"And it will be the Gray Seal who is wanted for this
not you,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. Then, almost
sharply: “Now make your get-away, Birdie. Hurry!
You and I part here. And the greater distance you put
between yourself and this place to-night the better.”
But the man seemed as though robbed of the power
of movement-and then his lips quivered, and his eyes
filled.
"But you," he faltered, “you—you're doing this for
me, and 1-1- ".
Jimmie Dale caught the other's arm in a kindly grip.
“Good-night, Birdie,” he said significantly. “I'm the
last man now that you could afford to be seen with.
You understand that. And I guess you can understand


44 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
that I've reasons for not wanting to be seen myself,
You've got your chance; give me mine to get away—
alone.” He pushed the man abruptly toward the door,
Still Birdie Lee hesitated; then catching Jimmie Dale's
hand, he wrung it hard-and, with a half choked sob,
turned and made his way from the room.
For an instant Jimmie Dale stood looking after the
other through the darkness, listening as the stealthy steps
descended the stairs—then suddenly he knelt again beside
the dead man on the floor.
"You were clever, Slimmy!” he murmured. “Smarl-
inghue wouldn't have had a chance of getting out from
under this break-if your plans had worked out! And
I didn't know you, of course, because you were a Chicago
crook.”
He took off the dead man's mask, and played his
flashlight for a moment over the cold, set features.
A queer smile twisted Jimmie Dale's lips.
It was "Clancy of Headquarters”!


CHAPTER IV
THE DIAMOND PENDANT
"HE"murder” of Slimmy Jack had evidently been
I discovered too late for the make-up of the early
morning papers; but from the noon editions onward it
had been flung across the front pages in glaring
type-even the most stately journals, for the nonce
aroused out of their dignified calm, indulging in
"display" headlines that, quite apart from the mere text,
could not but have startled their equally stately and digni-
fied readers. The Gray Seal, the leech that fed upon
society, the murderer, the thief, the menace to the lives
and property of law-abiding citizens, the scourge that for
years New York had combated in the no more effective
fashion than that of gnashing its teeth in impotent fury,
had suddenly reappeared with a fresh murder to his
credit. And New York had thought him dead!
Jimmie Dale, leaning back on the seat of his limousine
as the car, now halting at a corner, now racing with a
hundred others to snatch a block or two of distance
before the next monarchial traffic officer of Fifth Ave-
nue should hold it up again a victim to the evening rush,
turned from first one to another of the pile of papers be-
side him. His strong, clean-shaven face was grave; and
there was a sober light in the dark, steady eyes. In the
St. James Club, which he had just left, perhaps the most
sedate, certainly the most exclusive club in New York,
it had been the one topic of conversation. Elderly gentle-


46
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
men, not usually given to excitability, had joined with
the younger members in a hectic denunciation of the
police as criminally inefficient, and had made dire and
absurdly vain threats as to what they, electing them-
selves for the moment a supreme court of last resort,
proposed to do under the circumstances. The irony was
exquisite, if they had but known! Also there was the
element of humour, only there was a grim tinge to the
humour that robbed it of its mirth--some day they
might know!
He glanced out of the window, as the car was held
up again. Everybody in the crowd, that waited on the
corners for the stream of traffic to pass, seemed to have
their eyes glued to their newspapers—even Benson, his
chauffeur, during the moment of inaction, was surrepti-
tiously reading a paper which he had flattened out on
the seat beside him!
Jimmie Dale's eyes reverted to the newspaper in his
hand, one of the most conservative. There was no mis-
taking the tenor of the leading article on the editorial
page:
"It is not so much that a thug and criminal known
as Slimmy Jack should have been murdered by another
wretch of his own breed; indeed, that such should prey
upon one another is far from being a matter of regret,
for we might hope in time for the extermination of them
all by the simple process of mutual attrition and at
correspondingly little expense to ourselves—but that
this so-called Gray Seal should still prove to be alive
and at large is a matter that concerns every citizen
personally. He does not confine his attentions to the
Slimmy Jacks. The criminal records of the past few
years reek with his acts, that run the gamut of every
crime in the decalogue, crimes for the most part actuated
apparently by no other motive than a monstrously in-


THE DIAMOND PENDANT
47
nate thirst for notoriety—and the victims, for the most
part, too, have been the innocent and the defenceless.
What is the end of this to be? If the police cannot
cope with this blood-mad ruffian, is New York to sit
idly by and submit to another reign of terror instituted
and carried on under the nose of authority by this in-
human jackal? If so, we are committing a crime against
ourselves, we are insulting our intelligence, and
The man who had written that was a personal friend!
Jimmie Dale threw the paper down, and picked up an-
other, and after that another. They were pretty well all
alike. They rehearsed the discovery of Larry the Bat
as the Gray Seal; they rehearsed the story of the fire in
the tenement of six months ago in which it was supposed
that Larry the Bat had perished-they differed only in
the virulence, a mere choice of words, with which they
now demanded that this Larry the Bat, alias the Gray
Seal, should be dug out like a rat from his hole, and the
city be freed once and for all, and with no loophole for
misadventure this time, of this “ogre of hell,” as one
paper put it, that was gorging itself upon New York.
The furrows gathered on Jimmie Dale's forehead, as
he folded up the papers, and stared at his chauffeur's
back through the plate-glass front of the car. He had
known that the reappearance of the Gray Seal would
arouse the community to a wild pitch of excitement, but
he had far underestimated the effect. He could gauge
it better now, though—he had only to look out of the
windows at the passers-by. And this was only the re-
spectable element of the city whose head and front was
the police, and dangerous enough for all the bitter taunts,
gibes and recriminations with which the police was
maligned! There was still the far more dangerous eles
ment of the underworld! He had not been in that quar.
mmunity pearance cont of the
gibes dice, and dan of the city And th


48 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
ter since he had left Malay John's the night before, but
he could picture it now well enough. God help him if
he ever fell into those hands! In dens and dives, in the
dark corners of that sordid world, they would be whis-
pering blasphemous vows of vengeance against him one
to another-and, relative to the hate and fear that welded
them into a single unit, the police sank into insignificance.
More than one of their élite had gone to the electric
chair through the instrumentality of the Gray Seal; more
than one was serving at that moment a long term behind
penitentiary walls. Whose turn was it to be next? They
needed no editorial prod in the underworld to run Larry
the Bat to earth—there was the deeper spur of self-
preservation! They knew who the Gray Seal was now,
and the first blow that he had aimed upon his reappear-
ance had apparently been at one of themselves. Their
search for Larry the Bat would not be an indifferent one!
It was true that Larry the Bat no longer existed, that
in that respect he was encompassed by a certain security
he had not enjoyed before, but how long would that last?
One slip, one moment off his guard, would wreck all that
in the twinkling of an eye. Between the police and the
underworld New York would be scoured from end to end
for Larry the Bat; and, failing to find trace or sign of
their quarry, how long would it be before they would put
more faith in the evidence of the tenement fire than in
the evidence of the Magpie, upon whose testimony alone
Larry the Bat had been accepted as the Gray Seal, and
believe again that Larry the Bat was dead, and that
therefore they had not yet solved the identity of the
Gray Seal!
He had never intended that the Gray Seal should ever
have been heard of again. He shrugged his shoulders
philosophically. One's intentions in this world did not
always count for much! His hand had been forced, and


THE DIAMOND PENDANT
49
he had paid the price to save Birdie Lee. He could not re-
gret that! Whatever the consequences, the price had not
been too high, and yet—his eyes roved again over the
crowded thoroughfare. A car edged by his own. Two
men were in the tonneau. One held a newspaper which
he thumped with a menacing fist as he talked. The door
windows of Jimmie Dale's limousine were down, and
he caught two bitter, angry words:
"... Gray Seal ”
The sober expression on Jimmie Dale's face deepened.
Only a fool would attempt to minimise or underestimate
the meaning of what he saw around him. A hint, for
instance, that he, Jimmie Dale, millionaire clubman, rid-
ing here in his limousine, was the Gray Seal, and this
great, teeming, though orderly, Fifth Avenue would be
transformed like magic into a seething, screaming whirl
of madmen, and-he did not care to follow that trend
of thought. He was quite well aware what would hap-
pen!
The car, close up against the curb, stopped once more
in a traffic blockade. Smarlinghue was the most vital
factor to be considered now, for-he caught his breath
quickly. Through the open window of the limousine a
white envelope fluttered and fell at his feet. The car
was moving forward again. For the fraction of a second
Jimmie Dale did not move, save to straighten rigidly as
though from some sharply administered galvanic shock;
and then, with a low cry—“the Tocsin!” he was at the
door, his head thrust out through the window, his fingers
mechanically wrenching at the door handle. A mass of
people were surging across the street toward the oppo-
site corner. Eagerly his eyes swept over them; he
pushed the door open a little as though to step out-and
shut it again quickly, as, with a yell of warning, anotber


50
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
car, jockeying for position as his own moved out into the
stream of traffic, swept by from behind.
It had been quite useless-he knew that, he had known
it subconsciously even at the moment when he had
sprung to his feet. Apart entirely from the crowd, she
would undoubtedly be in some clever disguise, and he
could not have recognised her in any event.
He stooped, picked up the envelope, and sat down
again quietly, his eyes travelling swiftly in the direction
of his chauffeur. Benson's back was still imperturbably
turned toward him. In the roar of dozens of motors all
starting forward at once, Benson evidently had not heard
the yell of warning, or, if he had, had been too much
occupied with his own immediate duties to pay any at-
tention to it.
Jimmie Dale tore the envelope open; and, in a sort of
grim, feverish haste, unfolded the sheets which it had
contained.
“Dear Philanthropic Crook—since you will be called
that," he read. A quick, eager flush came to his checks.
She knew now, since she had shown last night that she
knew him as Smarlinghue, that, despite all her own
brave, resolute protests, he was determined to fight this
thing out to the end-separately, if she would not let
him join forces with her—but, in any case, to the end.
It was the old name again-Dear Philanthropic Crook!
Did it mean that she had surrendered, then, at last, that
she had finally accepted the situation, and that he was to
enter this shadowland of hers beside her! The flush died
away. It was only his own wish that had been father
to the thought. This was another “call to arms" of quite
a different nature, and born, not out of her own peril,
but born, as in the old days again, out of the maze of
her strange environment. “You have set New York
ablaze, you have made me far more afraid for you than


THE DIAMOND PENDANT
I am for myself; but I cannot see where there is any
danger here, or else I would not have written this.
You " He was reading impetuously now, his brain,
alert and keen, sorting and sifting out, as it were, the
salient, vital points. "... old Colonel Milford and his
wife . . . Louisiana ... letter ... family heirloom ...
French descent ... old setting, three large diamonds
pendant from necklet of smaller ones ... ten to twelve
thousand dollars . . . steel bond box ... lower right-
hand drawer of desk . . . plan of second floor ...
West 88th Street ..."
He turned the page, studied for a moment the carefully
drawn plan that covered the next sheet, then turned to
the third and last page—and suddenly his face hardened.
He had been called a jackal by the papers—but here were
two who bore a clearer title to the name! He knew them
both-Jake Kisnieff, better known as Old Attic in the
underworld, as crooked as his own bent and twisted
form, a miserly, cunning “fence,” crafty enough, if
report were true, to have garnered a huge, ill-gotten
harvest under the nose of the police; and the other, one
self-styled Henry Thorold, alias whatever occasion might
require, smooth, polished, educated, the most dangerous
of all types of crook, was the brains of a certain clique
whose versatile operations were restricted only between
the limits of porch-climbing and the callous removal, via
the murder route, of any one when deemed expedient
for either personal or financial reasons !
Jimmie Dale read on to the end of the page. His jaws
were clamped together now, the square, determined chin
out-thrust; and while one hand held the letter, the other
curled into a clenched fist. It was dirty work-vile, mis-
erable workma coward's work! And then Jimmie Dale
smiled grimly, as his eyes fell upon the glaring headline
of the paper on the top of the pile beside him. Perhaps


52 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the morning papers would carry other headlines that
would be still more startling!
He began to study the several sheets again, critically,
carefully this time. There should be no danger here, she
said. He knew what she meant—that she counted on
his being able to nip the whole scheme in the bud. He
shook his head thoughtfully. That might be true; he
might be able to do that, probably would, for it was still
very early; but if not—what then? He glanced out of
the window-they were just turning into Riverside Drive.
He looked at his watch. It wanted but a few minutes of
seven-progress up the Avenue had been unusually slow.
He tore the letter into small fragments, and reaching
out through the window, let the pieces flutter away in
the wind. It was none too early at that, and it was
unfortunate that he must first of all go home—there were
certain things there indispensable to the night's work.
On the other hand, it was fortunate that he did not
have to lose even more time by being obliged instead
to go to the new Sanctuary for what he needed, for-
tunate that he had been “Jimmie Dale” last night when he
had left Malay John's, and that he had gone directly
home from there.
The car stopped. Benson sprang from his seat, and
opened the door.
"Don't put up the car yet, Benson; I am going a little
further uptown,” said Jimmie Dale, with a pleasant nod
-and ran up the steps of his house.
Jason, his butler, opened the door for him.
"I shall not be dining at home to-night, Jason.”
Jimmie Dale handed over his hat-not a suitable one
for the evening's special requirements.
The old man's face wrinkled up in disappointment.
“That's too bad, sir, Master Jim.” Jason took liber-
ties; but they were the genuine heart liberties of a life-
I requiremo in disappoi took libere


THE DIAMOND PENDANT 53
time's service-and why not, since, as he was fond of
saying, he had dandled his Master Jim as a baby on his
knee! “There was to be just what you are especially
fond of to-night, Master Jim; the cook made a particular
point of_ "
"Yes; I know.” Jimmie Dale's hand squeezed the old
man's shoulder in friendly fashion. It was not the cook,
but Jason, who would have originated the menu with the
painstaking care and thoughtfulness of one dealing with
a life-and-death matter. “But it can't be helped. I
didn't know until just a little while ago, or I would have
telephoned. I am going right out again.”
"Very good, sir,” Jason bowed. “Your clothes, Mas-
ter Jim, are "
"I shan't dress, Jason," said Jimmie Dale-and, cross-
ing the reception hall, with its rich, oriental rugs, he ran
up the wide staircase, opened the door of his “den,"
locked it behind him, and, switching on the lights, began
to strip off his coat and vest, as he hurried toward the
further end of the great, spacious, luxuriously appointed
room that ran the entire depth of the house.
He threw coat and vest on a nearby chair; and, sweep-
ing the portières away from in front of a little alcove,
knelt down before the barrel-shaped safe with its multi-
tudinous glistening knobs, that, in the days gone by
when he had been with his father in the business of
manufacturing safes, the business that had amassed the
fortune he had inherited, he had designed himself. His
fingers flew over the dials. He swung the outer and the
inner doors open, reached inside, took out the leather
girdle with its burglar kit, and fastened it around his
waist. Then, slipping an automatic and a flashlight into
his pocket, he closed the safe, drew the portières together,
and put on his coat and vest again.
An instant later he was downstairs, and, selecting a
Ortièresre the babs, that, ther in


54
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
soft slouch hat-Jason for the moment not being in evi-
dence-went down the steps to his waiting limousine.
“The Marleton, Benson," he directed, as he stepped
into the car. "And hurry, please.”
The car started forward. It was not far to 88th
Street, but the car would save time--and time was count-
ing now, every minute of it priceless, if, as the Tocsin
had intimated, he was to forestall the game that was in
hand. The Marleton was for Benson's benefit-but the
Marleton, unless he had miscalculated the numbers, was
barely more than a block away from the house he sought.
And then, besides, there was another reason for haste
- Colonel Milford and his wife would probably be at
dinner now, and that left the upstairs part of the house
at his disposal, since, apart from the elderly couple, the
household consisted, according to the Tocsin, of only a
single maid. He went over in his mind again the plan
the Tocsin had drawn. Yes, she was quite right, there
should be no danger, the whole matter as far as he was
concerned was almost childishly simple and easy-if he
were only in time! He shook his head a little impatiently
at that; and, as he saw that they were approaching his
destination, consulted his watch. It was exactly twenty
minutes after seven.
The car rolled up to the curb in front of the fashion-
able family hotel. Jimmie Dale alighted.
"I shall not need you any more to-night, Benson," he
said.
He walked quietly into the hotel, through the lobby,
down a corridor, and out of the entrance that gave on the
cross street—then his pace quickened. He traversed the
block, crossed the road, turned the corner, and a minute
later was approaching the house she had designated. It
was one of a row. His pace slowed to a nonchalant
stroll again. It was still quite light, and he was by no


THE DIAMOND PENDANT 55
means the only pedestrian on the street; a moment's
preliminary, even if cursory, examination of the exterior
would not be amiss! Counting the numbers ahead of
him, he had already located the house. He frowned a
little. A light burned in the upstairs front room. There
was a light in the lower hallway as well, but that was
to be expected. Why the one upstairs? Had the Colonel
and Mrs. Milford already finished their dinner?
Jimmie Dale reached the house—and casually, with-
out hesitation, mounted the steps—and quite as casually,
making a pretence of ringing the electric bell, opened
the unlocked outer door, stepped into the vestibule, and,
without a sound now, closed the door behind him.
He tried the inner door tentatively. It was locked, of
course—but it was locked only for an instant. From
the girdle under his vest came a little steel instrument;
there was a faint, almost inaudible, protesting snip from
the interior of the lock; and, his fingers turning the knob
with a steady, silent pressure, he opened the door slightly.
Crouched there, he listened. And then, a smile of re-
lief flickering on his lips, he pushed the door open, and
slipped into the hallway. The explanation of the light
upstairs was that it had probably been left burning in-
advertently. They were still at dinner, for he could
hear voices from the dining room at the rear of the hall.
As silent as a shadow now, Jimmie Dale, closing the
inside door, moved across the hall, and went up the stairs.
On the landing he paused; and then advanced cautiously,
The light streamed out from the open door of the front
room, and there was always the possibility that—no, a
glance from where he stood close against the wall at
the edge of the door jamb, showed him that the room
was unoccupied.
He entered the room quickly, crossed quickly to a
quaint old escritoire against the opposite wall, and
stilbly beanation
the din


56 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
stooped beside it. The lower right-hand drawer, she had
said. The little steel instrument with which he had
opened the vestibule door was still in his hand, but he
did not use it now! Instead, with a low, dismayed ejacu-
lation, as his fingers ran along the drawer edge, he
dropped on his knees for a closer examination and his
lips closed tightly together.
He was too late! The first finger touch had told him
that, and now his eyes corroborated it. The drawer had
been forced by a jimmy of some sort, judging from the
indentations in the wood. The lock was broken, and he
pulied the drawer open. Inside lay the steel bond-box,
its lid bent back, and wrenched and twisted out of
shape. The box was empty.
Without disturbing the box, Jimmie Dale mechanically
closed the drawer again and stood up, looking around
him. In a subconscious way, when he had entered the
room, he had been cognisant of a certain strangeness in
its appointments, but then his mind had been centred
only on the work in hand; now there seemed a sort of
pitiful congruity in the surroundings themselves and in
the old heirloom that had been stolen. It seemed as
though the room spoke to him of past glories. The
furniture was out-of-date, and, too, a little in disrepair.
It seemed as though there clung about it the pride and
station of other days, a station that it was finding it
hard to maintain in these. And he thought he under-
stood. It was a fine old family, that of the Milfords
of Louisiana, a very proud old family in the way that
it was fine to be proud-proud of its name, proud that
its sons were gentlemen, proud of its loyalty to its own
traditions and standards, a pride that neither condition
nor adversity could mar. And now the diamond pendant
was gone! He could well understand how they had
clung to that, and


THE DIAMOND PENDANT 57
He started suddenly. Was he a fool, that he had
wasted even a moment in giving play to his thoughts!
Voices were reaching him now from below, footsteps
were sounding from the lower hall, there was a creak
upon the stairs. They were coming!
He had hardly any need for the quick, searching
glance he flung around him—the plan that the Tocsin
had drawn was mapped out vividly in his mind. He
stepped backward softly through half-opened folding
doors into the room in the rear. From this room a
door, he knew, opened into the hallway. His escape,
after all, need give him little concern. He had only to
step out into the hall after they passed, and make his way
downstairs. A woman's voice from the stairway came
to him:
“My dear, you must have left the light burning."
“Unless it was you," a man's voice answered in good-
humoured banter. “You were the last one in the room."
“But I am sure I didn't!" the feminine tones asserted
positively.
The steps passed along the hall, and from behind the
folding doors Jimmie Dale saw an elderly couple enter
the front room. Both were in evening dress and some-
how, suddenly, at sight of them Jimmie Dale swallowed
hard. The old gentleman, kindly, blue-eyed, white-
haired, was very erect, very straight in spite of the fact
that he must have been close to seventy years of age,
and with the sweet-faced, old-fashioned little lady, with
the gray hair, who stood beside him, they made a stately
pair-for all that their clothes, past glories like the furni-
ture, were grown a little shabby, a little threadbare. But
with what a courtly air they wore them! And with
what a courtly air now he led her to a chair, and bent
over her, and lifted up her face, and held it tenderly
between both his hands!


58 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"How well you look to-night in your dress," he said,
and his blue eyes shone. “I am very proud of you."
She stroked the hand against her cheek.
"Do you remember the first time I ever wore it?"
She was smiling up at him.
"Oh, yes!” he nodded his head slowly. “It is strange,
isn't it? That was a long time ago when our friends
were married back there in the old State, and to-night
again, way up here in New York, they have not forgotten
us on this their anniversary."
Silence fell for a moment between them.
Then he spoke again, a little sadly:
“Would you wish those days back again, if you could ?"
She hesitated thoughtfully.
"I do not know," she said at last. “Sometimes I think
so. We had John then.”
“Yes," he said, and turned away his head.
Her hand, as Jimmie Dale watched, seemed to tighten
over her husband's; and now, though her lips quivered,
there came a little smile.
“But we have his memory now, dear," she whispered.
Agitated, the old gentleman moved abruptly away
from the chair, and Jimmie Dale could see that the blue
eyes were moist.
"That is true we have his memory." The old colo-
nel's voice trembled. And then his shoulders squared
like a soldier on parade. “Tut, tut!” he chided. “Why,
we are to be gay to-night! And it is almost time
for us to be going. We, too, shall celebrate. You shall
wear the pendant, just as you did that other night.”
"Oh, colonel!” There was mingled delight and hesi-
tation in her ejaculation. “Do you really think I ought
to—that it wouldn't be out of keeping with our present
circumstances ?”
"Of course, I think you ought to!” he declared. “And


THE DIAMOND PENDANT
59
o cut a key, stooor twice in a pith a sharp,
see"-he started across the room—“I will get it for you,
and fasten it around your throat myself.”
He reached the escritoire, opened a little drawer at
the top, took out a key, stooped to the lower drawer,
inserted the key, turned it once or twice in a puzzled way,
then tried the drawer, pulled it open-and with a sharp,
sudden cry, reached inside for the steel bond-box.
The little old lady rose hurriedly, in a startled way,
from her chair.
“What is it? What is the matter?" she cried anxiously.
The box clattered from the colonel's hands to the floor.
"It is gone!” he said hoarsely. “It has been stolen!"
“Gone !” She ran wildly forward. “Stolen! No,
nomit cannot be gone !"
They stared for a moment into each other's faces, and
from each other's faces stared at the rifled box upon
the floor--and then a look of wan misery crept gray
upon the little old lady, and she swayed backward.
With a cry, that to Jimmie Dale seemed one of more
poignant anguish than he had ever heard before, the
old gentleman caught her in his arms and supported her
to a chair; then running quickly to the hall, called loudly
for the maid below.
There was a merciless smile on Jimmie Dale's lips.,
He was retreating now further back into the room to-
ward the door that gave on the hall.
"I wonder,” said Jimmie Dale to himself through set
teeth, “I wonder if a man wouldn't be justified in putting
an end for keeps to that devil Thorold for this !".
He heard the maid come rushing up the stairs. He
could no longer see into the other room now, but a con-
fused mingling of voices reached him:
"... The police ... next door and telephone ...
the light . .. while we were at dinner ..."
Jimmie Dale opened the door, slipped across the hall,


60 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
made his way silently and swiftly down the stairs, and
with the single precaution of pulling his slouch hat far
down over his eyes, stepped boldly out of the front door,
walked quietly down the steps, walked briskly, but with-
out apparent haste, along the street-and turned the first
corner.


CHAPTER V
"DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL !"
TIMMIE DALE hurried now, making his way to the
nearest subway station, and took a downtown train.
"There should be no danger," the Tocsin had written. His
eyes darkened with a flash of passion. Danger! Danger
was a small, pitiful factor now! He had been too late
through no fault either of his or the Tocsin's—but he
still knew where the pendant was, or would be! Time
was counting again; he was afraid now only that he
might be too late a second time. Old Attic would not
let any grass grow under his feet in disposing of the
diamonds through one of the many channels at his com-
mand, and once they had passed out of that scoundrel's
hands they were as good as hopelessly lost. Also there
was Thorold to reckon with. Thorold would naturally
get the pendant first, then turn it over to Jake Kisnieff.
Had Thorold already done so? It depended, of course,
on when the theft had been committed. That snatch
of conversation-"the light ... when we were at din-
ner”-came back to him. His brows gathered. He
crouched a little in his seat, staring abstractedly at the
black tunnel walls without. Station after station was
passed. Jimmie Dale's hand, resing on the window sill,
was so tightly clenched that it seemed the skin must
crack across the knuckles.
But he was smiling when he left the subway-only it
was that same merciless smile once more. It was not
61


62
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
alone the mere act of robbery that fanned his anger to
a white heat. Again and again, he was picturing in his
mind that fine old gray-haired couple; again and again
he saw the old colonel bend and lift that sweet face to
his, and saw them look into each other's eyes. There
was something holy, something reverent in that love
which the years had ripened and mellowed with tender-
ness; something that was profound, that made of this
night's work a sacrilege in touching them—and that poor
jewel, clung to all too obviously through adversity for
its past associations, was probably the last real thing of
intrinsic value they possessed!
"I am not sure," muttered Jimmie Dale he was finger-
ing the automatic in his pocket, “I am not sure that I
can trust myself to-night!”
Ten minutes' walk from the subway brought him be-
fore a dingy and dilapidated three-story tenement on
the East Side. The Nest, they called it in the under-
world; and worthily so, for its roof sheltered more of
the cheaper and petty class of criminals probably than
any other single dwelling in New York—the steerers,
the hangers-on, the stalls, those of the lesser breed of
vultures, and the more vicious therefore, who at best
made but a precarious livelihood from their iniquitous
pursuits.
One of Jimmie Dale's shoulders was hunched forward,
giving a crude and ill-fitting set to his fashionably tai-
lored, Fifth Avenue coat; he staggered slightly, and the
flap of his collar protruded, while his tie, pulled out,
sprawled over his vest; also his slouch hat, badly crushed
and looking as though it had rolled in the mire of the
street, was tilted forward at an unhappy angle until it
was balanced on the bridge of his nose. Men, women,
and children passed him by-for the street was crowded
-paying him not the slightest attention. He lurched


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!”
63
in through the front door of the tenement, swayed up
against the hallway inside--and stood there, still sway-
ing a little.
It was dark here, and the atmosphere was musty and
fetid; a murmur pervaded the place as of voices behind
many closed doors, but apart from that the tenement
might have been empty and deserted for all the signs
of life it evidenced. And then the spot where Jimmie
Dale had stood was vacant, and he was along the narrow
hallway without a sound, and, opening a door at the
rear, stood peering out. After a moment, he closed the
door again without fastening it; and, back once more
toward the front of the hallway, began to creep silently
up the stairs.
He reached the top landing. Old Attic had two miser-
able rooms here, where he conducted his even more
miserable business! Jimmie Dale dropped on his knees
before the door that faced the head of the stairs, and
placed his ear to the panel. Noiselessly he tried the
door. It was locked. He was smiling that merciless
smile again in the darkness, as his deft, slim fingers
worked at the keyhole. He was not too late this time!
Old Jake was there, and-yes, Thorold, too. They were
even now haggling over the pendant—he could hear them
quite distinctly now with the door open a crack.
He pushed the door open a little wider, but very
slowly, scarcely an inch at a time. He was in luck again!
They were in the inner room. He opened the door still
a little wider, stepped softly over the threshold, and
closed the door behind him.
Save for a dim light that filtered out through the half
open door of the inner room, it was dark here. Slowly,
with that almost uncanny, silent tread that he had ac-
quired on the creaky, rickety stairs of the old Sanctuary,
Jimmie Dale began to move forward, the weight of his
orked at in in the dark He was smilessly he ti


64 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
body wholly and firmly on one foot before the other was
lifted from the floor; and, as he advanced, the black
silk mask, from a pocket in the leather girdle, was drawn
over his face.
He could see them now quite plainly—the twisted,
crunched-up form of old Jake, with his tawny-bearded
face, and narrow, shifting little black eyes; the smooth-
shaven, suave, oily, cunning countenance of Thorold,
the super-crook. Both were sitting at a table in the
miserly appointed room, whose only other articles of
furniture were a cheap iron bed and a few chairs. Old
Jake was whining; Thorold's voice held an angry rasp.
"Four thousand, you cursed miser, and not a cent less,"
Thorold was saying.
"Three," whined the other. "You ain't splitting fair.
I got to take the stones out of their setting, and sell
'em for what I can get. Stolen stuff's got to go cheap.
You know that."
"It's worth ten or twelve, and you'll get at least eight
for it,” growled Thorold. “That's four apiece—and I've
got to split mine again with the guy that pinched it.
Hurry up, d'yer hear–I've got a date with him in half
an hour over in my office.”
"Ha, ha !" cackled old Jake. "Are you trying to be
funny? All the thief gets out of it from you won't make
much of a hole in your share!"
“That's my business !” snapped Thorold. “You come
across !”
"Three!” whined old Jake again.
"Four !" Thorold flung back angrily.
"Well, let's have a look at it then; I ain't seen it for
years,” grumbled old Jake. “I ain't trying to do you.
We went into this thing so's we'd each get the same out
of it; but I tell you it ain't easy to shove big stones when


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!" 65
there'll be a police description out against them, and there
ain't no big prices for 'em, either."
Thorold reached into his pocket-and even in the dull
light of the single gas-jet that alone illuminated the
room, Jimmie Dale caught the fire and flash of the
magnificent stones in the pendant that swung to and fro
now, as the man held it up.
Old Jake, his hand trembling with eagerness, snatched
at it, and, as Thorold laughed shortly, dove his fingers
into a greasy vest pocket, and produced a jewelier's mag-
nifying glass, which he screwed into his eye.
"One of these has got a flaw, and it's cloudy," he
mumbled.
“Never mind about the flaw! Flash your wad!” in-
vited Thorold, with a thin smile.
Jimmie Dale's hand slipped under his vest to a pocket
in the leather girdle, and from the thin metal case, with
the aid of the tiny tweezers, lifted out a gray seal, and
laid it lightly on the inside edge of his left-hand sleeve.
He replaced the metal case with his right hand, and with
his right hand drew his automatic from his pocket. He
crept forward again, inch by inch toward the door of
the inner room.
Old Jake laid the pendant on the table, and from some
mysterious recess in his clothing pulled out a huge roll
of banknotes.
"I'll make it three and a half until I see what I can
get for it. That's all I've got here, anyway." He began
to count the money, laying it bill by bill on the table.
"If I get more than seven, I'll split the difference even.
That's fair. That's the way it's been ever since we
started this. I don't know exactly what I can get for
this, and "
And then Jimmie Dale was in the room, his automatic
covering the two men.


66 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“Don't move please, gentlemen!” he said quietly, as
he stepped to the table. His eyes behind the mask
travelled from the diamond pendant to the pile of bank-
notes, and from the banknotes to the two men, whose
faces had gone suddenly white, and who now sat rigidly
in their chairs, as though turned to stone. “I appear
to be in luck to-night!" His lips, just showing beneath
the mask, parted in a hard smile. “I was passing by,
and His left hand reached out, swept up the
money and the diamond pendant-and in their place, flut-
tering from his sleeve, a gray seal fell upon the table.
There was a sharp, quick cry from Thorold--and the
muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic swung like a flash
to a level with the man's eyes. Old Jake had crumpled
up now in his chair, and was glaring wildly at the little
diamond-shaped piece of paper; he licked his lips with
his tongue, there was fear in his eyes
"The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal!” he muttered
hoarsely.
"I appear to be in luck to-night!” said Jimmie Dale
again. “And”—he put the money and the diamond
pendant coolly in his pocket-"it would be too bad if I
didn't play it up, wouldn't it? It doesn't often come as
easy as this. Amazing carelessness to leave that outside
door unlocked! But, as I was saying, with such a lavish
display of opulence on the table, one is almost led to
hope that there might be more where that came from.
Now "
"I haven't got any more-not another cent! Honest,
I haven't !” old Jake cried hysterically. “I swear to
God, I haven't, and
"You hold your tongue !" There was a sudden snarl
in Jimmie Dale's low tones. The man's voice was rising
dangerously loud. “I'll attend to you in a moment !" He
swung on Thorold again; and, with his pistol pressed


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” 67
close against the man, felt deftly and swiftly over the
other in search of weapons. He laughed tersely, finding
none. “Empty your pockets out on the table,” he or-
dered curtly.
The man hesitated.
Jimmie Dale smiled-unpleasantly.
Thorold swept a bead of sweat from his forehead. His
lips were working nervously. All suavity and polish
were gone now; there were only viciousness and fear,
each struggling with the other for the mastery in the
man's smug face.
"Damn you, you blasted snitch !” he burst out furi-
ously. “We'll get you down here some day, and "
"Some day, perhaps,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “But
to-night-did I explain that I was in a hurry-Thorold!
Every pocket inside out, please!"
Thorold's hand went reluctantly to his pockets. He
began with the inside pocket of his coat, laying a pile
of letters and papers on the table.
“Anything there you want?” he sneered.
“Go on!” prompted Jimmie Dale.
From vest pockets came a varied assortment of articles
-watch, cigars, a cigar-cutter, a silver-mounted pencil,
and a fountain pen. The man's hands travelled to his
outside coat pockets.
"The inside pocket of the vest, Thorold,” suggested
Jimmie Dale coldly.
With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest,
and turned the pocket out. There was nothing in it.
Jimmie Dale nodded complacently.
“My mistake, Thorold,” he murmured apologetically.
“Go on!"
The man continued to denude himself of his effects,
but with increasing savagery and reluctance. There was
silence in the room—and then suddenly, so faint as to


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL !" 59
But Jimmie Dale was the quicker of the two. A
vicious left full on the point of Thorold's jaw stopped
the man's rush-but only for the fraction of a second.
Thorold, recovering instantly, flung his body forward, and
his arms wrapped themselves around Jimmie Dale's neck.
And now, old Jake, screeching like a madman, was
circling around them, snatching, clawing, striking at
Jimmie Dale's face and head.
Thorold was a powerful man; and at the first tight-
locked grip, as they swayed together, trained athlete
though he was himself, Jimmie Dale realised that he had
met his match. Again and again, with all his strength
he tried to throw the other from him. Around and
around the room they staggered and lurched-and around
and around them followed the wizened, twisted form of
old Jake, like a hovering hawk, darting in at every
opportunity for a blow, shrieking, yelling, cursing with
infuriated abandon. And then from below, a greater
peril still, came the opening and shutting of doors, voices
calling—the tenement, at the racket, like a hive of
hornets disturbed, was beginning to stir into life. If
they caught him there! If they caught the Gray Seal
there! It brought a desperate strength to Jimmie Dale.
He had heard too often that slogan of the underworld
death to the Gray Seal !
He tore one of Thorold's arms free from his neck-
they were cheek to cheek—Thorold was snarling out a
torrent of blasphemy with gasping breath-he wrenched
himself free still—and then, their two hands outstretched
and clasped together as though in some grim devil's
waltz, they reeled toward the bed at the far end of the
room, and smashed into a chair. And, as they lost
their balance, Jimmie Dale, gathering all his strength for
the one supreme effort, hurled the other from him. There
was a crash that shook the floor, as Thorold, hurtling


70
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
backwards, struck his head with terrific force against the
iron bedstead, and dropped like a log.
Jimmie Dale was on his feet again in an instant-but
not before old Jake had run, yelling madly, from the
room. A glance Jimmie Dale gave at Thorold, who lay
limp and motionless, a crimson stream beginning to
trickle over temple and cheek; then, with a bound, he
reached the gas-jet, and turned out the light.
Old Jake's voice screamed from the hallway without:
"Help! The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal! Help!
Help! Quick! The Gray Seal!”
The staircase creaked under the rush of feet; yells be.
gan to well up from below. Jimmie Dale darted into
the outer room, and crouched down beside the doorway.
"Death to the Gray Seal!” The whole building, in a
pandemonium of hellish glee, seemed to echo and re-
echo the shout.
Jimmie Dale was deadly calm now, as his fingers closed
around his automatic-and, deadly cool, the keen, alert,
active brain was at work. It was black about him, pitch
black, there were no lights in the hallway-yes, a dull
glimmer now-a door farther along had opened—but
dark enough in here where he waited. There was a
chance-with the odds heavily against him—but it was
the only way.
They were on the landing outside now; and now, old
Jake shouting excitedly amongst them, a dozen forms
swept through the doorway, and scuffling, stamping, yell-
ing, made for the inner room-and Jimmie Dale slipped
out into the hall. His lips pressed tightly together. That
had been as he had expected, but the danger still lay
before him in the three flights of stairs. Some one
was coming up now, more than one, the stragglers—but
there would be stragglers until the last occupant of the
tenement was aroused. He dared not wait. In a minute


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!”
171
more, in less than a minute, they would have lighted
the gas again in there and found him gone.
He jumped for the head of the stairs a dark form
loomed up before him. Jimmie Dale launched himself
full at the other. There was a cry of surprise, an oath,
the man pitched sideways, and Jimmie Dale sprang by.
A yell went up from the man behind him; it was echoed
by a wild chorus from above, as of wolves robbed of
their prey; it was re-echoed by shouts from the stair-
ways and halls below—_and with his left hand on the
bannisters to guide him, taking the stairs four and five
at a time, Jimmie Dale went down-and now, aiming at
the ground, his revolver spat and barked a vicious warn-
ing, cutting lurid flashes through the murk ahead of him.
Doors that were open along the hallways shut with a
hurried bang; dark forms, like rats running for their
holes, scuttled to safety; women screamed and shrieked;
children whimpered. On Jimmie Dale ran. For the
second time he crashed into a form, and won by. They
were firing at him from above now-but by guesswork
-firing down the stair well. The pound of feet racing
down the stairs came from behind him--two flights be-
hind him—he calculated he had that much start. He gained
the entrance hallway where all was dark, leaped for the
front door, opened it, pulled it shut with a violent slam-
and, whirling instantly, running swiftly and silently back
along the hall, he reached the rear door that he had left
unfastened, darted out, and a moment later, swinging
himself over a high, backyard fence, dropped down into
the lane beyond. Whipping off his mask, he ran on like
a hare until he approached the lane's intersection with a
cross street. And here, well back from the street, he
paused to regain his breath and rearrange his dishevelled
attire; then, edging forward, he peered cautiously up
and down—and smiled grimly—and stepped out on the


72
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
street. He was a good block away from the tenement.
From the direction of the Nest came sounds of dis-
order and riot. A patrolman's whistle rang out shrilly.
It had been as close a call perhaps as the Gray Seal had
ever known—but, at that, the night's work was not
ended! There was still the actual thief. Thorold had
said he was to meet the man in his, Thorold's, office in
half an hour to split their ill-gotten gains. Jimmie Dale's
jaw squared. The thief! His hand at his side clenched
suddenly. Would it be only the thief, or would he have
to reckon with Thorold again as well? Could Thorold
keep the appointment? It was a question of how badly
Thorold was hurt, and that he did not know.
Jimmie Dale walked on another block, still another,
then turned so as to bring him into, but well up, the
street on which the tenement was situated. From here,
far down the ill-lighted street, he could see a mob gath-
ered outside the Nest. And then, as he stood hesitant,
there came the strident clang of a bell, the beat of hoofs,
and he caught the name of the hospital on the side of an
ambulance as it tore by-and, at that, he swung sud-
denly about, and, making his way across to Broadway,
boarded an uptown car.
Twenty minutes later, he closed the door of a tele-
phone booth in a saloon on lower Sixth Avenue behind
him, and consulting the directory for the number, called
the hospital.
"This is police headquarters speaking,” said Jimmie
Dale coolly. "What's the condition of that tenement case
with the broken head?”
"Hold the wire a minute," came the answer; and then,
presently: "Not serious; but still unconscious.”
“Thank you,” said Jimmie Dale.
He hung up the receiver, and made his way out to the
street. The coast was clear then, as far as Thorold was


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL !"
73
concerned. Jimmie Dale walked on halfway up the
block, and turned into the lighted hallway of a small
building whose second floor, above a millinery estab-
lishment, was rented out for offices. It was here that
Thorold maintained what he called his “office.” Mount-
ing the stairs and emerging upon a narrow corridor, that
was lighted at one end by a single incandescent, Jimmie
Dale halted before a door that bore the legend: HENRY
THOROLD-AGENT. Jimmie Dale's lips twisted into
grim lines. Agent-of what? He glanced quickly up
and down the corridor, slipped his little steel instrument
into the lock, and opened the door.
He stepped inside, closing the door without re-locking
it; and, using his flashlight now, moved forward, and
entered a sort of inner office that was partitioned off
from the rest of the room. There was a flat-topped desk
here, a swivel chair, an armchair, a rather good drawing
or two on the walls, and a soft yielding carpet under-
foot. Thorold was far too clever to overdo anything-
it was simply businesslike, with an air of modest success
about it.
Jimmie Dale appropriated the swivel chair behind the
desk. Half an hour from the time he had left the tene-
ment! He should not have long to wait, for he had
used up nearly, if not quite, all of that time already, and
the thief would certainly have every incentive to be
punctual. He laid his flashlight, turned on, upon the
desk, and, taking his automatic from his pocket, ex-
amined it. There were still two cartridges remaining in
the magazine. He slipped the weapon into the side
pocket of his coat, and began to sort over the papers and
letters he had taken from Thorold. He opened one-a
letter-glanced at its contents—and nodded. It was the
one to which the Tocsin had referred. He returned the
others to his pocket, began to read the one in his hand-


ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
and suddenly, leaning forward, snapped out his light.
Was that a step coming up the stairs?
He listened now intently. Yes, it was coming nearer.
He laid down the letter on the desk, and put on his mask.
Still nearer came the step. It had halted now before the
door. And now the hall door opened and closed. Jimmie
Dale sat motionless, except that his hand crept to his
coat pocket, and from his coat pocket to the desk again.
'The door closed softly—a man had entered the outer
room-and certainly a man who was no stranger to the
place, for he was moving unerringly in the darkness to-
ward the partition door. The man was in the inner
office now, passing the desk, so close that Jimmie Dale
could have reached out and touched him. There was a
soft, rubbing sound as the man's hand felt along the wall
for the electric light switch, a click, the room was sud-
denly flooded with light; and, with a low cry, blinking
there in the glare, staring at Jimmie Dale's masked face
-stood Colonel Milford.
And then the old gentleman swayed, and caught at the
back of the armchair for support—upon the desk lay the
diamond pendant, glittering under the light.
"My God!” he whispered. “What does this mean?”
"It means, colonel,” said Jimmie Dale softly, "that
Thorold couldn't come, that old Jake found one of the
diamonds cloudy and with a flaw, and that the deal fell
through-and it means, colonel, that you will never be
called upon to steal Mrs. Milford's diamonds again;
there is a letter here that
“The letter!" The old gentleman was staggering to-
ward the desk, He reached out his hand for the letter,
hesitated as though he were afraid that Jimmie Dale was
only tantalising him, would never let him have it-and
then with a little cry of wondrous gladness, he snatched
it to him.


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” 75
"I'd destroy that if I were you," suggested Jimmie
Dale quietly. "I don't imagine that Thorold or old Jake
will ever bother you again, but there are lots of 'Thor-
olds' in New York.” He motioned toward the pendant.
"That is yours, too, colonel.”
The old gentleman was fingering the letter over and
over, as though to assure himself that it was actually in
his possession; and into his blue eyes, as they travelled
back and forth from the pendant to Jimmie Dale, there
crept a half wondering, half wistful light.
"I do not know why you have done this for me, or who
you are, sir,” he said brokenly. “But at least I under-
stand that in some strange way you have stepped in be-
tween me and-and those men. You-you know the
story, then?"
"Only partially,” said Jimmie Dale with a smile, as he
shook his head. “But you need not- "
"I would wish to thank you, sir." The old Southerner
was stately now in his emotion. “I can never do so ade-
quately. You are at least entitled to my confidence."
His face grew a little whiter; he drew himself up as
though to meet a blow. “My boy, my son, sir, stole a
large sum of money from the bank where he was em-
ployed in New Orleans. He was not suspected; and in-
deed, as far as the bank is concerned, the matter remains
a mystery to this day. Shortly afterwards the Spanish
war broke out. My son was an officer in a local regi-
ment. He obtained an appointment for the front.” The
old gentleman paused; then he stood erect, head back, at
salute, like the gallant old soldier that he was. “My
son, sir, was a thief; but he redeemed himself, and he
redeemed his name-he fell at the head of his company,
leading his men."
Jimmie Dale's eyes had grown suddenly moist.
"I understand," he said simply.


76
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
intain our for You see, si; and then we
"He wrote this letter to me, making a full confession
of his guilt; and gave it to me, telling me not to open it
unless he should not come back.” The colonel's voice
broke; then, with an effort, steadied again. "It would
have killed his mother, sir. It strained our resources
most severely to pay back the money to the bank, and
I lied to her, sir-I told her that our investments were
proving unfortunate. Two years ago I completed the
final payment without the bank ever having found out
where the money came from; and then we moved up here
to New York. You see, sir, it was a little difficult to
maintain our former position in Louisiana, and amongst
strangers less would be expected of us. And then, sir,
shortly after that, I do not know how, this letter was
stolen, and for two years Thorold has held it over my
head, threatening to make it public if I refused his de-
mands. I gave him all the money I could get. I have
thought sometimes, sir, that I should put a revolver in
my pocket and come down here and shoot him like a
dog_but then, sir, the story, I was afraid, would come
out. Yesterday he made a final demand for five thou-
sand dollars. I did not have the money. He suggested
Mrs. Milford's pendant there. He promised to return
the letter, and any sum above the five thousand that he
could get for the diamonds. I knew he was lying about
the money; but I believed he would return the letter,
knowing that I now had nothing left. That is why I am
here to-night."
Again the old gentleman paused. It was very still in
the room. Jimmie Dale had taken the thin metal case
from his leather girdle and was fingering it abstractedly.
And then the colonel spoke again:
"And so," he said slowly, "I stole the pendant this
afternoon, and pretended to-night that it was done at
dinner-time, and—and pretended, too, to make the dis-


“DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!” mayo
covery of the theft myself. You see, sir, it was not only
the old name that would be smirched-there was the boy
to think of, and he had redeemed himself. And Mrs. Mil-
ford would have wanted me to do that, to take a thousand
of her jewels, if she had had them, if she had known
but, you see, sir, she could not know without it break-
ing her heart-I think the dearest thing in life to her i'
the boy's memory."
Outside on Sixth Avenue an elevated train roared and
thundered by—it seemed strangely extraneous and in-
congruous.
“And now, sir"—the old gentleman's voice seemed
tired, a little weary—“though you give me back the
pendant, I do not see how I can return it to my wife. It
was part of the agreement that I should notify the police
-it made it impossible for me to inform against Thor-
old, for-for I was the thief."
Jimmie Dale nodded. “I was thinking of that,” he said.
He opened the metal case; and, while the old gentle-
man watched in amazement and growing consternation,
he lifted out a gray paper seal with his tweezers, moist-
ened the adhesive side with the tip of his tongue, and
pressed the seal firmly with his coat sleeve over the cen-
tral cluster of the pendant.
The old gentleman tried twice to speak before a word
would come.
"You! You the Gray Seal!” he stammered at last.
"But only to-night I was reading in the papers, and they
said you were a murderer, an ogre of hell, and "
“And now, possibly," interrupted Jimmie Dale whim-
sically, “though circumstances will force you to keep
your opinion to yourself, you may have an idea that, as
between you and the papers, you are the better in-
formed. Well, at least, the Gray Seals shoulders are
broad! You need not worry about Thorold or old Jake;


78 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
I took pains to make them aware that the Gray Seal-
quite inadvertently, of course—had taken a passing fancy
to the pendant. You have only to wrap it up, and send it
by mail to yourself; and when it arrives”—he laughed
softly, as he stood up-'notify the police again. Let
them do the theorising—it is one of their cherished
amusements! And, oh, by the way, colonel, have you
any idea how much Thorold and his precious friend
Kisnieff have blackmailed you out of in the last two
years?"
"I did not have very much left when I came to New
York,” said the colonel, in a stunned way, still staring
at the gray paper seal. "Between four and five thousand
dollars."
"That's too bad," murmured Jimmie Dale. He took
the banknotes from his pocket, and laid them on the desk.
"I am afraid it is not quite all here—but I can assure you
it is all they had."
He held out his hand.
"But you're not going! You're not going that way!”
tried the colonel, and his eyes filled suddenly. "How am
I to repay you, how am I to- "
“Very easily,” smiled Jimmie Dale; “and, to use your
own expression, very adequately—by remaining here, say,
three minutes after I have left.” He caught the colonel's
hand in his and wrung it hard-and then, with a “Good-
night!" flung over his shoulder, Jimmie Dale was gone.


CHAPTER VI
THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT
THE small French window of the new Sanctuary,
1 that gave on the dirty little courtyard which, in
turn, paralleled a black and narrow lane, with its high,
board fence, opened cautiously, noiselessly. A dark form
slipped silently into the room. The window was closed
again. The dilapidated roller shade was drawn down,
and, guided by the sense of touch, the rent that gaped
across it was carefully pinned together. There was no
moon to shine in through the top-light and uncharitably
disclose the greasy, ragged carpet, or the squalor of the
room.
The dark form, like a shadow, moved across the room
to the door, tried the lock, slipped an inner bolt into
place, then returned halfway back to the windows, and
paused by the wall. A match flame spurted through the
blackness; and then, hissing as though in protest, the
miserable, clogged gas-jet, blue with air, still leaving the
corners of the room dim and murky, grudgingly lighted
up its immediate surroundings—and Jimmie Dale, im-
maculate in evening clothes, stood looking sharply about
him.
Here and there about the room, upon this article and
that, as though fixing its exact and precise location, his
glance fell critically; then he stepped back quickly to the
door, and knelt by the threshold. The tiny, unobtrusive
79


LARRY THE BAT
81
was afraid, for him. She had said that. She had said
that she would fight this out alone, that she would not,
could not, whatever the end might be, bring him again
into the shadows, throw his life again into the balance.
It was her love, pure, unselfish, a wondrous love, that
had prompted her to this course, he knew that-and
yet- But why all this again! His brain was numbed
with its incessant dwelling upon it day after day.
Jimmie Dale's hands clenched suddenly. That night,
a week ago, when he had been so nearly caught in the
Nest, had brought very forcibly upon him the realisation
that he could not risk any longer a haphazard course of
action, if he was to be of help to her, for next time his
own luck might go out. And so the idea had come-the
one, single, definite mode of attack that lay within his
power and he had used the week to advantage, and he
was ready now. From the first it had seemed almost
certain that the danger which threatened her must come
from one of two sources--and there was a way to probe
one of these to the bottom. He did not know who they
were, those who remained of the Crime Club, or where
they were; but he knew the Magpie, and he knew where
the Magpie was to be found—and to-night he would
know, settling the question once for all, all that the Mag-
pie knew!
He turned, walked back across the room, and, a few
feet along from the door, knelt down close to the wall.
An instant later, with the loose section of the base-board
removed, he reached inside, and took out a curious as-
sortment of garments, which he laid on the floor beside
him. They were not Smarlinghue's clothes—they were
even more shoddy and disreputable. His brows gathered
critically as he surveyed the wretched boots, the mis-
mated socks, the frayed, patched trousers, the greasy
e laid onines they thered
which he hue's cloth browsgate mis-


82
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
flannel shirt, the ragged coat, and the battered, shapeless
slouch hat. Matched closely enough to the originals to
pass without question, gathered from here and there,
painstakingly, with infinite trouble during the week that
had passed, were the clothes of-Larry the Bat.
It was a dangerous, almost desperate chance; but he,
too, was desperate now. To be caught, even to be seen
as Larry the Bat meant flinging every stake he had in
life into the game. More rabid than ever was the cry
of the populace for vengeance upon the Gray Seal; more
active than ever, combing den and dive, their dragnet
spreading from end to end of the city, were the efforts of
the police to effect the Gray Seal's capture; more like
snarling wolves than ever, the blood lust upon them,
mad to sink their fangs into the Gray Seal, were the deni-
zens of the underworld-and populace and police and
underworld alike knew Larry the Bat as the Gray Seal!
If he were seen-if he were caught! They had thought
that Larry the Bat had perished in the Sanctuary fire that
night, and that in Larry the Bat had perished the Gray
Seal. But the Gray Seal had been at work again since
then; and, logically enough, there had followed the de-
duction that, after all, Larry the Bat had in some way
escaped.
Jimmie Dale began to remove his expensively tailored
dress suit. It had made it much easier for him, easier
to play the rôle of Smarlinghue, easier for the Gray Seal
to work, that they, the populace, police and underworld,
had of late searched only for a character, a character
that, in truth, until to-night had literally vanished from
the face of the earth-a character known as Larry the
Bat. But now Larry the Bat was to assume tangible
form again, to accept the risk of recognition, to go out
amongst those whose one ambition was his destruction,
to court his own death, his ruin, the disclosure that Larry


LARRY THE BAT
83
the Bat was Jimmie Dale, that Jimmie Dale, the million-
aire clubman, a leader in New York's society, was there-
fore the Gray Seal, and with this disclosure drag an
honoured name in the mire, be execrated as a felon.
It seemed almost the act of a fool-worse than that,
indeed! Even a fool would not invite the blow of a
blackjack, the thrust of a knife, or a revolver bullet from
the first crook in gangland who recognised him; even a
fool would not voluntarily take the chance of thrusting
his head through the door of one of Sing Sing's death
cells!
And for an instant, fought out with himself times with-
out number though this had been since he had first con-
ceived the plan, Jimmie Dale hesitated. It was very still
in the room. In his hands now he held a bundle of neatly
folded clothing ready to be tucked away in the aperture
in the wall. He looked around him unseeingly. Then
suddenly the square jaw clamped hard, and he stooped,
thrust the bundle into the opening, and began rapidly to
dress again—as Larry the Bat.
If it was the act of a fool, it was even more the act of
a coward to shrink from it! It was the one way to force
the Magpie to lay his cards face up upon the table. It
was the Magpie who had discovered that Larry the Bat
was the Gray Seal; it was the Magpie who had led gang-
land to batter down the Sanctuary doors; it was the Mag-
pie who had clamoured the loudest of them all for the
Gray Seal's death-and it was the Magpie, therefore,
who had reason to fear Larry the Bat as he would fear
no other living thing on earth. And it was upon that
which he, Jimmie Dale, counted—the psychological effect
upon the Magpie on finding himself suddenly face to face
and in the power of Larry the Bat, with the unhallowed
reputation of the Gray Seal, that did not stop at murder,
to discount any thought in the Magpie's mind that the


84
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
choice between a full confession and death was an idle
threat which would not be put into instant execution.
Yes; it was simple enough, and sure enough-that
part of it. The Magpie would tell what he knew under
those circumstances—and tell eagerly. But if, after all,
the Magpie knew nothing! Jimmie Dale snarled con-
temptuously at himself. Childish! That, of course, was
possible_but in that case he would at least have run a
false lead to earth, and have eliminated the Magpie from
any further consideration.
Jimmie Dale took out a make-up box from the opening
in the wall, and, carrying it with him to the table, propped
up a small mirror against a collection of Smarlinghue's
paint tubes. His fingers were working swiftly now with
sure, deft touches, supplying to his face, his neck, his
hands and wrists, not the unhealthy pallor of Smarling-
hue, but the grimy, unwashed, dirty appearance of Larry
the Bat. It was the toss of a coin, heads or tails, whether
the Magpie was at the bottom of this or not. The Mag-
pie knew that Silver Mag had been in the affair that
night when Larry the Bat was discovered to be the Gray
Seal; the Magpie knew that Silver Mag was a pal of
Larry the Bat, and, therefore, equally with the Gray
Seal, the underworld had passed sentence of death upon
hier—but did the Magpie know that Silver Mag was
Marie La Salle, any more than he knew that Larry the
Bat was Jimmie Dale? That was the question-and its
answer would be wrung from the Magpie's lips to-night!
A piece of wax was inserted in each nostril, and be-
hind the lobes of his ears, and under his lip. Jimmie
Dale stared into the mirror-the vicious, dissolute face
of Larry the Bat leered back at him. And then, return-
ing abruptly to the loosened section of the base-board,
he restored the make-up box to its hiding place. He
reached inside again, and procured a pistol and flashlight,


LARRY THE BAT
85
which he stowed away in his pockets; there would be no
need to-night for that belt with its compact little kit of
burglar's tools; no need for that thin metal box with the
gray-coloured, adhesive paper seals, the insignia of the
Gray Seal, for to-night the Gray Seal would appear in
person. No-wait! That collection of little steel pick-
locks—and a jimmy! He would need those. He felt for
them in one of the pockets of the leather girdle, trans-
ferred them to the pocket of his ragged trousers, and
slipped the base-board back into place.
And now he stepped to the gas-jet, and turned out the
light. Then the roller shade was raised, the French win-
dow silently opened, silently closed_and Larry the Bat,
hugging close against the wall of the building, crept to
the fence, and, lifting aside a loose board, passed out into
the lane, and from the lane to an empty and drearily-
lighted cross street.
There was no “sanctuary” now. Who in the under-
world would fail to recognise Larry the Bat! He was
out in the open, on the fringes of the Bad Lands, where
recognition was to be feared from every passer-by, and
where, if caught, he would do well and wisely to use
his own automatic upon himself! And he must go deeper
still, into the heart of gangland, to reach that room in the
basement beneath Poker Joe's gambling hell where the
Magpie lived-or, rather, burrowed himself away in
those hours that were miserly devoted to sleep.
But Jimmie Dale knew his East Side as no other man
in New York knew it; knew it as a man whose life again
and again had depended solely upon that knowledge.
By lane and alley, by unfrequented streets, now running,
now crouched motionless in some dark corner waiting
for footsteps to die away along the pavement before he
darted across the street in front of him, Jimmie Dale
threaded his way through the East Side, as through the


86
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
twistings and turning of some maze, puzzling, grotesque
and intricate, but with whose secrets notwithstanding he
was intimately familiar.
When he paused at last, it was in a backyard, which
he had entered by the simple expedient of climbing the
fence from the lane behind. A low building loomed up
before him, whose windows at first glance were dark,
but through whose carefully closed blinds and tightly
drawn shutters might still be remarked, if one were suf-
ficiently inquisitive, the faint, suffused glow of lights
from within.
Jimmie Dale scarcely glanced at the windows. Poker
Joe's at this hour-it must be close to eleven o'clock, he
calculated-would be just about settling into its night's
swing. He was quite well aware both that the place was
lighted and that there were by now perhaps a score
of gangland's élite already at the tables; and that the
blinds and shades were closed and drawn interested him
only in that it safeguarded him without from being seen
by any one from within!
But there was another window upon which Jimmie
Dale now centred his entire attention-a narrow, oblong
window, cellar-like, just on a level with the ground-and
here there was neither a light nor a drawn shade. He
stole across the yard, and, five yards from the wall of
the house, dropped down on his hands and knees, and
crawled silently forward. Keeping a little to one side,
he reached the window, and lay there listening intently.
There was no sound, save a low, almost inaudible mur-
mur of voices from the windows above him-nothing
from the direction of that dark, oblong window that he
could reach out and touch now. The Magpie was pre-
sumably not at home!
The long, slim, tapering fingers, whose nerves, tingling
sensitively at the tips, were as eyes to Jimmie Dale, those


LARRY THE BAT
87
fingers that, to the Gray Seal, were like some magical
"open sesame” to the most intricate safes and vaults,
felt along the window sill, and, from the sill, made a
circuit of the sash. The window, he found, was hinged
at one side and opened inward; and now, under the pres-
sure of his steel jimmy, inserted between the ledge and
the lower portion of the frame, it began to yield.
Lying there on the ground, Jimmie Dale, his head
close to the opening, listened with strained attention
again. He had not made much noise, scarcely any—
not enough even to have aroused the Magpie if, say, by
any chance, the Magpie were within asleep. The sounds
from the floor above seemed to be louder now, to reach
him more distinctly, but from the basement room itself
there was nothing, no sound even of breathing.
Satisfied that the room was unoccupied, Jimmie Dale
pushed the window wide open, and peered in. It was
like looking into some dark cavernous hole, and he could
not distinguish a single object. Then his hand slipped
into his pocket for his flashlight, and the round, white
ray shot downward and around the place. The floor of
the room was perhaps five feet below the level of the
window sill; to the left, against the wall, was a bed;
there was a chair, a table sadly in need of repair, a few
garments hanging from nails driven haphazardly into the
plaster, and, save for a dirty piece of carpet on the floor,
nothing else. The flashlight played slowly around the
room. Opposite the window was the door, and suspended
from the centre of the ceiling was a single incandescent
lamp.
With a sort of grim nod of approval, Jimmie Dale
snapped off his flashlight, and, turning around, worked
himself in through the window feet first, and dropped
silently to the floor. He had only to wait now until the


88 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Magpie returned-whether it was a question of hours or
minutes
Jimmie Dale made his way to the chair, and sat down
--and again he nodded his head grimly. It was very
simple; he had only to wait, and this place, this burrow
of the Magpie's, could not have been improved upon for
his purpose. It was eminently suitable, so suitable that
there seemed something ironical in the fact that it should
have been the Magpie who had chosen it. One could
commit murder here, and none would be the wiser-and
none would be more keenly alive to that than the Magpie
himself! A threat from the Gray Seal in these sur-
roundings left nothing to be desired. They were making
too much noise above to hear anything in this room below
the ground, and the little window afforded an instant
means of escape without the slightest danger of dis-
covery. Yes; the Magpie, not being a fool, would very
thoroughly appreciate all this.
Time passed. It was a nerve racking vigil that Jim-
mie Dale kept, sitting there in the chair-waiting. It
was so dark he could not have seen his hand before his
face. And it was silent, in spite of that queer com-
posite sound of voices, and shuffling feet, and the oc-
casional squeak of chair legs from above-a silence that
seemed to belong to this miserable hole alone, that seemed
immune from all extraneous noises. And after a time, in
a curious way, the silence seemed to palpitate, to beat
upon the ear-drums, to grow almost uncanny.
· His lips tightened a little, and he smiled commiserat-
ingly at himself. His nerves were getting a little too
tautly strung, that was all; he was listening too intently
for that expected step upon the stair, for the opening of
that door he faced. And it was not like him to have an
attack of nerves—and especially in view of the fact that
his plan, in the simplicity of its execution did not even


LARRY THE BAT
89
warrant anxiety for its success. He had only to remain
quiet until the Magpie entered and turned on the light,
then clap his automatic to the Magpie's head—the psy-
chology of fear would do the rest. And yet—what was
it? As the minutes dragged along, fight it as he would,
a distinct depression, a panicky sort of uneasiness, was
settling down upon him. The darkness, in a most un-
pleasant and disconcerting way, seemed to be full of
eeriness, of warnings.
For perhaps ten minutes he sat there in the chair,
silent and motionless, angry, struggling with himself-
but his disquietude would not down; rather, it but grew
the stronger, until it took the form of imagining that he
was not alone in the room. He scowled contemptuously
at himself. There was another psychology than that of
fear-the psychology of suggestion. That silence, palpi-
tating in his ear-drums, began to whisper: “You are not
alone hereyou are not alone-you are not alone.”
Was that a sound there outside the door? A step
cautiously approaching? He leaned forward tensely.
No-his laugh was low, short, furious-no! It was only
from above, that sound.
Jimmie Dale's face hardened. It was childish, this
sensation of presence in the room; but it was also un-
nerving. Why should so unusual a thing happen to him
to-night? Was it purely over-wrought nerves, due to the
strain of the peril he ran as Larry the Bat-or was it
intuition ? Intuition had never failed him yet. Well,
whatever it was, he would put a stop to it. He was here
to-night to get the Magpie, and nothing should interfere
with that. Nothing! He and the Magpie would square
accounts to-night-and square them once for all!
Not alone here in the Magpie's den-eh? His flash-
light streamed out, and began slowly and deliberately to
circle the room. If his brain was so restless and active


LARRY THE BAT
91
Jimmie Dale stooped quickly, and raised one of the
other's feet a few inches from the floor. It fell back-
a dead weight.
Jimmie Dale's jaws were hard clamped. There was
devil's work here—some of the Magpie's, possibly. Every
faculty alert now, Jimmie Dale was quietly lifting aside
the small iron bed. The Magpie was no fool! By under-
world and police alike it would be accepted without ques-
tion that the Gray Seal had held a day of reckoning in
store for the Magpie. Had the Magpie traded on that-
to get rid of some one who was in his way, this out-
stretched, inert thing on the floor, and lay it to the door
of the Gray Seal? It was clever, hellish in its cunning.
And it would appear plausible enough. The Gray Seal
had come here, say, searching for the Magpie, and in the
darkness had struck another down! Yes, the Magpie
could get away with that. It would stand to reason that
the Magpie would not lure a victim to his own den,
and-
A low cry was on Jimmie Dale's lips. The bed was
moved out now, and he was stooping over a man whose
head was gruesomely battered above the right temple
and back across the skull. The flashlight wavered in his
hand, as he held it focussed on the other's face. It was
the Magpie-dead.


CHAPTER VII
THE BOND ROBBERY
TT seemed to Jimmie Dale that, in the darkness, the
1 room was full of unseen devils laughing and jeering
derisively at him. It seemed that reality did not exist;
that only unreality prevailed. The Magpie—dead! It
seemed for the moment that he had utterly lost his grip
upon himself; that mentally he was being tossed help-
lessly about, the sport of fate. The Magpie-dead! It
meant-what did it mean? He must think now, and think
quickly. It meant, first of all, that any hope for the
Tocsin which he had built upon the Magpie was shat-
tered, gone forever. And it meant, that gray seal on the
sole of the dead man's boot, that the murder had been
committed with even greater cunning and finesse, and
an even greater security for the murderer, than he had
attributed to the Magpie a moment since, when he had
thought the Magpie the instigator, and not the victim,
of the crime.
He was examining the wound, searching for the weapon
-it must have been a blunt instrument of some sort-
with which the blow, or blows, had been struck. There
was nothing. The Magpie lay there-dead. That was
all.
Mechanically Jimmie Dale replaced the bed in its
original position over the murdered man, and stood
staring down again at the gray seal on the Magpie's boot.
It was not why the Magpie had been murdered, it was
92


94 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
He was still laughing in that low, bitter way, as he
knelt now, and took out his pocketknife. The gray seal,
at least, would not be found-he was lucky there-he
had only to scrape it off, and Norwait! Would it
not be better to leave it there? It would throw the mur-
derer off his guard if he believed that his plan had
worked; and it could make little difference to the Gray
Seal's record to be held guilty of another murder-tem-
porarily. Temporarily! Yes, that was it! Here was
one crime of which the Gray Seal would be vindicated,
and the guilty man be
"Jimmie!"
It seemed to quiver, low-breathed, through the dark-
ness-his name. His name! Was he bereft of all his
senses! His name! Here in this horrible murder hole!
Was he indeed mad with his imaginings, with these
voices that had been whispering, and laughing, and jeer-
ing at him out of the blackness! And, absurdly, it had
seemed this time that it was the Tocsin's voice!
"Jimmie-quick! On the floor under the window!"
He whirled like a flash. Mistake! Imaginings! No!
It was the Tocsin! It was her voice! The gleam of his
flashlight cut the black, and, leaping across the room,
played upon the small, narrow, oblong window-it was
from there the voice had come. But it was only black
and empty there. And around the room his flashlight
swept, and it was black and empty there, toomexcept for
a square, white object upon the floor below the window.
She was gone.
And it was like a half sob that came from Jimmie
Dale's lips.
“Gone !” he whispered miserably. “Gone !"
Why had she gone like that? Why had she not waited
- just for a moment, just for the single instant, if he
could have had no more, that he would have given his


THE BOND ROBBERY
95
it
.
.
.
a.
life to have? And the answer was in his soul. He knew,
and he knew that she, too, knew, that it would not have
been a moment or an instant—that he would never have
let her go again. And to follow her? He shook his
head. By the time he had climbed out of the window,
what trace, any more than there was now, would there
be of her! She was gone-a sort of finality in her act,
as there always was, that left nothing to be done, or
said.
But the note! That white thing there upon the floor!
He crossed the room, picked it up, tore it open, and,
with his flashlight upon it, began to read.
"Jimmie- Jimmie- ” It was scrawled in haste, only
a few lines. His eyes travelled rapidly over the words,
and suddenly his breath came fast.
"My God!” he cried out sharply.
As though he could not have read aright, he read
again; disjointed words and phrases muttered audibly:
"... Afraid not in time . . . hurry ... this after-
noon ... the Magpie and Virat ... Kenleigh, insur-
ance broker ... safe in Kenleigh's house ... ground
floor-left ... one hundred thousand dollars . . . bonds
... will try it ... Meighan of headquarters . . , half-
past one at Virat’s . . . Gray Seal . . . Larry the Bat
... if dangerous, keep away ..."
One glance around the room Jimmie Dale gave in-
stinctively; and then he was crawling through the win-
dow, and, outside, regaining his feet, he darted across
the yard, and out into the lane. Kenleigh, the insurance
broker-he repeated the address she had given in the
note over to himself. It was an apartment house on
Fifth Avenue near Washington Square.
He ran on, as he had come, through lane and alley,
working his way out of the Bad Lands. It was danger-
ous, of course, in any case, but once clear of that section


96 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
of the city which houses the underworld, his risk of dis-
covery was greatly minimised, since, though familiar
to every denizen of gangland, Larry the Bat was natu-
rally not the same intimate figure in the more law-abiding
and respectable districts; and he should, except for an
extraordinary piece of bad luck, pass in the quarters
he was now heading for as no more than exactly what
his appearance proclaimed him to be a disreputable and
seedy vagrant.
It was slow work, hurry as he would, doubling and
zigzagging his way up through the East Side; discourag-
ing, when time was so great a factor, to cover three and
four times the actual distance in order to keep to the
lanes and alleys whose shelter he dared not leave; but
he was spurred on now by a sort of grim, unholy joy.
He knew now who had murdered the Magpie, and why;
he knew now who was making a tool, a cat's-paw of the
Gray Seal; he knew now who had so cynically elected
him, if caught, as a substitute for the other to the electric
chair. It was Virat! Frenchy Virat, the suave, sleek
gambler, confidence man and crook! Well, the game
was of Virat's choosing--and they would play it out now
to the end, Virat and the Gray Seal, if it was the last act
of his, Jimmie Dale's, life! It was only a question now
of whether or not Virat had completed all his work, of
whether there was yet time to get to Kenleigh's.
It was close to midnight, as Jimmie Dale came out on
Washington Square. He crossed to Waverly Place, and,
on the point of starting along Fifth Avenue, drew sud-
denly back around the corner. A man, walking rapidly,
was just turning into Fifth Avenue from the opposite
corner. Jimmie Dale drew in his breath sharply. He
had got out of sight just in time. He recognised the
quick, springy walk of the other. It was Meighan, of
Headquarters. And then Jimmie Dale smiled a little
Jimmies into Fifthe
had er


THE BOND ROBBERY : 97
she had a. The distortiot useless exhat had
whimsically. They were both bound for the same place,
he and Meighan, of Headquarters—Kenleigh's apart-
ment, that was a little way further on there along the
Avenue.
A short distance behind the other, but on the opposite
side of the street, Jimmie Dale followed the detective.
There was hardly any use now in going to Kenleigh's,
for, if the detective was really bound for there, it made
his, Jimmie Dale's, errand useless—the summoning of
the Headquarters' man was prima facie evidence that the
robbery had already been committed. And yet a cer-
tain grim curiosity remained. Just how had it been done?
And, besides, she had said, "half-past one at Virat's," so
there was time to spare. The distorted lips of Larry the
Bat thinned ominously. No; it was not useless even now.
He had a very strong personal interest in all that had
taken place-Virat would be the less likely to slip through
his fingers, or through the fingers of the law, for the in-
formation that the scene of the robbery might supply!
Meighan disappeared suddenly inside an apartment
house, which Jimmie Dale recognised as a rather fash-
ionable one, devoted exclusively to bachelors' quarters.
Jimmie Dale quickened his step, walked on to the next
corner, crossed the street, and came back along the block.
As he approached the apartment-house entrance, voices
reached him from the vestibule, and then he heard the
closing of a door.
"Ground floor-left," murmured Larry the Bat to him-
self. He smiled facetiously. “Saves an interview with
the janitor!"
He glanced sharply around him in all directions and
the next instant was inside the vestibule—and in an-
other, without a sound, was crouched close against the
apartment door. A delicate little steel picklock was
working now, the deft fingers manipulating it silently,


98 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
and then stealthily he pushed the door open a crack.
A man's voice, agitated, came to him from within:
"... Perhaps twenty minutes, I don't know—the
length of time it took you to get here. I was dining out.
I 'phoned Headquarters the instant I came in.”
Jiminie Dale pushed the door further open, slipped
through, and left the door just ajar behind him. He
was in the hallway of a very small apartment, of not
more than two or three rooms, he judged. Diagonally
ahead of him a light streamed out from an open door.
He stole toward this, and, pressed close against the jamb
of the door, peered in.
It was a sort of sitting-room, or den, cosily furnished
with deep, comfortable lounging chairs. There was a
flat-topped desk in the centre, a telephone on the desk;
and at the rear of the room a connecting door, leading
presumably to the bedroom, was open. A clean-shaven,
dark-eyed man of perhaps thirty-five, Kenleigh obviously,
was pacing nervously up and down. His face was pale,
his hair ruffled; and, in his distraction, apparently, he
had forgotten to remove the cloak which he was wearing
over his evening clothes. In the far corner of the room,
Meighan, the detective, knelt upon the floor amidst a
scene of grotesque disorder. The door of a very small
safe had been “souped,” and now sagged open. Books
and papers littered the floor, and were strewn over a
mattress that, evidently dragged from the inner room,
had been swaddled around the safe to deaden the sound
of the explosion.
“You don't understand!” Kenleigh burst out, with a
groan. “This means absolute ruin to me! A hundred
thousand dollars in bonds—payable to bearer-and-and,
God help me, they weren't mine!"
"Say”—Meighan, still busily occupied with the frac-
tured safe, spoke gruffly, though not unkindly, over his


THE BOND ROBBERY
99
shoulder_“I understand all right, but don't lose your
nerve, Mr. Kenleigh. It won't get you anywhere, and
it doesn't follow because the swag is gone that we can't
get it back. I know the guy that pulled this job.”
"You—what!” Kenleigh, his face lighting up as
though with a sudden hope, stepped quickly toward the
detective. “What did you say? You know who did it!”
"Don't get excited !” advised Meighan coolly. "Sure,
I know! That is, it's a toss-up between one of two, and
that's easy. We'll round 'em both up before morning,
and then I guess it won't be much of a trick to pick the
winner. They won't be looking for trouble as quick as
this. We'll get 'em, all right. It's a toss-up between
Mug Garretty and the Magpie.”
Kenleigh was staring incredulously at the detective.
“How do you know?” he gasped out. “I—I don't- "
“I daresay you don't.” Meighan was chuckling now.
"It's like this, Mr. Kenleigh. A crook's like any one else,
like an artist, say—you get to know 'em, get to spot 'em,
especially safe workers, from certain peculiarities about
their work. They can't any more help it than stop breath-
ing. Here, for instance, the way he " Meighan
stopped suddenly. He had been pulling the mattress
away from the front of the safe, and now, with a sharp,
exultant exclamation, he stooped quickly and picked up
a small object from the floor. He held it out, twirling
it between thumb and forefinger, for Kenleigh's inspec-
tion-a flashy scarf pin, horseshoe-shaped, of blatantly
imitation diamonds.
Kenleigh shook his head bewilderingly.
“I suppose you mean that you recognise it?" he ven-
tured.
"Recognise it!" Meighan laughed low, and, stepping
quickly past Kenleigh to the desk, picked up the teić-
phone, and called Headquarters. “Recognise it!” With


100 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the receiver to his ear, waiting for his connection, he
turned toward Kenleigh. “Why, say, walk over to the
Bowery and show it to the first person you meet, and
he'd call the turn. Pretty, isn't it? When he's dolled up,
he's some-hello!” He swung around to the telephone.
"Headquarters? ... Meighan speaking from Kenleigh's
apartment ... Get a drag out for the Magpie on the
jump ... Eh? ... Yes! ... Left his visiting card
... What? ... Yes, wound a mattress around the box
and souped it; his scarf pin must have caught in the tick-
ing and pulled out. . . . Sure, that's the one the horse-
shoe—found it on the floor ... What? . . . Yes, the
chances are ten to one he will, it's his only play . . . All
right, I'll get Mr. Kenleigh's story meanwhile . . . I'll be
here till you 'phone ... Yes ... All right!”
Meighan hung up the receiver, sat down in a chair,
and motioned toward another that was close alongside the
desk.
"Turn out the light, Mr. Kenleigh,” he said abruptly;
"and sit down here."
Kenleigh looked his amazement.
“Turn out the light?” he repeated perplexedly.
“Yes,” Meighan nodded. “And at once, please."
Obeying mechanically, Kenleigh moved toward the
electric-light switch. There was a faint click, and the
apartment was in darkness. Came then the sound of
Kenleigh making his way back across the room, and
settling himself in the chair beside the detective.
"I–I don't quite see,” said Kenleigh, a little nervously.
“I ”
"You will in a minute,” interrupted Meighan, in a low
voice. "Don't make any noise now, and don't speak much
above a whisper. That little glass stick pin is worth
twenty years to the Magpie. See? When he finds that
he has lost it, he'll take any risk to make sure that he


THE BOND ROBBERY
101
evening did you
It was quite die you went out to
didn't lose it here. Get the idea ? It would plant him
for keeps, and nobody knows it any better than he does.”
“You mean he'll come back here?” whispered Ken-
leigh eagerly.
Meighan chuckled.
"Sure, he'll come back here-if he isn't nabbed before-
hand! It's the only chance he's got. Don't you worry,
Mr. Kenleigh. He's a shy bird, is the Magpie, or he'd
have been up the river long before now, but we've got him
coming and going this deal. Now then, I haven't got
the details from you yet. What time this evening did you
get back here before you went out to dine?”
It was quite dark now, and Jimmie Dale leaned for-
ward a little to catch the words. Both men were speak-
ing in guarded undertones.
"About six o'clock," Kenleigh answered. “I came
straight from the office. I put the bonds in that safe
there, and I should say it was a quarter to seven by the
time I had dressed and gone out again.”
"And, say, halfpast eleven when you got back. So
some time between seven o'clock and halfpast eleven,
Mr. Magpie got into the courtyard, put a jimmy at work
on the bathroom window beyond the bedroom there,
and got busy—more likely to be nearer eleven than seven
he would have been back before now, otherwise,
eh?” Meighan seemed to be communing with himself,
rather than talking to Kenleigh. “Wouldn't make such
an awful noise-didn't need much juice on that safe-
pretty slick with the smother game-didn't raise an
alarm, anyway.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Meighan spoke
again:
"Let's have your story, Mr. Kenleigh. How did you
come to bring a hundred thousand dollars' worth of
shps would havore likely to beyond the Jimmy at u


102 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
bonds home with you? Anå how did the Magpie get
onto the lay?"
“I don't know, unless he stood in with the pond firm's
messenger; that's the only way in which I could account
for it,” said Kenleigh huskily. “And I've no right to
say that. God knows I've no wish to get an innocent
man into trouble. I've no proof-but I can't see any
other solution.” Kenleigh's voice broke. He seemed
to steady himself with an effort. "I'm an insurance
broker with an office on Wall Street, as I daresay you
know. A client of mine, a we'l-known millionaire here
in the city, wanted a hundred thousand dollars' worth
of the Canadian War Loan bonds, but for business
reasons, he has a large German connection, he did not
want his name to appear in the transaction.” Kenleigh
hesitated.
"Sure!” said Meighan. “I see. Wise guy! Go on!”
"He commissioned me to get them for him." Ken-
leigh's voice was agitated as he continued. "I tele-
phoned Thorpe, LeLand and Company, the brokers,
where I was personally known, explained the circum-
stances, and placed the order. My client was to give me
a check for the amount on the delivery of the bonds to
him. I was to place this to my own credit in the bank,
and check against it in favour of Thorpe, LeLand and
Company. They sent the bonds over to my office by a
messenger about five o'clock this afternoon. It was too
late to put them in a safe-deposit vault. I locked them
first in my office safe, and then I grew nervous about
them, and took them out again."
“Anybody see you do that?" queried Meighan quickly.
"No; I don't see how they could. I've only a small
one-room office, and there was nobody there but myself."
“And so they kind of got your goat, and you figured


THE BOND ROBBERY
103
the safest thing to do was to bring them home with you?”
suggested Meighan.
“Yes." There was a miserable note of dejection in
Kenleigh's voice. “Yes; that's what I did. And I put
them in that safe. You know the rest, and-and, oh, my
God, what am I to do! My client, naturally, won't pay
for what he does not receive, and I owe Thorpe, LeLand
and Company a hundred thousand dollars." He laughed
out a little hysterically. "A hundred thousand dollars !
It sounds like a joke, doesn't it? I've got a little money,
all I've been able to save in ten years' work, a few
thousand. I'm ruined.”
"Don't talk so loud !" cautioned Meighan. He whistled
low under his breath. “You're certainly up against it,
Mr. Kenleigh, but you buck up! We'll get 'em. And,
anyway, bonds can be traced.”
"These are payable to bearer," said Kenleigh numbly.
“There were three classes of bonds in this issue-those
payable to bearer; those registered as to principal; and
those fully registered, that is where the interest is paid
by government check instead of the bonds having cou-
pons. Naturally, under the circumstances, it was the
‘payable-to-bearer' bonds that my client wanted.”
“Well, they're numbered, aren't they?" Meighan re-
turned encouragingly.
"That's poor consolation for me," said Kenleigh bit-
terly. "Suppose some of them, or even all of them, were
recovered that way in time-where do I stand to-morrow
morning?"
"I guess that's right-if the Magpie ever got a chance
to hand them over to some fence," admitted Meighan.
"The fence could dispose of them by the underground
route all over the country where the numbers weren't
staring everybody in the face. Yes, I guess they could
cash in, all right. Or it wouldn't be much of a trick for
Payable to be three classes carer," said Ken


104 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
one before they in it would have a foot, the s
a good plate-worker to alter a number or two, either-
the game's big enough. But”—Meighan chuckled again
"he hasn't got away with it yet!"
Kenleigh made no answer.
It was still again in the apartment. Through the
darkness only a few feet away from Jimmie Dale, the two
men sat there silently, waiting, as he had waited, in the
darkness, and the silence-for the Magpie. There
seemed an abhorrent, gruesome analogy in the situa-
tion—this waiting for a murdered man to come!
The minutes dragged by, ten, fifteen of them. And
now Jimmie Dale, cramped though he was, dared not
shift his position; the movement of a foot, the slightest
stir would be heard. It would have been better if he had
gone before they had ceased talking. He had heard
enough long before then, and yet
Suddenly, startling, like the clash of an alarm bell
through the silence, the telephone rang, Jimmie Dale
heard Meighan fumble for the receiver; and then, as the
other spoke, seizing the opportunity, he began to retreat
stealthily back across the hallway toward the vestibule.
door.
“Hello!” Meighan's voice was still guarded. "Yes--
yes . . . What!" His voice rose suddenly in a rasping
cry. "What's that! Dead! Murdered! Wait a minute !
Kenleigh, they've found the Magpie murdered in his
room!"
"Murdered !” cried Kenleigh; then, frantically: “But
the bonds, the bonds! Did they find the bonds? Ask
them! Tell them to look! The bonds! Are the bonds
there?"
“Hello!” Meighan was evidently speaking into the
'phone again. “Any trace of the bonds ? . . . What?
... Yes, yes; go on, I'm listening! ... Who? ...


THE BOND ROBBERY
105
What? ... Good Lord!" The receiver clicked back
on its hook.
"What is it? What do they say?" demanded Ken-
leigh feverishly.
“Mr. Kenleigh," said Meighan soberly, "there's been a
little feud on in the underworld for the last few months.
It came to a showdown to-night, and the man that won
played in luck-he's killed two birds with one stone, I
guess. It looks damned black for your bonds, I'm
afraid.”
"They're they're gone?" faltered Kenleigh.
"Yes—and for keeps, I guess,” said Meighan gruffly.
He laughed shortly, mirthlessly. “You can turn the
light on now; we'd wait a long time here-for the Gray
Seal!"


CHAPTER VIII
AT HALFPAST ONE
I ARRY THE BAT closed the outer door noiselessly
L behind him, slipped through the vestibulemand,
an instant later, was slouching along Fifth Avenue, head-
ing back toward Washington Square. His hands in his
ragged pockets clenched. It had been well worked out-
with a devil's ingenuity. The police had swallowed the
bait, jumped to the inevitable conclusion desired, and
credited the Gray Seal with the double crime of theft
and murder without an instant's hesitation. Well, why
shouldn't they! It had been well planned; it was natural
enough! Larry the Bat, in his turn, laughed, mirthlessly.
But the game was not yet played out!
Through the by-ways, lanes and alleys of the under-
world, Jimmie Dale once more threaded his way, and
finally, mounting the dark stairway leading upward from
the side entrance of a small house just off Chatham
Square, he let himself stealthily into a room on the first
landing. It was Virat now, and this was where Virat
lived-a locality where a stranger took his life in his hand
any time! Below stairs was a pseudo tea-merchant's
store-kept by a Chinese "hatchet” man. But Lang
Chang had not been in evidence when he, Jimmie Dale,
had crept up the stairs, for there had been no light in
the store windows,
And now Jimmie Dale's flashlight was playing around
the room. Halfpast one, she had said. It could not
106


AT HALFPAST ONE
107
be more than one o'clock as yet. There was ample time
to search for the bonds.
He began to move noiselessly around the room-a
rather ornately furnished combination sitting and bed-
room. “Keep away, if dangerous," had been the Toc-
sin's caution. He smiled grimly. What danger could
there be ? He had only to face one at a time; the Tocsin
could absolutely be depended upon to see to that, and the
advantage of surprise was with him. He was pulling out
the drawer of a bureau now and now his hands were
searching swiftly under the mattress of the bed. It was
vitally necessary to secure the bonds. Barring that little
matter of the numbers, they were as good as cash-and
the matter of numbers would not trouble Virat. He knew
Virat, and he had known Virat very well--but not so
well by far as he knew him now! Virat was as suave
and polished a gentleman crook as the country possessed.
Virat was the sort of man who, after the uproar had died
down, would have the nerve and address to take up his
residence in some little out-of-the-way place, and either
dispose of as many of the bonds at a time as he dared
to those he would cultivate as friends, or even
have the audacity to secure a loan on a modest number
of them from the local bank itself, whose conversance
with the missing numbers might be expected to be of the
haziest description. Also Virat would be careful to see
that his offerings were not made at such dates as to have
the interest coupons cause him any inconvenience by
falling due within twenty-four hours! It would be quite
simple—for Virate! In six months, in as many places,
with the length and breadth of the country to choose from,
Virat could quite readily dispose of the lot; not quite at
the issue price perhaps if he secured loans, but still at a
figure that would be very profitable for Virat! Or, as
Meighan had suggested, with the aid of a confederate of


108 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the right sort, the change of a figure-ah! Jimmie Dale,
flat upon the floor, his hand stretched in under the wash-
stand, drew out a short, round, heavy object. He ex-
amined this attentively for a second; and then, his face
hardening, he slipped it into his coat pocket.
He resumed his musings, and resumed his search
through the room. Virat was clever enough to find
means of disposing of the bonds in some fashion or other,
and too clever to have ever committed murder for them
otherwise there was no doubt of that. And, after all,
what difference did it make whatever Virat's method
might be! It was extraneous, immaterial. Jimmie Dale
shrugged his shoulders. The vital question was—where
were the bonds?
It was a strange search there in the murderer's room,
the flashlight winking and flinging its little gleams of
light through the blackness; a strange search, thorough
as only Jimmie Dale could make it and still leave no
tell-tale sign behind to witness that a single object in the
room had been disturbed. But the search was futile;
and at the end Jimmie Dale smiled whimsically.
"The process of elimination again!” he muttered. "I
seem to be obsessed with that to-night. Well, not being
here, there's only one place the bonds can be. The pro-
cess of elimination has its advantages." The flashlight
circled around the room, and held for a moment on the
electric-light switch near the door. “It must be after
halfpast one,” said Jimmie Dale-and suddenly snapped
off his light.
There came a faint creaking noise-some one was
cautiously mounting the stairs. Jimmie Dale snatched
his automatic from his pocket, and without a sound
stole forward across the room to a position by the door.
The footsteps were on the landing now. The doorknob
was tried; the door began to open slowly, inch by inch,


AT HALFPAST ONE
109
reached
who stood bivas Meighan
wider; a dark form slipped through into the room; the
door was closed again—and Jimmie Dale, reaching for-
ward, clapped the muzzle of his automatic against the
other's head. But it was Larry the Bat who spoke-in
a hoarse, guttural whisper.
“Youse let a peep outer youse, an' youse goes bye-bye
for keeps! See? Put yer hands over yer head, an'
do it-quick!”
Jimmie Dale's left hand reached out and switched on
the light. It was Meighan, hands elevated, startled, angry,
who stood blinking in the glare-and then a low cry came
from the man.
“Larry the Bat-the Gray Seal! So it's a plant, is it!
That damned she-pal of yours handed it to me good over
the 'phone !" Meighan's lips tightened. “And where's
Virat-did you kill him, too?”
Jimmie Dale's hand was searching swiftly through the
detective's clothes. He transferred a revolver and a pair
of handcuffs to his own pockets.
"I had ter take a chance on de light,” said Larry the
Bat plaintively; " 'cause I had ter frisk youse." He
turned off the light again. "Sure, she's a slick one!"
Larry the Bat, his left hand free again, turned his flash-
light upon the detective. “Youse can put yer Aippers
down now. Mabbe she staked youse ter de tip dat de
bonds was here, eh?”
“Yes, blast you—both of you!” growled Meighan.
"Well, dey ain't,” said Larry the Bat coolly; "but
mabbe, after all, she wasn't handin' youse no steer."
Meighan, savage at his own helplessness, snarled his
words.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Mabbe nothin'-mabbe a whole lot.” Larry the Bat
dropped his voice mysteriously. "I was thinkin' of
pullin' off a little show here, an' youse have de luck ter


110 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
W den, guess youse a ricks! Nog
get an invite, dat's all. Mabbe I'll hand youse somethin'
on a gold platter, an' mabbe I'll hand youse-this!"
The automatic was shoved significantly an inch closer
to Meighan's face. "Youse know me! Youse know
what'll happen if youse play any funny tricks! No guy
gets de Gray Seal alive-I guess youse are wise ter dat,
ain't youse? Now den, over youse go behind dat big
chair on de other side of de table !"
Meighan, a puzzled look replacing the angry expres-
sion on his face, blinked.
"What's the lay?” he queried.
“I'm expectin' company,” grinned Larry the Bat.
"Youse keeps yer yap closed till youse gets de cue-
savvy? Dat's all! If youse play fair, mabbe youse'll
get a look-in on de rake-off; if youse throws me down,
the first shot I fires won't miss youse. Go on now, get
down behind dat chair-quick !"
Hesitantly, following the flashlight's directing ray,
covered by Jimmie Dale's automatic, Meighan, mutter-
ing, made his way across the room, and crouched down
behind the back of a large lounging chair. Jimmie Dale
leaned nonchalantly against the jamb of the door, the
flashlight holding a bead upon the chair.
"Youse'll pardon me if I keeps de spot-light on youse,”
drawled Larry the Bat. “Some of youse dicks ain't
trustworthy."
“Look here!” Meighan burst out. “This is a hell of a
note! What- ".
"Youse shut yer face!" Jimmie Dale's voice had
grown suddenly cold and menacing—the stairs were
creaking again, this time under a quick tread. "Listen!
Say, youse don't have ter wait long fer de curtain ter
go up on de act. Don't youse make a sound!”.
The doorknob turned. Jimmie Dale whipped his flash-
light into his pocket-and in a flash, as a man entered,


AT HALFPAST ONE
111
switched on the light, and slammed shut the door. A
dapper individual, wearing tortoise-rimmed glasses, with
black moustache and goatee, was staring into the muzzle
of Jimmie Dale's automatic.
"Hello, Frenchy!” observed Larry the Bat suavely.
"Feelin' faint?”
The man's face had gone a chalky white. He looked
wildly around him, as though seeking some avenue of
escape.
"Non Dieu !” he whispered. “Larree ze Bat! It is
ze Gray Seal! It is "
“Aw, cut out dat parlay-voo dope !" Larry the Bat
broke in curtly. “Youse don't need ter puil dat stuff
wid me, Virat. alk New York, see?”
Virat moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"What do you want here?” he asked huskily.
"Oh, nothin' much," said Larry the Bat airily. "I
thought mabbe youse might figure dere was some of dem
bonds comin' ter me.”
"Bonds! I don't know anything about any bonds,"
said Virat, in a low voice. “I don't know what you are
talking about.'
“You don't-eh?” inquired Larry the Bat ominously.
“Well den, I'll help ter put youse wise. But mabbe I'd
better get yer gun first, eh?” As he had done to
Meighan, he removed a revolver from Virat's pocket.
“Tanks !” he said. He pushed Virat with his revolver
muzzle toward the table, and forced the other into a
chair. He sat down opposite Virat, and smiled un-
pleasantly. “Now den, come across! Youse croaked
de Magpie ter-night!”
"You're dippy!” sneered Virat. "I haven't seen the
Magpie in a month.”
"An' dat's what youse did it wid.” Larry the Bat,
as though he had not heard the other's denial, reached


112 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
into his pocket, and shoved a small, murderous, blood-
stained blackjack, the leather-covered piece of lead pipe
that he had found beneath the washstand, suddenly
across the table under Virat's eyes.
With a sharp cry, staring, Virat shrank back.
"Sure! Now youse're talkin'!” approved Larry the
Bat complacently. “But dat ain't all. Say, youse have
got a gall! Youse thought youse'd plant me, did youse,
wid dat gray seal on de Magpie's boot!" Jimmie Dale's
voice was deadly cold again. “Well, what about dat?”
“What do you want?" mumbled Virat.
Jimmie Dale's smile was not inviting.
“I told youse once, didn't I? What do youse sup-
pose I want! If I got ter fall fer it, I want some of
dem bonds—dat's what I want !"
A look of relief spread over Virat's face.
"All right,” he said hurriedly. "I—that's that's fair.
I-I'll get them for you.” He started up from his chair,
his eyes travelling instinctively toward the door.
"Youse sit down !" invited Larry the Bat coldly.
"But-but you said I-I was going to get them,” fal-
tered Virat.
“Sure!” said Larry the Bat. "Dat's de idea! An', say,
I'm in a hurry. Dey ain't over dere, Frenchy--try nearer
home!”
Virat's hands trembled as he unbuttoned his vest. He
reached around under the back of his vest, drew out
a flat package, and laid it on the table. He began to
untie the cord.
"Wait a minute!” said Larry the Bat pleasantly. "I
ain't in so much of a hurry now dat I got me lamps on
'em! Youse can count 'em out after-half for youse, an'
half fer me. Tell us how youse fixed de lay."
And then, for the first time, Virat laughed, though still
a little nervousiy.


AT HALFPAST ONE
113
beat it being as zo and left it and I con see
"Yes, that's square," he agreed eagerly. "I-I was
afraid you were going to pinch them all. I'll tell you.
It was easy. I piped the Magpie off to a chap named
Kenleigh having the bonds up there in his rooms in an
apartment house. I couldn't crack Kenleigh's safe my-
self, but it was nuts for the Magpie-see? He cracked
the safe. I was with him, and I copped that near-dia-
mond pin of his, and left it there so there wouldn't be
any guessing as to who pulled off the job, and then we
beat it back to his place to divide-and I beaned him. I
wasn't looking into any gun then, and handing over fifty
thousand—and besides, with the Magpie out of the way,
I had some alibi.” Virat laughed shortly. “That's
where you come in. Everybody knew you had it in for
him. All I had to do was-well, what you said I did.
If you hadn't tumbled to it, and I'm damned if I can
see how you did, there wasn't anything to it at all. It
was open and shut that the Magpie pinched the swag,
and that you croaked him and beat it with the bonds."
"Say,” said Larry the Bat admiringly, “youse're some
slick gazabo, youse are! But how did youse know dat
guy Kenleigh had de goods?”
"That's none of your business, is it?" replied Virat,
a little defiantly. "You're getting yours now.”
Larry the Bat appeared to ponder the other's words,
a curious smile on his lips.
"Well, mabbe it ain't,” he admitted. “Let it go any-
way, an' split the swag. Count 'em out!”
Virat picked up the package again, and began to-un-
tie it—and again Jimmie Dale's hand slipped into his
pocket. And then, quick as the winking of an eye, as
Virat's hands came together over a knot, Jimmie Dale
leaned across the table, there was a click, and the steel
handcuffs were locked on the other's wrists.
There was a scream of fury, an oath from Virat.


114
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“Dat's yer cue, Meighan," called Larry the Bat calmly.
"Come out an' take a look at him!”
A ghastly pallor spreading over his face, staring like
a demented man, as Meighan, rising from behind the
lounging chair, advanced toward the table, Virat huddled
back in his seat.
“Know him?” inquired Larry the Bat.
The detective bent sharply forward.
“My god !” he exclaimed. “It's-no, it can't- "
"Mabbe," murmured Larry the Bat, “youse'd know him
better when he ain't dolled up." He swept the glasses
from Virat's nose, and wrenched away the black mous-
tache and goatee.
“Kenleigh!" gasped Meighan.
"Mabbe," said Larry the Bat, with a twisted grin,
“dere's somethin' he may have fergotten ter wise youse
up on, but he didn't mean ter hide nothin' in his con-
fession–did youse, Frenchy? An' mabbe dere's one or
two other things in de years he's been playin' Kenleigh
dat he'll tell youse about, if youse ask him-nice and
pleasant-like !"
Larry the Bat edged around the table, and, covering
Meighan with his revolver, backed to the door.
"Well, so long, Meighan!” he said softly, from the
threshold. “T'ink of me when dey pins de medal on yer
breast fer dis!"
And then Jimmie Dale laid Meighan's revolver down
on the floor of the room, and locked the door on the
outside with a pick-lock, and went down the stairs.


CHAPTER IX
.
’WARE THE WOLF
TIMMIE DALE'S fingers, in the darkness, were deftly
J tying around his body the leather girdle with its
finely-tempered, compact kit of burglar's tools. It was
strange, this note of hers to-night-strange, even, where
all the notes that she had ever written had been strange!
It had been left half an hour ago at the door of the St.
James Club—and he had hastened here to the Sanctuary.
It was curiously strange! Three nights ago, he had seen
Frenchy Virat safely in the hands of the police, and
Frenchy Virat was still safely in police custody—but
he, Jimmie Dale, was not yet done with Frenchy Virat,
it seemed! The note had made that quite clear. There
was still the Wolf; and it was the Wolf that filled this
anxious, hurried word from her to-night.
The Wolf! He knew the Wolf well-as Larry the
Bat in the old days he had even known the other person-
ally--as Smarlinghue of to-day he had progressed that
far into the inner ring of the underworld again as to be
on nodding terms with the Wolf. The man was a power
in the underworld-and a devil in human guise. In a
career extending back over many years, a career in which
no single crime in the decalogue had been slighted, the
Wolf had successfully managed to evade the clutches of
the law until his name had become a synonym for craft
and cunning in the Bad Lands, and the man himself
the object of the vicious hero-worship of that sordid
I15


'WARE THE WOLF
117
others' had, at the hands of the Gray Seal; nor, again,
was it through any tardy, eleventh-hour conversion, any
belated edging toward the way of grace that found ex-
pression in a desire to array himself on the side of those
representing the forces of law and order. It was none
of these things that actuated the Wolf-it was Frenchy
Virat, alias one Kenleigh, who was awaiting trial in the
Tombs. Frenchy Virat was the Wolf's bosom friend!
The wheezy, air-choked gas-jet spluttered into a blue
flame, as Jimmie Dale lighted it. It disclosed, in shadow,
the battered easel, the dirty canvases, some finished, some
but tentative daubs, that banked the wall in disorder
opposite the small French window, whose shade was
closely drawn; it crept dimly into the far corner of the
room and disclosed the cheap cot, unmade, the blanket
upon it rumpled in negligent untidiness; it fell full,
such as its fulness was, upon the rickety table that was
littered with unwashed dishes and sticky paint tubes,
and, at one end of the table, on an evening newspaper,
and, beside the newspaper, the Tocsin's note and a news-
paper clipping.
Jimmie Dale sat down at the table, brushed the dishes
and paint tubes together into a heap, arid propped up
against them a cracked and streaked mirror. He opened
his make-up box, and as, swiftly, with masterly touch,
the grey, sickly pallor that was Smarlinghue's trans-
formed his face, and as, from little distorting pieces of
wax, there came into being the hollow cheeks, the thin,
extended lips, the widened nostrils, he kept glancing at
the newspaper, reading again an article that was set, on
the front page, under heavy type captions—the article
which was identical with the clipping, and which latter
the Tocsin had enclosed with her note, lest he should
not have seen the original himself.


118 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND UNDER
PIER IN NORTH RIVER
VICTIM OF FOUL PLAY
FACE IS MUTILATED BEYOND
RECOGNITION
The details as set forth in the "story" were gruesomely
interesting enough from a morbid point of view; but
from the point of view of the police they were both
meagre and unsatisfactory. It was murder unquestion-
ably—and murder of a most brutal character. The head-
line had epitomised it-the face was mutilated beyond
recognition. Every belonging, obviously with the design
to prevent, or at least retard, identification, had been
stripped from the body. One point alone appeared to be
established, and that, if anything, but added to the mys-
tery which surrounded the crime. According to medical
opinion, the murder had been committed but a very short
time before the body was discovered; and, since the
victim had been found at three o'clock that afternoon,
the body must have been thrown into the water in broad
daylight.
Jimmie Dale worked on his fingers seeming to fly
with ever-increasing speed. There was no time to lose :
every minute, every second, counted against him. If he
could only have acted on the instant, as Jimmie Dale,
when he had received the note at the club! But he had
not had that leather girdle at the club-no blue-steel
tools that would be needed, no mask, and he had not
been armed-everything had been here in the Sanctuary.
And, once here, since he had been forced to lose that
much time, he had risked a little more, precious as the


'WARE THE WOLF
119
moments were, for the advantages, the safety, the free-
dom of movement, afforded by the character of Smar-
linghue. However, it was still but barely eleven o'clock,
and the chances were that the Wolf would hardly have
deemed it late enough as yet to set to work. On the
other hand-well, on the other hand, if the Wolf had
proved the early bird, then, perhaps, he and the Wolf
would have, in another place and time to-night, a more
personal reckoning than was anticipated in the Tocsin's
plan!
His eyes picked up snatches of her note, as they
skimmed it swiftly again.
"... The Wolf ... old storehouse on river front
... through trap into the water . . . old Webb ...
Spider Webb ... ten thousand dollar Moorcliffe jewel
robbery ... cash box . . . safe behind panelling in bed-
room directly opposite the door ... false bottom ...
afraid of the Wolf ... last few days . . . unfinished
... Wolf does not know ... man and wife upstairs
... old couple ... keep house for the Spider ... no
suspicion that anything has happened ..." And then, at
the end, a more personal, intimate touch : “Jimmie, it is
not to save some one else that I have written this to-night,
for that is now too late—it is to save you. The Wolf is
dangerous and I am afraid. You know that he has sworn
to trap you. He is cunning, Jimmie-do not underesti-
mate him. That is why I have written this if you suc-
ceed to-night ...".
Jimmie Dale's fingers were tearing the note now into in-
finitesimal shreds, and, with it, the newspaper clipping.
The newspaper itself he crumpled up and tossed into the
corner. He crossed the room, replaced the make-up box
in its hiding place, put back the movable section of the
base-board, turned out the light-and a minute later,
Smarlinghue, unkempt, stoop-shouldered, let himself out,
that anythi keep house man and :: unfinishi;


120
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
not by the French window through which he had en-
tered stealthily in the evening clothes of Jimmie Dale,
but unconcernedly, as was the right of any tenant, by
the door that opened on the ground-floor passage of the
tenement, and shuffled down the street.
The Wolf—and Spider Webb-and Larry the Bat!
It was a curious trio! Smarlinghue's lips, perhaps be-
cause the wax beneath was not yet moulded comfortably
into place, twitched queerly. One of them was dead-
the Spider. There remained-the Wolf and Larry the
Bat! No, he did not underestimate the Wolf-only a
fool, and a blinded fool, would do that. The Wolf had
shown his fangs in deadly enough fashion that morning
-with a brutal murder, craftily planned, and hellishly
executed! And yet the Wolf was quite hopelessly illogi-
cal! It was no secret in the underworld that the Wolf
and Spider Webb had long worked together, and that
the Spider was a close friend of the Wolf. Yet the
Wolf had murdered the Spider, and at the same time
had found a basis for his oath to end Larry the Bat, be-
cause Larry the Bat had been instrumental in handing
over to the police a friend of the Wolf!
Smarlinghue slouched on along the street, but the
“slouch" covered the ground at an amazing rate of speed.
He had not far to go—but neither had he a moment
that he dared lose. Spider Webb's old antique shop, but
a few blocks away, nestled in a squalid little courtyard
just west of the Bowery, and on the same side of the
Bowery as the Sanctuary.
Some one, out of the shadows of the street, flung him a
good-night. Smarlinghue mumbled his acknowledgment
from the corner of his mouth, and hurried along.
His thoughts were still on the Wolf. He had not
exhausted the sum of the Wolf's digressions from the
realms of the logical! In the old days there had been an


'WARE THE WOLF
121
intimacy even between the Wolf and Larry the Bat.
That underground passage from the shed into that
queer house near Chatham Square, for instance which
was known only to the most intimate! But perhaps the
Wolf had forgotten, or perhaps even the Wolf had
never known he had been on quite such intimate terms
with-Larry the Bat.
Jimmie Dale glanced behind him. There was no one
in sight for the moment. He was at the corner of a
lane now—and he chose the lane. It was a shorter, and a
safer route. It bordered on the rear of the courtyard
which was his objective, and obviated the necessity of
attempting to steal down past the side of “The Yellow
Lantern" unnoticed. No, he did not underestimate the
Wolf, but if he had luck to-night- ! He shrugged his
shoulders in a sort of grim whimsicality.
His mind reverted to the Spider now-Spider Webb.
Facetious, in a way, the name was! Webb-Spider
Webb! And yet the man had come by it honestly, or
dishonestly, enough! The old antique shop for years
had covered dealings that were shabbier than the shab-
biest of its antiques! It was probable that more stolen
goods had found Spider Webb's a clearing house than
had any other Mecca of the crooks in New York. It
was probable, too, that it had known' more police raids
than any of its competitors—but, unlike many of its
competitors, nothing but what indubitably belonged there
had ever been found. But then again, the Spider was á
specialist-he specialised in small articles, particularly
jewelry-no one in the Bad Lands who knew his way
about would ever have dreamed of going to the Spider
with anything else! Nor was the Spider without justi-
fication in thus restricting his operations. The Spider
had always managed to hide his questionable wares, until
he was able to dispose of them and they passed again


122 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
out of his possession, with an ingenuity that had baffled,
enraged, and mortified the police and commanded the
enthusiastic confidence and admiration of the under-
world! But this was, for the most part, past history,
and of the days gone by, for the Spider now had grown
old-had grown to be an old man-for it had begun of
late to be whispered that he talked more than he had
been wont to talk in the days of his prime, that he was
not as safe as he had been, and in consequence his trade
of late had begun to drift away from him.
And herein lay the secret of the old man's murder
at the hands of the Wolf. The Tocsin's note had not
failed to lay stress on this. No one probably, through a
career of half a score of years, knew more about the
Wolf and the Wolf's doings than did the Spider. Rightly
or wrongly, the word was out that the old man, in his
garrulity, was not safe and the Wolf was inviting no
chances where the electric chair was concerned, that was
all! The old man would henceforth be perfectly safe,
as far as any talking went! It was brutal, hideous
but it was the Wolf! Also, the Wolf, tritely expressed,
had proposed to kill two birds with one stone. The old
man's trade was not entirely gone. Yesterday, an old-
time lag, who had dealt with the Spider for many years,
and who had “pulled” the Moorcliffe job—the robbery
of a summer mansion a few miles up the Hudson-had
“fenced” the proceeds at the antique shop. Ten thousand
dollars' worth of first-water sparklers! Everybody that
was anybody in gangland knew this. The Wolf had seen
the psychological and profitable moment to strike-again
that was all! And again it was diabolical-but again it
was the Wolf!
Jimmie Dale's face was set like flint. And this was the
man who had sworn that he would "get" the Gray Seal!
A sort of unholy, passionate joy surged upon him. Well,


'WARE THE WOLF
123
they would see, he and the Wolf—and perhaps to-night!
It was certain that the Wolf would act alone. The man's
devilish cunning showed itself in having inveigled the
old man to that storehouse on the river bank, rather than
to have killed the Spider in the Spider's own home. It
might be days perhaps before the Spider's absence-
for the Spider's peculiar life had demanded mysterious
absences before-was even commented upon, and the
Wolf had taken pains to see that the body was not, im-
mediately at least, identified. It was very simple-
from the Wolf's standpoint! The Wolf was counting it
none too easy a task evidently to find the Spider's in-
genious and storied hiding place, and this would give him
a night, two nights, or more, in which, undisturbed, he
might prosecute his search. And, as he had committed
the murder alone, so he would continue to work alone,
for there were those even in gangland, and in spite of the
Wolf's acknowledged leadership, who would not look
with friendly eyes upon the Wolf for this!
It was black here in the lane, and now, possibly a
distance of a hundred yards up from the street, Jimmie
Dale's fingers, feeling along the left-hand fence, came
upon the latch of a small, narrow door-the courtyard's
access to the lane. He passed through, and stood still
listening-looking sharply about him. He knew the
place well. It was the heart and centre, the core of its
own particular and vicious section of the underworld.
Ahead of him, flanking the two-story, tumble-down
building that was the Spider's home, was a narrow alley-
way, then a small and filthy courtyard, and, its rear upon
this and fronting the street, the alleyway again at the
side, was "The Yellow Lantern” that he had been careful
to avoid-a dance hall of the lowest type. The Spider
had not unshrewdly chosen his location; nor the pro-


124 ADVENTURES OF, JIMMIE DALE
prietor of "The Yellow Lantern” his—their clientèle was
a common one, and their interests did not clash!
From the direction of "The Yellow Lantern" came a
hilarious uproar, subdued sorewhat by the distance, out
of which arose the strident notes of a tinny piano beat-
ing blatantly the measure of a turkey trot. There was no
other sound. There were lights from the rear of the
dance hall, enough, Jimmie Dale knew, to throw a murky
illumination over the front windows of the antique shop;
but there were no lights showing from the Spider's dwell-
ing itself, that loomed black on the side of the alleyway
at his right hand—the old couple that kept the Spider's
house were doubtless long since in bed in their own par-
ticular apartments upstairs.
Jimmie Dale moved softly forward now, gained the
back entrance of the Spider's house, and tried the door
cautiously. It was locked. From one of the little pockets
in the girdle under his shirt came a black silk mask,
which he slipped over his face; from another of the
pockets came a little steel picklock. He was pressed close
against the door now, his body merged with the black
shadows of the wall. A minute passed-and then the
door swung open, and closed without a sound. Another
minute passed, and still another. From upstairs came
the sound of stertorous breathing, nothing else, only
quiet, and a silence that was heavy in itself—and then the
round, white ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight winked
through the blackness. As between himself and the Wolf,
he was first, at least, on the ground!
He was in the kitchen of the house. On the opposite
side of the room from him were two doors, one of them,
the one to the left, open-and the flashlight, play-
ing through, disclosed a passageway leading, obviously,
to the shop at the front, and continuing to the stairway.
He crossed to the right-hand door noiselessly, opened it,


'WARE THE WOLF
125
and, with a low ejaculation of satisfaction, stepped in
over the threshold. It was the room he sought-the
Spider's bedroom, or, better perhaps, the Spider's den
that served the man for all purposes. The Spider, it was
very plain, was not fastidious! The room was dingy be-
yond description; the furnishings poor and poverty-
stricken in appearance. It was here the Spider met his
clients of a sort—and drove his bargains. There was no
hint of affluence—the room was miserly.
The flashlight swept in a circle around the room. There
was a bed in one corner, a table and two chairs in another,
and a miserable washstand in still another. The centre
of the room, save for an old carpet on the floor, was
quite bare of furnishings. Jimmie Dale's survey of the
appointments, however, was most cursory—they con-
cerned him little. The flashlight's ray was even lifted
above them, as it moved about. There was only one
door—the door by which he had entered; and only one
window—which, with a sudden frown, he mentally noted
did not open on the alleyway, for the very sufficient
reason that the alleyway was on the other side of the
house. He stepped quickly to the window, and looked
out. It was a moment before he could see; and then,
with a quick nod of his head, he began, with extreme
caution to loosen the window catches on the sill. There
was a narrow space between the house and what was
evidently the blank brick wall of the building next to it,
and this space extended to the rear, and therefore, in-
directly, by circling the house at the back, led to the
lane and the door in the fence again..
Jimmie Dale smiled grimly, as he swung the old-
fashioned windows back on either side. So far he was
in luck to-night, and, with luck, in a very few minutes
now, he would be out and away from the house by the
same way he had entered it-but luck sometimes was a


126 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
fickle thing, and a goddess most to be trusted by those
who looked after themselves !
He walked back to the doorway, and levelled his flash-
light across the room directly in front of him. The
ray fell upon the wooden panelling, and, holding the
light steadily on the same spot, he moved forward across
the floor to the opposite wall, dropped on his hands and
knees, and began to examine the woodwork criticaily.
It was beautiful work, this panelling that went all around
the room, very old, but very beautiful work, and of very
beautifully matched wood-it was entirely out of place
with the rest of the room, or would have been, were it
not that the panelling itself bore witness to the fact
that it had been built in there when the house itself
had been built, and bore witness, too, to the fact that
in those days, long gone by, a relic perhaps even of
Dutch handiwork, the house had not been unpretentious
amongst its fellows of that generation.
"Behind panelling in bedroom directly opposite the
door," she had written. Inch by inch, over an area a
yard square, those sensitive finger tips of Jimmie Dale
felt their way, lingering here over a knot in the wood,
and there over a joint or crevice. Five minutes went
by—and the five became ten. An exclamation of annoy-
ance, low, guarded, escaped him. There was nothing-
he could find nothing. The Spider's ingenuity had not
been over-rated! Somewhere there must be the secret
spring which operated the panel, but there was no sign
of it; neither was there the slightest sign or indication
that any portion of the panelling was even movable.
He drew back for an instant, frowning. Perhaps-
and then he shook his head-no, the Tocsin did not make
mistakes of that kind. The safe was unquestionably be-
hind the panelling in front of him. Well, there was a
way it was distasteful to him because it was crude and
yard square. 10 written. Inch bn directly opposit


'WARE THE WOLF
127
bungling, but he could afford no more time in a search
that he had already convinced himself was hopeless.
From the girdle came a half dozen little blue-steel
tools. A jimmy found and nosed its way into the joint
between two panels. There was a low, faint creak of
rending wood. A wedge followed the jimmy. A faint
creak again-and now one a little louder-and Jimmie
Dale, half turned, listened intently-the narrow board
was in his hand. There was nothing-no sound-save
that uninterrupted, stertorous breathing from above, and
the tinny jangle of the piano from the direction of “The
Yellow Lantern."
And now Jimmie Dale smiled again—that curious
flicker on his lips that mingled whimsicality and a
deadly earnestness. The Tocsin had made no mistake.
Showing through the aperture, gleaming under the flash-
light's ray, was the nickel dial of a safe. He worked
rapidly now. The first panel out, the remainder came
much more readily—and finally the entire face of the
safe was disclosed. Jimmie Dale stared at it-and
pursed his lips. It was an ugly safe, extremely ugly-
from a cracksman's point of view! Also, there seemed
a hint of irony, a jeer almost, in the impassive wall of
steel that confronted him. It was one of his own make
-one that had helped, in the old days, to amass the mil-
lions that his father had left to him-and it was one of
the best!
In an abstracted, deliberate way, his eyes pondering
the safe, the blue-steel tools were replaced in the pockets
of the leather girdle; and then the long, slim, tapering
fingers closed upon the dial's knob and twirled it tenta-
tively, and his head bent forward until his ear was
pressed hard against the face of the safe.
It was very still now-only the breathing from above
that seemed in cadence with those strange and para-


128 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
doxical palpitations that are known only in a great silence
—the piano for the moment had ceased its jangle. Jim-
mie Dale's fingers, from the dial, sought the floor, and
frictioned briskly over the rough, threadbare carpet,
until the nerves tingled under the delicate skin-and then
they shot to the dial again.
Strained, every faculty keyed up to its highest ten-
sion, he crouched there against the safe. Again and
again his fingers rubbed over the rough carpet, and again
the sweat beads oozed out upon his forehead with the
strain and then there came through the stillness a long-
drawn intake of his breath. The handle swung the bolt
with a low metallic thud—the safe was open.
There was the inner door now. Again those slim fin-
gers, almost raw, quivering now at the tips, rubbed along
the carpet, and the lips, just showing beneath the edge
of the mask, grew tight with pain. Then he leaned for-
ward, crouched once more, his head and shoulders
inside the outer door, like some strange animal burrow-
ing for its prey. Faint, musical, like some far distant
tinkle, came the twirling of the dial—and then, suddenly,
he drew back sharply, his hand shot to his pocket,
whipped out his automatic, and, motionless there on his
knees, every muscle rigid, he listened. There was the
piano again, the breathing, the weird pound and thump
of the silence-nothing else. He shook his head in half
angry, half tolerant self-remonstrance. He was under
strain, that was all-he had thought he had heard a
footstep out there in the alleyway. He laid his automatic
on the floor within instant reach, and turned again to
the safe-acute and sensitive as his hearing was, it would
have taken good ears indeed to have distinguished a
step at that distance on the other side of the house!
But now he worked, seemingly at least, with even
erd pound and a
ry, half tolerothing else. H


'WARE THE WOLF
129
greater rapidity than before. Imagination had had one
effect, if it had had no other-it was a spur, a reminder
that at any moment there might well be a footstep, and
one that was not born only of the imagination! His
jaws clamped. He had not counted on this—an old-
fashioned iron monstrosity that was dismaying only in its
appearance, perhaps—but not this! He had been here
far longer now than her
"Ah!”—tense, low, that deep intake of the breath
again.
The inner door swung wide; the flashlight's ray leaped,
dazzling white, into the interior, and, on the lower shelf,
played upon a flat, narrow, black tin box—the cash-box.
In an instant, Jimmie Dale had picked it up. It was
not locked, and he lifted the cover. From within there
scintillated back the gleam of diamonds a handful of
pendants, brooches, ear-rings lay there disclosed, and,
too, a string of pearls. Ten thousand dollars! It was a
modest figure! He reached his hand inside the box-
and on the instant snatched it back, and thrust the box
swiftly into his pocket. The flashlight was out. The
room was in darkness.
This time it was not imagination-nor, he knew now,
had it been imagination before. There was a faint creak
of the flooring in the kitchen, a single incautious step
that he placed as having come from near the doorway of
the passage and now some one had halted on the
threshold of the room itself. Jimmie Dale's brain was
working with lightning speed. There had been no time
to reach the window—time only to snatch up his auto-
matic and retreat a little from the immediate vicinity
of the safe. Had the other heard the slight sound-it
was only the brushing of his coat against the wall! Much
less had there been time to close the safe--nor would it
have done any good-he could not have replaced the


130 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
broken panelling! And now—what? The man, with a
stealth that he, Jimmie Dale, except for that one incau-
tious footfall, could not have excelled, must have entered
through a window from the alleyway into the passage.
It was dark, utterly dark-save that the window showed
dimly like a faint transparent square set in the blackness.
He could not see, but he could sense the other stand-
ing there in the doorway, motionless, silent, as though
listening. Perhaps a minute passed. There was some-
thing nerve-racking now in the silence, something sinis-
ter, something pregnant with menace. And then, sud-
denly, there came a low, scratching sound, and a match
flame spurted through the darkness, and lighted up a
face-a face that was thrust forward through the door-
way with a sort of pent-up and malicious eagerness; a
vicious face, with sharp, restive black eyes under great,
hairy eyebrows; a face with a huge jaw, outflung now,
that was like the jaw of a beast. It was the Wolf!


CHAPTER X
THE CHASE
TT held for the fraction of a second, that light-no
I more. It travelled upward past the face, as though
the Wolf were holding it above his head to get his bear-
ings; and then, with a sharp and furious oath, the match
was hurled to the floor, there was a scuffling sound-
and then silence again.
Jimmie Dale's automatic was thrust a little forward
in his hand, as he crouched against the wall. He could
have shot the man, as the other stood in the doorway.
The Wolf had offered a target that it would have been
hard to miss—and it would, one day, have saved the
law the same task! He was a fool, perhaps, that he had
not taken what was, perhaps again, the one chance he
had for his life, for he was at a decided disadvantage
now, since he knew intuitively that the Wolf, scuttling
back, had now craftily protected himself behind the jamb
of the door, and yet at the same time still commanded
the interior of the room. But he could not have fired
in cold blood like that-even upon the Wolf, devil though
the man was, murderer a dozen times over though he
knew the man to be! He, Jimmie Dale, had never shot
to kill—not yet—but in a fight, cornered, if there was no
other way ...!
He moved a little, a bare few inches, then a few more
-without a sound. In the light of the match, the Wolf
must have seen the dismantled panelling and the open
131


132 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
that lesie Dale's eyes could just make
safe, and a masked figure crouched against the wall and
the Wolf would have marked the position of that
crouched figure against the wall!
Silencema minute of it-still another!
Again Jimmie Dale moved inch by inch-toward the
window. And yet to attempt the window was to invite
a shot and expose himself, for, dark as it was, his body
would show plainly enough against the background of
that lesser gloom of window square.
Jimmie Dale's eyes strained through the blackness
across the room. He could just make out the configura-
tion of the doorway. The Wolf was just on the other
side of it, just inside the kitchen, he was sure of that.
Almost a smile was flickering over Jimmie Dale's tight-
pressed lips. There was a way—there was a way now,
if the Wolf did not get him with a chance shot. He moved
again, and reached the window, crouched low beneath
the sill-and passed by the window.
And then the Wolf spoke from the doorway in a
hoarse whisper, and in the whisper there was a low,
taunting laugh.
"I been waitin' for you to try the window, but you're
too foxy-eh? All right, my bucko—then I'll get you
another way-with just one shot, see? And then-good-
night! And say, whoever t'hell you are, thanks for
crackin' the box for me!”
The man's voice came from the right of the doorway-
and the door opened inward-and he, Jimmie Dale, re-
membered that he had opened it wide. It was slow, very
slow, this creeping inch by inch through the darkness.
It seemed as though his breath were as stertorous as that
breathing from above, and that the Wolf must hear.
And then the Wolf laughed low again.
There was a curious crackling noise, as of paper
being torn—and then, quick, in the doorway, came a


THE CHASE
133
yellow flame, and the Wolf's hand showed from around
the edge of the jamb, and, making momentary daylight
of the room, a flaming piece of paper, tossed in, fell upon
the floor.
There was a flash, the roar of the report—and another
-as the Wolf fired! There was the sullen spat of a
bullet upon the panelling an inch from Jimmie Dale's
head-and a sharp and sudden pain, as though a hot
iron had seared his leg.
And now Jimmie Dale's automatic, too, cut flashes
with its vicious flame-tongues through the black. Coolly,
steadily, he was firing at the doorway-to hold the Wolf
there-to keep the Wolf now in the position of the
Wolf's own choosing. The paper was but a dull cinder
in the centre of the room; twisted too tightly, it had
gone out almost immediately.
There came screams, loud, terrified, in a woman's
voice from the floor above and the hoarser tones of a
man shouting. A window was flung open. Snarling
blasphemous, furious oaths, the Wolf was firing at the
flashes of Jimmie Dale's revolver—but each time as Jim-
mie Dale fired, the sound drowned in the roar of the
report, he moved a good yard forward.
Came the trampling of feet from overhead now; and
now, as the woman still screamed, answering shouts
and yells came from the dance hall. Jimmie Dale had
gained the foot of the bed now near the corner. He
fired again, and instantly flung himself flat upon the floor
-and, in the answering flash of the Wolf's shot, placed
the exact location of the door itself. There was tumult
enough now to deaden the slight sound he made. He
crept swiftly past the bed to the wall, against which the
door, wide open, was swung back, felt out with his hand,
found the edge of the door, and, leaping suddenly to his
feet, hurled the door shut upon the Wolf. There was
ing. A windths, the Wolf wach time as Time
Land, in the tion of the do slight soun


THE CHASE
135
by the open doors and open windows of the dance hall,
swaying with shapes, and, like ghostly figures, a mob
tearing toward him down the alleyway.
The Wolf's voice, punctuated with a torrent of blas-
phemy and vile invective, shrilled out over the tumult:
“Come on! Here he is! Out in the lane !"
“Who is it?" shrilled another voice.
"I don't know !” yelled the Wolf. “Catch him, and
we'll damn soon find out!”
Jimmie Dale was running like a hare now down the
lane. The Wolf leading, still firing, the crowd poured
out into the lane in pursuit. Jimmie Dale zigzagged no
longer, there was greater risk in that than in risking the
shots-it was black enough in the lane to risk the shots;
but his lead, barely twenty-five yards, was too short to
risk their gaining upon him through his running from
side to side.
His brain, cool in peril, worked swiftly. The Sanctu-
ary! That was the one chance for his life! He had
been no more than a masked figure huddled against the
wall of the room in there. The Wolf had not recognised
him. He would be safe if he could reach the Sanctuary!
There were two blocks to go along the street ahead, then
the next lane, and from that into the intersecting lane,
then the loose board in the fence that swung at a touch,
and the French window—and the Sanctuary. But to ac-
complish this he must gain upon his pursuers, not merely
hold his own, but increase the distance between them by
at least another fifteen or twenty yards; he must, in
other words, be out of range of vision as he disappeared
through the fence. Well, he should be able to do that!
It was the trained athlete against an ill-conditioned,
dissolute mob!
He swerved from the lane into the street. There was
grim and hellish humour in the thought that a wolf should


THE CHASE
137
Heyes—the wound in his leg! Yes-he remembered
now-that burning like the searing of a hot iron. He
had forgotten it in the excitement. But it could not
amount to anything or he would not have been able
to have come this far. It was only a passing giddiness-
he was better now-see, he was still running—he had
only slowed his pace for an instant-that was all.
They swept into the lane behind him. He looked back-
and his lips grew tight, and bitter hard. It was no longer
forty yards—he was not running so fast now-and it was
the Wolf, and the Wolf's pack, who were gaining.
He swerved for the third time-into the stretch of in-
tersecting lane. The Sanctuary was just ahead, but
he must reach that loose board in the fence and have
disappeared before the Wolf swung around the corner
behind him-or elsemor else, since that led to nowhere
but to the French window of Smarlinghue's room, the
game was as good as up if he attempted it!
He strained forward, striving to mass his strength and
fling it into one supreme effort. He was close now-only
another five yards to go. Yes—he was weak. His teeth
set. Four yards—three! If only there were not that
glimmer of light, faint as it was, seeping down the lane
from the street lamp across the road from the Sanctuary!
Two yards-now! No! The Wolf's yell, as the man
tore around the corner of the two lanes, rang out like a
knell of doom.
Drawn, white-faced, Jimmie Dale, stumbling now,
lurched past that loose board he had counted upon for
what was literally his life-lurched past, and stumbled
on. He could not run much farther. There was one
chance left-just one-that there should be no one to see
him enter the front door of the Sanctuary, no one loung-
ing about, no one in the tenement doorway. If that
chance failed-well, then it was the end the end of


138 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
im
Smarlinghue, the end of Jimmie Dale, the end of Larry
the Bat, the end of the Gray Seal—and the Wolf would
have kept his pledge to gangland. But it would be an end
that gangland would long remember, and an end that the
Wolf would share!
The street was just before him now. He turned into
it-and there came a little cry, a moan almost, of relief.
The doorway of the tenement was clear. He sprang for
it, entered, and, suddenly silent now in his tread, reached
the door of his own room, slipped through and closed
it softly behind him.
And now Jimmie Dale worked with frantic speed. He
could hear them racing, yelling, shouting along the lane.
A match crackled in his hand, and the gas-jet spluttered
into flame—the light in the room could not be seen from
the lane. He ran across the room, tearing off his mask
as he went, and, wrenching the cash-box from his pocket,
tucked mask and cash-box behind the disordered array of
dirty canvases on the floor-he dared not take the risk or
the time that loosening the base board would entail. He
flung his hat into a corner, and, ripping off his coat,
tossed it upon the cot; then, snatching up a paint tube,
he smeared a daub of paint upon the palette that lay on
the table, and laid a wet brush hurriedly several times
across the canvas on the easel.
From the corner of the lane and street outside came
the scuffling to and fro of many feet, as though in un- -
certainty, in indecision, in hesitancy. A dozen voices
spoke at once, high-pitched, wild, frenzied.
"Where is he? ... Which way did he go? ...
Where "
And then the Wolf's voice, above the rest, in a sudden,
excited yell:
“What's that across there! It's him! There he is!
He's kept on up the lane! He's "


THE CHASE
139
lipeaker thane fiery stimuland—the bottle. His eyes we in
The voice was lost in a chorus of shouts, in the pound
and stampede of racing feet again, of the pack in cry.
The sounds receded and died in the distance. Jimmie
Dale drew his hand across his forehead and brought it
away damp with sweat. He staggered now to the wash-
stand, and from the drawer took out a bottle of brandy,
and, heedless of glass, uncorked it, and lifted it to his
lips. He would never know a closer call! He had been
weaker than he had thought! Thank God for the
brandy! The fiery stimulant was whipping the blood in
his veins into life again, and—the bottle was still held to
his lips, but he was no longer drinking. His eyes were
on the washstand's mirror. He heard no sound, but in
the mirror he saw the door of his room open, close
again, and, leaning with his back against it—the Wolf!
Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. He al-
lowed another gulp of brandy to gurgle noisily down his
throat. The cool, alert, keen brain was at work. It was
certain that the Wolf had at no time that night recog-
nised him as Smarlinghue. The Wolf, therefore, at
worst, could be no more than gambling on the chance
that the object of the chase had taken refuge here in the
tenement, and, naturally enough then, was beginning his
investigation with the ground floor room. And yet, why
then had the Wolf, deliberately in that case, sent his
pack off on a false scent? In the mirror he could see
that huge jaw outthrust, the black eyes narrowed, an
ugly leer on the working face—and a revolver in the
Wolf's hand that held a bead on his, Jimmie Dale's, head.
It was “Smarlinghue," the wretched, nervous, drug-
wrecked creature that turned around-and, as though
startled at the sight of the other, almost let the bottle fail
from his hand.
"So it was you-eh-Smarlinghue! Curse you!"
nd that working the black for he
ead on and a reve Towed, an


140
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
snarled the Wolf. “Come out here, and stand in the
centre of the room!”
Smarlinghue cringed. He put down the bottle with
a trembling hand, and slouched forward.
“I ain't done nothing!” he whined.
“No, you ain't done a thing-except crack a box and
pinch about ten thousand dollars' worth of sparklers!”
The Wolf's face, if possible, was more ugly in its threat
than before.
Smarlinghue, in a sort of stupefied amazement, stared
around the room-as though he expected to see a gleam-
ing heap of diamonds leap into sight somewhere before
him. He shook his head helplessly.
"I don't know what you're talking about,” he mum-
bled. "I-I heard a row outside there a little while ago.
Maybe that's it."
“Yes—mabbe it is !” sneered the Wolf viciously. “So
you don't know anything about it-eh? You've got a
hell of a good memory, haven't you! You don't know
anything about the Spider's safe, or about a little fight
in the Spider's room, or about jumping out of the win-
dow, and beating it for here with the gang after your
no, you don't! You never heard of it before-of course,
you didn't!”
Smarlinghue began to wring his hands nervously one
over the other. He shook his head helplessly again.
"It wasn't me!" He licked his lips. “Honest, it
wasn't me! I–I don't know what you're talking about.
I ain't been out of this room. Honest! Somebody's try-
ing to put me in wrong. I tell you, I ain't been out of
here all night. I-look!" With sudden, feverish eager-
ness, as though from an inspiration, he pointed to the
paint brush, the palette, and the canvas on the easel.
"Look! Look for yourself! You can see for yourself!
I've been painting.”


THE CHASE
141
And then the Wolf laughed—and it was not a pleasant
laugh.
“Yes, you've been painting!” he jeered. “Sure, you
have! I know that! Only you've been painting a
damned sight more than you thought you were !"
The revolver muzzle covered Jimmie Dale steadily, un-
swervingly; in the Wolf's face was malicious and sar-
donic mockery—but the Wolf's eyes were no longer on
Jimmie Dale's face, they seemed curiously intent upon
the floor at Jimmie Dale's feet. Mechanically Jimmie
Dale followed their direction and his eyes, too, held
on the floor. For a moment neither spoke. The game
was up! His boot top was soaked with blood, and, trick-
ling down the side of the boot, a little crimson stream was
collecting in a pool upon the floor.
"You painted some of that on the doorstep!” The
Wolf's taunting laugh held a deadly menace. “And you
painted a drop or two of it along the street as you ran.
I thought when you bust away from the Spider's and that
cursed gang nosed in that I was going to lose out; but I
figured that I had hit you, and I was keeping my eyes
skinned to see. And then you commenced to do the drip
act-savvy? I was still looking for it when I came out of
the lane--you remember, Smarlinghue, don't you?-
you got your memory back, ain't you?-that I was a bit
ahead of the rest of 'em? It didn't take a second to
spot that on the doorstep, and there's some more of it in
the hall. Damned queer, ain't it-that it led right to
Smarlinghue's room!” The laugh was gone. The Wolf
began to come forward across the room. The snarl was
in his voice again. “You come across with those spark-
lers, and you come across--quick!"
But now Smarlinghue was like a crazed and demented
creature, and he shook his fists at the Wolf.
"I won't! I won't!” he screamed. “You went there


142
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
one of the happen with his
to do the same thing! I had as much right as you!
And I got them-I got them! They said he had them
there, they were all talking about them to-day, and I got
them! I won! They're mine now! I won't give them
to you! I won't! I tell you, I won't!"
"Won't you?” The Wolf had reached Jimmie Dale,
and one of the Wolf's hands found and shook Jimmie
Dale's throat, while the revolver muzzle pressed hard
against Jimmie Dale's breast. “Oh, I guess you will!
D'ye hear about a man being murdered to-day with his
face cut up? Oh, you did -eh? Well, I happen to know
that man was the Spider, and one of these days, mabbe,
the police'll tumble to who it was, too. Get me? Suppose
I call some of that gang back, and show 'em the painting
you've done along the hall-eh? And then, by and
by, when the bulls get wise, it'll be yours for the juice
route, not just a space or two for cracking a box! Get
me again ?"
Smarlinghue, struggling weakly, pulled the other's
hand from his throat.
"You—you were there, too, at-at the Spider's," he
choked craftily. "You're—you're in it as-as bad as I
am."
"Sure, I was there!" mocked the Wolf, and snatched
at Jimmie Dale's throat again. “Sure, I was there
everybody saw me! The Spider was a friend of mine,
and everybody knows that, too. I was just going there
to pay a pal a little visit-see? And that's how I found
you there-see? Anything wrong with that spiel? It's
a cinch, aint it?" The fingers closed tighter and tighter
on Jimmie Dale's throat. “And that's enough talk-give
me them sparklers !" He flung Jimmie Dale savagely
away. "Get 'em!”
Smarlinghue reeled backward in the direction of the
disordered canvases on the floor. It was quite true! If
me marlinghuis throatihere, t


THE CHASE
143
the Spide the canvs would hBut he wasefiant, pale, as he
the Wolf carried out his threat—which he most cer-
tainly would do if he did not get the diamonds for him-
self-Smarlinghue, and not the Wolf, would be held for
the Spider's murder. Jimmie Dale stooped, fumbled
amongst the canvases, and produced the cash-box.
Well, the diamonds would have to go, that was all—he
had no choice left to him. But he was still "Smarling-
hue,” still the half cowed, yet half defiant, pale-faced
creature that shook with mingled rage and fear, as he
turned again. He clutched the cash-box to him, as
though loath to let it go; but, too, as though fascinated
by the Wolf's revolver, he moved reluctantly toward the
Wolf, who now stood by the table.
Smarlinghue's hands twined and twined over the box,
caressing it in hideous greed and avarice; and he mum-
bled, and his lips worked.
"Half-give me half?” he whispered feverishly.
"I'll give you-nothing!" snarled the Wolf.
"Half-give me a quarter then?” whimpered Smarl-
inghue.
"Drop it!” The Wolf's revolver jerked forward into
Jimmie Dale's face.
And then Smarlinghue screamed out in impotent rage,
and, wrenching the cover of the cash-box open, flung
the jewels in a glittering heap upon the table-and, danc-
ing in demented fashion upon his toes, like a man gone
mad, he hurled the cash-box in fury from him. It went
through the canvas on the easel, and clattered to the floor.
The Wolf laughed.
But Smarlinghue had retreated now, and, crouched
upon the cot, was mumbling through twisted lips.
And again the Wolf laughed, and, gathering up the
jewels, dropped them into his pocket, and backed to the
door. He stood there an instant, his eyes narrowed on
Jimmie Dale.


144
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"I got the stuff now”-he was snarling low, viciously,
"and mabbe that puts it a little more up to me. But if
you ever open your mug about this, I'll do to you what
I did to the Spider to-day—and if you want to know
what that is, go and ask the police to let you have a look!
D'ye understand?".
Came the brutal, taunting laugh again, and the door
closed behind the Wolf, and his step died away along the
passage, and rang an instant later on the pavement
without.
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale moved—but into
Smarlinghue's distorted features there came a strange
smile. He reeled a little from weakness, as he walked
to the door, locked it, and, returning, stooped and picked
up the cash-box from the floor. In the false bottom, the
Tocsin had said. From the leather girdle came a sharp-
pointed tool. He pried with it for an instant inside and
around the bottom edges, and loosening a sheet of
metal that fitted exactly to the edges of the box, lifted out
from beneath it several folded sheets of paper. He
glanced at the typewritten sheets, a curious, menacing
gleam creeping into the dark eyes, then thrust the papers
inside his shirt; and, dropping into a chair, unlaced and
kicked off his blood-soaked boot.
He was very weak; he had lost, he must have lost, a
great deal of blood—but there was something to do yet-
still something to do. There was still—the Wolf!
He tore the sheet on the cot into strips, and washed
and dressed his wound-a flesh wound, but bad enough,
he saw, just above the knee. And then, this done, he
took a damp piece of cloth, went to the door again,
opened it, and looked out. There was neither any one
in sight, nor any sound. The passage was murky; one
gas-jet alone lighted it, and that was turned down.
There were litile spots, dark spots on the floor-but the


THE CHASE
145
Wolf had told him that. He passed his hand over his
head-he was a little dizzy. Then slowly, laboriously,
he removed the spots from the hallway—and one from
the doorstep.
Back in his room once more, he locked the door again.
A sense of utter exhaustion was stealing upon him-but
there was still something yet to be done. Another gulp
of brandy steadied him, steadied his head. He took the
papers from his pocket and read them now. Here were
the details, minute, exact, with the names of those in-
volved, names of those who would squeal quickly enough
to save themselves once they were in the clutches of the
law, of two of the most famous murder mysteries that
New York had known; the details of two, and, unfin-
ished, the partial details of another. It was the evidence
the police had long sought. It was the death sentence
upon the Wolf-for murder.
Jimmie Dale's face, very white now, was set and hard.
The Spider had been too late-to save himself. Begin-
ning to fear the Wolf, as the Tocsin had explained, he
had begun to make a record of those days gone by, mean-
ing to hold it over the Wolf's head in self-protection,
deposit it somewhere where it would come to light if
any attack were made upon him-only the Wolf had
struck before the Spider had finished all he had meant
to write, before he had told any one or had warned the
Wolf that the papers were in existence. Too late to
save himself--and yet, if the Wolf still paid the penalty
for murder, did it matter if he were convicted for the
taking of another life than that of Spider Webb! It
was like some grim, retributive proxy! The Spider, at
least, had not been too late-for that!
For a moment longer, Jimmie Dale sat there, staring
at the papers in his hand. They were unsigned, the


146 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Spider's name nowhere appeared—the Spider had been
crafty enough to deal only with crimes in which he had
had no personal share. There was nothing, not even
handwriting, as the papers now stood, to intimate that
they had emanated from the Spider; and therefore, in
their disclosure, there could be no suspicion in the Wolf's
mind that they bore any relation to this night's work. Nor
would the Wolf, tried for another crime, ever mention
this night's work. It would be the last thing the Wolf
would do. The Wolf had double-crossed the under-
world, and the underworld, if it found it out, would not
easily forgive-and even in a death cell, clinging to the
hope of commutation of sentence, the Wolf would never
run the risk of his additional guilt of the Spider's mur-
der leaking out. The role of "Smarlinghue" in the
underworld was safe.
And now Jimmie Dale's lips twitched queerly. The
papers were unsigned. He took from the leather girdle
the thin metal box, the tweezers, and a diamond-shaped,
adhesive, gray paper seal--and, holding the seal with the
tweezers, he moistened it with his tongue, and pressed
it down upon the lower sheet. It was signed now!
Signed with a signature that the police-and the Wolf-
knew well!
He rose unsteadily, and, taking the empty cash-box,
loosened the base-board from the wall near the door, hid
the cash-box away, and felt through the pockets of his
evening clothes—there was a blank envelope there, he
remembered, in which he had placed some memoranda-
an envelope, and the little gold pencil in his dress waist-
coat pocket. He found them, and, kneeling on the floor,
printing the letters, he addressed the envelope to police
headquarters, folded and placed the documents inside,
and sealed the envelope.


THE CHASE
147
He replaced the base-board, and stood up-but his
hand caught at the wall to support himself.
"To-morrow,” said Jimmie Dale weakly-he was
groping his way back across the room to the cot. "I-I
guess I'm all-all in-to-night.”


CHAPTER XI
THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD
LUTILITY! And on top of futility, a week of inac-
tion, thanks to that flesh wound in his leg. Futility
seemed to haunt, yes, and torture him! Even his re-
habilitation of Larry the Bat, with all its attendant risk
and danger, had been futile as far as she was concerned.
And he had counted so much on that! And that had
failed, and nothing was left to him but to pursue again
the one possible chance of success, the hope that some-
where in the innermost depths of the Bad Lands he might
pick up the clue he sought. And so, to-night, he was
listening again to the voices of the underworld—and so
far he had heard nothing but ominous mutterings, proof
that the sordid denizens of crimeland were more than
usually disturbed. The Wolf had gone to join his friend
Frenchy Virat in the Tombs! The twisted lips of the
underworld whispered the name of the Gray Seal!
Jimmie Dale's fingers, twitching, simulating even in
that little detail the drug-wrecked rôle of Smarlinghue
that he played, clutched with a sort of hideous eagerness
at the hypodermic syringe which he held in his hands.
How many times, here in Foo Sen's, or in other lairs that
were but the counterpart of Foo Sen's, had he lain,
stretched out, a pretended victim to a vice that robbed
his face of colour, that shook his miserably clad body,
that clouded his eyes and stole from them the light of
reason—while he listened! How many times—and how
148


THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD 149
many times in the days to come would he do it again!
Would it never be his, the secret that he sought-the
clue that would divulge the identity of those who threat-
ened the Tocsin's life; those who, like human wolves,
like a hell-pack snarling for its prey, had driven her
again into hiding and made of her a hunted thing!
The fingers closed convulsively over the hypodermic.
Wolves! A hell-pack! A tinge of red dyed the grey-
white, hollowed cheeks, as a surge of fury swept upon
him. No, it was not futility; no, it was not wasted effort
-this haunting of the dens of the underworld! In his
soul he knew that some day he would pick up the trail
of that hell-pack and those human wolves—and when
that some day came it would be a day of reckoning, and
the price that he would exact would not be small!
He lay back on the bunk that Foo Sen had ingratiat-
ingly allotted him. The air was close, heavy with the
sweet, sickish smell of opium, and full of low, strange
sounds and noises. And these sounds, in their com-
posite sense, emanating from unseen sources, were as
the ominous and sinister evidence of some foul and gro-
tesque presence; analysed, they resolved themselves into
the swish of hangings, the swish of slippered, shuffling
feet, the stertorous breathing of a sleeper, the clink of
coin as of men at play, the tinkle of glass, the murmur
of voices, the restive stir of reclining bodies, whisperings.
And now he looked about him through half closed eyes.
He was in a little compartment, whose doorway was a
faded and stained hanging of flowered cretonne, and
whose walls were but flimsy-boarded affairs that parti-
tioned him off from like compartments on either side.
It was very near to the pulse of the underworld. Above
ground, opening on a street just off Chatham Square, Foo
Sen’s, to the uninitiated, was but one of the multitudinous
Chinese laundries in New York; below, below even than


150 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
innocent cellar of the house, a half dozen sub-cellars
were merged into one, and here Foo Sen plied his trade.
And Foo Sen was cosmopolitan in his wares! Here,
one, hard pressed, might find refuge from the law; here
a pipe and pill were at one's command; here one might
hide his stolen goods, or hatch his projected crime, or
gamble, or debauch at will it was the entrée only that
was hard to obtain at Foo Sen's !
Jimmie Dale's lips twisted in a grim smile. The old
days of Larry the Bat had supplied Smarlinghue with
the means which, in the last six months, had been turned
to such good account that the Smarlinghue of to-day was
almost as fully in the confidence of the underworld as
had been the Larry the Bat of yesterday. And yet there
had been nothing! No clue! He had wormed himself
again into the inner circle of crimeland; he lay here in
Foo Sen's to-night, as he had once lain in one of Foo
Sen's competitor's dives as Larry the Bat, months ago,
on the night the place had been raided—but there was
still nothing-still no clue-only the shuffle of slippered
feet, the stertorous breathings, a subdued curse, a blas-
phemous laugh, a coin ringing upon a table top, the
murmur of voices, whisperings!
One might hear many things here if one listened, and
he had heard many things in his frequent visits to these
hidden dens of this lower world that shunned the day-
light-many things, but never the one thing that he risked
his life to hear--many things, from these friends of his
who, if in Smarlinghue they but suspected for an instant
the presence of Larry the Bat, would literally have torn
him limb from limb-many things, but never the one
thing, never a word of her-many things, the hatching of
crime, as now, for instance, those muttering voices were
hatching it from the other side of the partition next to his
bunk.


THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD 151
Subconsciously he had caught a word here and there,
and now, without a sound, he edged his shoulders nearer
to the partition until his ear was pressed close against a
crack. It did not concern her, but he listened now
intently.
"Aw, ferget it!" a voice rasped in a hoarse undertone.
“Sure, I saw it! Ain't I just told youse I saw Curley
hand de dough over dis afternoon! Fifteen thousand
dollars all in big new bills, five-hundred-dollar bills I
t'ink dey was—dat's wot!"
"How d’youse know it was fifteen thousand ?” de-
manded another voice.
There was a short, vicious laugh; then the voice of
the first speaker again:
“'Cause I heard him say so, an' de old guy counted it,
an' sealed it up in an envelope, an' gave Curley a receipt,
an' tucked de green boys into de safe. Aw, say, dere's
nothin' to it, I can open dat old tin box wid a toothpick!"
“Mabbe youse can, but mabbe de stuff ain't dere now
mabbe it's in de bank,” demurred the second voice.
"Don't youse worry! It's dere! Where else would it
be! Ain't I told youse it was near five o'clock when I
went dereman' dat's after de banks are closed, ain't it?
Well, wot d'youse say?".
"I don't like pinchin' any of Curley's money.” The sec-
ond speaker's voice was still further lowered. “It ain't
healthy ter hand Curley anything."
"Who's handin' Curley anything !" retorted the other.
"It ain't got nothin' to do wid Curley. It ain't Curley's
money any more. He paid it over for whatever he's
blowin' himself on, an' he's got his receipt for it. It's
none of his funeral after dat!. How's he goin' to lose
anything if we lift de cash? An' if he ain't goin' to lose
nothin', wot's he goin' to care! Ferget it! Wot's de
matter wid youse!”


152. ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
e since.
cond speaker, even eag
There was a moment's apparent hesitancy; then,
hoarsely:
"Youse are sure, eh, dat nobody saw youse dere?"
"Say, youse have got de chilly feet fer fair ter-night,
ain't youse! Well, can it! No, dey didn't pipe me,
youse can bet yer life on dat. I was goin' inter de office
w'en I hears some spielin' goin' on inside, an' I opens de
door a crack, an' I keeps it open like dat-savvy? An'
w’en de old guy shoots de ready inter de box, an' I
makes me fade-away, I didn't shut de door hard enough
ter bust de glass panels, neither-see? Dat's de story,
an' it's on de level. I beats it den, an' I been huntin' fer
youse ever since. Now, wot d’youse say—are youse on?”
"Sure!” The second speaker's voice had lost its hesi-
tancy now; it was gruff, assured, even eager. “Sure! I
guess youse have pulled a winner, all right! Wot's de
lay? Have youse doped it out?”
"Ask me!" responded the other, with a complacent
chuckle. "Youse look after de old guy, dat's all youse
have ter do. Hook up wid him, an' keep him busy at his
house. Get me? De old nut has a crazy notion of goin'
down ter de office in de middle of de night sometimes,
an' dere's no use takin' any chances. Youse can put up
some hard luck story on him, throw in a weep, an' youse
got his goat fer as long as youse can talk. Leave de rest
ter me. Only, say, youse keep away from me fer de
rest of de night-get me? Dey might smell a plant after
youse bein' wid him. Youse go somewhere to an all-
night joint so's youse have an alibi all de way through,
an' '
The voice ceased abruptly. In a flash the left sleeve
of Jimmie Dale's ragged, threadbare coat was pushed up,
leaving the forearm exposed. The hypodermic needle
pricked the flesh. There was no sound of any step; but
the cretonne hanging wavered almost imperceptibly, as


THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD 153
though some one, or perhaps but a current of air from
the passage without, had swayed it slightly. Jimmie
Dale was mumbling incoherently to himself now; his
lips, like his fingers, working in nervous twitches. A few
seconds passed-a half minute. Still mumbling, Jimmie
Dale, with a caress like that of a miser for his gold, was
fondling the shining little instrument in his hand and
then the hanging was suddenly thrust aside.
Jimmie Dale neither looked up, nor appeared to be
conscious of any one's presence—but he had already rec-
ognised the voices of the two men from the adjoining
compartment, who, he was quite well aware, were staring
in at him now. The smaller, with sharp, cunning, beady,
black eyes, the prime mover in the scheme that had just
been outlined, was a clever and dangerous "box-worker,"
known as the Rat; the other, a heavy, vicious-faced man,
with eyes quite as beady and unpleasant as those of his
companion, was Muggy Ladd, who made his living as a
"stagehand” for those, such as the Rat, who were more
gifted than himself.
"Satisfied ?" inquired the Rat. "He's full up to de
eyes wid it now. Foo said he'd been hittin' it up hard
fer de last hour." The Rat addressed Jimmie Dale.
"Hello, Smarly!” he called out.
Jimmie Dale lifted his head, and blinked at the cre-
tonne hanging.
"Lemme alone!” he complained thickly. "Go 'way, an'
lemme alone!"
"Sure!” said the Rat genially. “Sure, we will! Sweet
dreams, Smarly!"
The hanging fell back into place. Jimmie Dale con-
tinued to blink at it, and mumble to himself. The Rat's
pleasant little plan of robbing somebody's safe of fifteen
thousand dollars had nothing to do with her—but it in-
volved a moral obligation on his part that he had neither


15+
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the right nor the intention to ignore. And the fulfilment,
or the attempt at fulfilment, of that obligation had sud-
denly assumed unexpected difficulties. Even while he
had listened, and before the Rat was halfway through his
story, he, Jimmie Dale, was conscious that he had made
up his mind the Rat would rob no safe of fifteen thou-
sand dollars that night if he could prevent it, and he had
intended following the Rat from Foo Sen's. He dared
not do that now. Muggy Ladd's cautiousness, that had
evidently induced the Rat to inspect his, Jimmie Dale's,
compartment, had made that impossible. The Rat had
seen him there; and, forced to the deception in order to
avert any suspicion that he had overheard the others'
conversation, the Rat had seen him in the condition of
one who was apparently already far gone under the influ-
ence of drug. To risk the attempt to follow the Rat now,
to risk discovery by the Rat, was to risk, not only the
admission that he had been playing a part, but to risk
what he had fought for and staked his life for months
now to establish the rôle, the character of “Smarling-
hue” in the underworld. Nor, for the same reason,
would he dare move from the place for some little time
there was Foo Sen and the attendants.
Jimmie Dale dropped his head down on the bunk,
turned heavily over, facing the partition, and flung his
arm across his face. His lips had ceased their nervous
working; they were drawn together, thin and hard now.
It was bad enough to be forced to remain temporarily
inactive, though that in itself was not so serious, for it
was still early, not much more than nine o'clock, and it
was only fair to presume that the Rat would make no
move for some hours to come; but what was much more
serious was the fact that, unable to follow the Rat, he
would be obliged to solve for himself the problem of
whose was the safe, and whose the fifteen thousand dol-


THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD 155
lars that was the Rat's objective. The Rat had referred
to "the old guy'—that meant nothing. “Curley," how-
ever, was a little better-Curley, who had paid over the
money to the "old guy.”
Jimmie Dale's forehead, hidden by his arm, furrowed
deeply. From Muggy Ladd's initial objection to touch-
ing anything that concerned Curley, it could mean only
one Curley. He, Jimmie Dale, knew this Curley by sight,
and, slightly, by reputation. Curley and his partner,
Haines, kept a small wholesale liquor store in one of the
most populous, where all were populous, quarters of the
East Side; also Curley had a pull as a ward politician,
which might very readily account for Muggy Ladd's diffi-
dence; and Curley was credited with doing a thriving
business—both ways—as ward heeler and liquor pur-
veyor. Certainly, at least, he was known always to have
money; and had even been known at times to lend it
freely to those in want for a consideration. Yes, it was
undoubtedly and unquestionably Curley, of Haines &
Curley, familiarly known on the East Side as Reddy
Curley from his flaming red hair—but to whom had
Curley paid over the sum of fifteen thousand dollars ?
For a moment the frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead
deepened, then he nodded his head quickly. If he could
find Curley, or Haines, or even Patsy Marles, the clerk
who worked in the liquor store—which might possibly
still be open for another hour or so yet-it should not,
after all, and without even any undue inquisitiveness on
the part of Smarlinghue, prove very difficult to obtain the
necessary information, for, if Curley had been in a deal
involving fifteen thousand dollars, he was much more
likely to be boastful than reticent about it. It resolved
itself then, after all, into simply a matter of time.
Whisperings, a raucous laugh, a curse, the clink of
coin, the rattle of dice, the scuffle of slippered feet, the


156 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
low swish of the loose-garbed Chinese attendants went
on interminably. Jimmie Dale began to toss uneasily
from side to side of his bunk, and began to mumble
audibly again. Perhaps half an hour passed, during
which, from time to time, the curtain of the compartment
was drawn quietly aside and the impassive face of one
or other of the Chinese attendants was thrust through
the opening-and then suddenly Jimmie Dale raised him-
self up on his elbow, and pointed a shaking finger at one
of these apparitions.
"Foo Sen"-he licked his lips as he spoke-"you tell
Foo Sen come here !"
The face disappeared, and a moment later another
the wizened, yellow face of a little old Chinaman-took
its place.
"You wantee me, Smarly'oo?" inquired the proprietor
suavely.
“Tell 'em to help me out of this.” Jimmie Dale essayed
vainly to rise, and fell back on the bunk. “D'ye hear,
Foo Sen-tell 'em! Goin' home!"
"Allee same bletter stay sleep him off," advised Foo
Sen.
Jimmie Dale succeeded in sitting upright on the edge
of the bunk-and snarled at the other.
“You mind your own business, Foo Sen!” he flung out
gutturally. “Goin' home! Tell 'em to help me out-
sleep where I like! Makes me sick here-rotten smell-
rotten punk sticks!”
“You allee same fool,” commented Foo Sen imper-
turbably, as he clapped his hands. “Mabbe you no get
home; mabbe you get run in police cell sleep him off, in-
stead. That your business, you likee that-all right!"
Foo Sen smiled placidly, and was gone.
An instant later, Jimmie Dale, his arms twined around
the necks of two Chinamen, and leaning heavily upon


THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD 157
throu strended wind him, a not even but in Foo
his proga
them, and stumbling as he walked, was being conducted
through a maze of dark and narrow passages that grad-
ually trended upward to a higher level--and presently a
door closed behind him, and he was in the open air.
It was dark about him, not even the glimmer of a win-
dow light showed from anywhere-but in Foo Sen's there
were eyes that saw through the darkness, and his prog-
ress, alone now, was both unsteady and slow. He was
in a very narrow alleyway between two houses-one of
the several hidden entrances to Foo Sen's. The alley
opened in one direction on a lane, in the other direction
on the street. Jimmie Dale chose the direction of the
lane, reached the lane, and, still stumbling and lurching,
made his way along for a distance of possibly fifty yards;
then, well clear of the neighbourhood of Foo Sen's, he
began to quicken his pace--and twenty minutes later,
frowning in disappointment, he was standing in front of
Reddy Curley's liquor store, only to find that the place
was already closed for the night.


CHAPTER XII
IN THE SANCTUARY
TT was ten o'clock now, an hour since the Rat and
1 Muggy Ladd had left Foo Sen's. Again Jimmie Dale
told himself that it was still early, that the Rat would
wait for a much later hour—but at the same time
he acknowledged to himself a sense of growing and pre-
monitory uneasiness. Certainly, in any case, he had no
time to lose. He turned quickly and hurried along the
block that separated him from the Bowery—he had a
fair idea of the haunts usually frequented in the evening
by the men he sought, and, even failing to find the men
themselves, there was always the chance, and a very good
one, that, where Curley was known, Curley's fifteen
thousand dollar deal might be the subject of gossip which
would answer his, Jimmie Dale's, purpose quite as well.
But an hour went by—and yet another. Midnight
came-and midnight had brought him nothing. It seemed
as though he had combed the East Side from end to end,
and he had found neither Curley, nor Haines, nor Patsy
Marles-nor had he heard anything—nor had such
guarded questions as he had dared to ask without involv-
ing possible disastrous consequences to “Smarlinghue,"
should the Rat, after all, succeed and hear of his activi-
ties, had any result. And then, still maintaining his
efforts with dogged determination, though conscious now
that with the hour so late he might perhaps better return
to the Sanctuary, change, say, into the clothes of Jimmie
158


IN THE SANCTUARY
159
Dale, and, crediting the Rat with already having made a
successful inroad on the safe, devote his energies to run-
ning down the Rat, and, if possible, to salvaging the
plunder, he was in the act of entering again one of the
dance halls he had already visited earlier in the evening,
when one of the men he was searching for lurched out
through the doorway. It was Patsy Marles, garrulous,
drunk, exceedingly unsteady on his feet, and accom-
panied by three or four companions. They crowded out
past Jimmie Dale, and gathered aimlessly on the pave-
ment. Marles' voice rose in earnest insobriety for what
was very probably by no means the first time.
“Betcher life! Spot cash-fifteen thousand-spot
cash! Sure, I saw it! Only—hic !-got one boss now.
Little ol' Reddy got the-hic!-papers from lawyer 'saf-
ternoon. Know ol Grenville, don't you—that's him—ol
Grenville. Come on, whatsh's use standin'round here
doin' nothin'!”
Jimmie Dale did not enter the dance hall-instead,
scuffling hurriedly along to the next corner, he turned off
the Bowery, and, choosing the darker and more dimly
lighted streets and, at times, a lane or alleyway, broke
into a run. In the space of a little more than a second
he had at last obtained the information that he had
searched for vainly for over two hours. There seemed
something mockingly ironical in the fact that he had been
obliged to search for those two hours! What had hap-
pened in that time? Two hours! It was three hours
now since the Rat had left Foo Sen's !
He shook his head with sudden impatience at himself.
He would gain nothing by speculating on possibilities!
He had the information now. The one thing to do was
to act upon it. So it was old Grenville's safe! Old
Grenville, the lawyer; honest old Grenville, the East Side
called him, the one man, perhaps, whose word was ac-


160 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
cepted at its face value, and who was both liked and
trusted everywhere in the Bad Lands—because he was
honest! Jimmie Dale's lips tightened as he ran. It was
more than ordinarily dirty work, then, on the Rat’s part.
Grenville was an old man, close to seventy, at a guess;
and if any one had earned immunity from the depreda-
tions of the underworld it was this curious and lovable
old character-honest Grenville. The man was not a
criminal lawyer, he had made no enemies even in that
way; he was more a paternal family solicitor, as it were,
to the dregs of humanity that had crowded his queer and
dingy office now, so report had it, for over forty years.
He was credited with having amassed a little money, not
a fortune perhaps, for there were many fees never col-
lected and never asked for amongst the needy, but enough
to live comfortably on in the simple and unpretentious
way in which old Grenville lived.
Yes, it was dirty work-miserable, dirty work, the
work of a hound and a cur! And the Rat's logic was
unassailable. From Patsy Marles' maudlin babbling it
was evident that Reddy Curley had bought Haines, his
partner, out; that the price was fifteen thousand dollars;
and that Grenville, acting for Haines obviously, had re-
ceived the purchase money from Curley, and in return
had handed over what the Rat haá taken to be a receipt,
but what was probably in reality much more likely to
have been a Bill of Sale. But in either case, it was
neither Curley nor Haines who would suffer—it was old
Grenville, who, if the funds were stolen and not re-
covered, would have to make the amount good out of his
own pocket, and who, as all who knew old Grenville
knew well, would unhesitatingly do so at once if it took
the last cent that pocket held.
Jimmie Dale had halted before a small building on one
of the cross streets near the upper end of the Bowery.


IN THE SANCTUARY
161
There were some half dozen signs on the doorway, for
the most part time worn and shabby, amongst them that
of Henry Grenville, Attorney-at-Law.
There were no lights in any of the windows, but
Jimmie Dale, as he tried the door, found it unlocked, and,
opening it noiselessly, stepped inside. Here, a single
incandescent suspended over the stair well gave a murky
illumination to the surroundings. A narrow corridor,
dotted with office doors, was on his left; the stairway-
there was no elevator-was directly in front of him. He
stood motionless for an instant, listening. There was no
sound. He moved forward then, as silent as the silence
around him, and began to mount the stairs. Old Gren-
ville's office, he knew, was at the rear of the corridor on
the first landing.
It was after midnight now, quite a little after midnight.
Jimmie Dale's fingers, in the right-hand pocket of his
tattered coat, closed over the stock of his automatic.
Still no sound! Was he too late to forestall the Rat; or,
by no means an unlikely possibility, was the Rat there
now; or was—a low, muttered exclamation, that mingled
surprise and bewilderment, came suddenly from Jimmie
Dale's lips. He had reached the landing, and here, from
the head of the stairs, he could see a dull yellow glow
thrown out into the corridor through the glass panel of
the lawyer's door.
An instant's pause, and then, chagrined, the sense of
defeat upon him, he moved forward again as silently as
before. He reached the door and crouched beside it. A
murmur of voices came to him from within. Jimmie
Dale's lips parted in grim irony. The game was up, of
course, but he was occupying precisely the same coign
of vantage that, according to the Rat, the Rat had occu-
pied that afternoon, and if the Rat had been able, undis-
covered, to see and hear, then he, Jimmie Dale, could do


162 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the same. The slim, tapering, sensitive fingers closed on
the doorknoba thin ray of light began to steal through
between the door-edge and the jamband grew wider-
and the voices, from a confused murmur, became dis-
tinct. And now, through the narrow crack of the slightly
opened door, he could see inside; and he could see that,
as he had already realised, he was too late, very much
too late, in time only, as it were, for the post-mortem
of the affair-even the police were already on the spot!
It was a curious scene! A rickety old railing across
the middle of the musty, bare-floored room served to
indicate that the space beyond was the old lawyer's "pri-
vate” office. And here, inside the railing, a desk, or,
rather, a great, flat, deal table, spread with a red, ink-
stained cloth, was littered with books and papers; while
behind the table, again, stood a huge, old-fashioned safe,
its door swung wide open, its erstwhile contents scattered
in disorder about the floor.
Jimmie Dale's eyes swept the interior of the room with
a single, quick, comprehensive glance-and then, nar-
rowed, travelled from one to another of the faces of the
four men who were gathered around the table. He
knew them all. The stocky, grizzle-haired man in the
centre was a plain-clothes man from headquarters, named
Barlow; at the lower end of the table Reddy Curley and
Haines, his partner, faced each other, Curley drumming
indifferently with his fingers on the table-top, Haines
scowling and chewing his lower lip, a certain coarse
brutality in both their faces that was neither pleasant nor
inviting; but it was the white-haired old man, bent of
form, standing at the head of the table, upon whom
Jimmie Dale's eyes lingered. Old Grenville! The man's
hand, as he raised it to pass it across his eyes, was shak-
ing palpably; his face, kindly still in spite of its worn and
haggard expression, was pale with anxiety and strain.


IN THE SANCTUARY
163
Barlow was speaking:
“You say there's nothing else missing, Mr. Grenville,
except the sealed envelope that contained the fifteen
thousand dollars given you by Mr. Curley this after-
noon?"
The old lawyer shook his head.
"I can't say," he answered. “As I told you, I often
come here at night to work. To-night a client kept me
very late at my house, so it was only, I should say, a
quarter of an hour ago when I reached here. I tele-
phoned you at once, and, awaiting your arrival, I did not
disturb anything, so I have not examined any of the
papers yet.”
"I don't think it's a question of papers," observed the
Headquarters man dryly.
“There was nothing else taken then," decided Grenville
slowly; “for there was no other money in the safe at the
time-in fact, I rarely keep any there."
“Well then,” said Barlow crisply, “it's pretty near open
and shut that some one was wise to that fifteen thousand
being there to-night, and it wasn't just a lucky haul out
of any old safe just because the safe looked easy." He
turned toward Curley and Haines. “Were either of you
talking with any one around the East Side to-night who
would be likely to make a tip of it, or pass the tip along?”
"We weren't there at all to-night,” Curley replied.
"Haines and I were out in my car, and we'd just got back
when you picked us up at the store on the way up here.
But, at that, I guess you're right. We didn't make any
secret about it, and I daresay after I'd got the business
tucked away safe in my inside pocket this afternoon”-he
grinned maliciously at Haines—“I may have mentioned
it to one or two."
“Got it tucked away safe, have you? Own it, do you ?"
Haines caught him up truculently.


164 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“Sure!” Curley had wicked, little greenish-grey eyes,
and their stare was uninviting as he fixed them on his
quondam partner. “If you want to grouch, go ahead and
grouch! We've been pretty good friends for a pretty
good number of years, but I ain't a fool. Sure, it's mine
now! I didn't ask you to employ Grenville, did I? I
was satisfied to take any old piece of paper with your
fist on it, saying you'd sold out to me; but no, you were
for having the thing done with frills on it. Well, I'm
still satisfied! I came here at five o'clock this afternoon,
and paid the coin over to your attorney, and I got a per-
fectly good little Bill of Sale for it-and that lets me
out. It's up to you and your Mister Attorney. Why
don't you ask him what he's going to do about it, instead
of trying to take it out on me the way you've been doing
ever since Barlow told us what had happened, and
“Mr. Curley is perfectly right, Mr. Haines"—the old
lawyer's voice was quiet, though it trembled a little.
"The title to the business is now vested in Mr. Curley,
and you are entitled to look to me for compensation.
I”-he hesitated an instant-"I-I hope the money may
be recovered, otherwise "
"Eh?” inquired Mr. Haines sharply.
“Otherwise," the old lawyer went on with an effort,
"I am afraid I shall have a great deal of difficulty in
raising so large a sum.”
"The hell you are!" said Mr. Haines uncharitably, and
leaned forward over the table. “Don't try to come that
dodge! Everybody says you're well fixed. Everybody
says you've got a neat little pile salted away."
The lawyer's face was ashen, and his lips were quiver-
ing; but there was a fine dignity in the poise of the old
man's head, and in the squared shoulders.
“Nevertheless, I am, unfortunately, telling you the
truth, in spite of any rumours, or public belief to the
entitled to lois now vestetrembled at


IN THE SANCTUARY
165
ed
contrary," he said steadily. “A few thousands, a very
few, is all I have ever been able to lay aside. Those are
at your disposal, Mr. Haines, and the balance I promise
to procure as speedily as possible; but in plain words, if
this money is not recovered, and I do not say this to
invite either sympathy or leniency, but because you have
questioned my word, I shall have lost everything I own."
Mr. Haines scowled.
"Well, I'm glad to know you've at least got enough!"
he said roughly. “It sure will surprise a whole lot of
people that fifteen thousand wipes Mr. Henry Grenville
out!”
A flush dyed the old lawyer's cheeks. He made as
though to speak—and, instead, turned silently away from
the table, his back to the others. There was silence in
the room now for a moment. Again Jimmie Dale's eyes
travelled swiftly from one to another of the group-to
Curley, grinning maliciously at his ex-partner again—to
Haines, gnawing at his lower lip, and scowling blackly-
to Barlow, obviously uncomfortable, who was uneasily
tracing patterns with his forefinger on the top of the
table-and back to the old lawyer, whose shoulders now,
as though carrying a load too heavy for their strength,
had drooped pathetically, and into whose face, in spite
of a brave effort at self-control, had crept a wan and
miserable despair.
"Look here!” said Barlow gruffly. “It strikes me you
can settle all this some other time. It's got nothing to
do with the guy that pulled this break, and I'm losing
time. Headquarters is waiting for my report. You two
had better beat it; Mr. Grenville won't mind, I guess-
I've got your end of the story, and ".
Jimmie Dale was retreating back along the corridor-
and a minute later he was in the street, and scuffling along
in a downtown direction. His hands, in the pockets of


166 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
his tattered coat, were clenched, and through the pallor
of Smarlinghue's make-up a dull red burned his cheeks.
Old Grenville—and the Rat! The smile that found lodg-
ment on Smarlinghue's contorted lips was mirthless.
The old man had taken it like the gentleman he was. He
had not perhaps hidden the quiver of the lipwho would
at seventy! It was not easy to begin life again at
ceventy! Old Grenville—and the Rat! Well, the game
was not played out yet! There would be an accounting
of that fifteen thousand dollars before the morning came,
and, as between old Grenville and the Rat, it might not
perhaps be old Grenville who paid !
Hurrying now, running through lanes and alleyways as
he had come, Jimmie Dale headed for the Sanctuary. It
was very simple now. The Rat, his work completed,
would lay very low-asleep probably, in the innocent sur-
roundings of his own room! The Rat would not be hard
to find. It was necessary only that, in the little interview
he proposed to have with the Rat, “Smarlinghue" should
have disappeared!
He reached the tenement where, for months now, that
ground floor room, opening on the small and dirty court-
yard in the rear, had been his refuge, Smarlinghue's
home in the underworld, glanced quickly up and down
the street to assure himself that he was not observed,
then, darting into the dark hallway, he crossed it silently,
unlocked the Sanctuary door, stepped through, and closed
and locked the door behind him. Nor, even now, did he
make the slightest sound. From the top-light, high up
near the ceiling and far above the little French window
whose shade was drawn, there came a faint and timid
streak of moonlight. It did not illuminate the room;
it but iessened the degree of blackness, as it were, giving
a dim and shadowy outline to objects scattered here and
there about the room-and to a darker shadow amongst


IN THE SANCTUARY
167
those other shadows, a shadow that moved swiftly and
in utter silence, a shadow that was Jimmie Dale at work.
No one had seen him enter-not that there should be
anything strange in the fact that Smarlinghue should.
enter Smarlinghue's own room, but it would not be
Smarlinghue who went away! No one had seen him
enter-it was vital now that he should not be heard mov-
ing around the room, and so invite the chance of some
aimless caller in the person of a fellow-tenant, for it was
no longer Smarlinghue who would be found there!
The ragged outer garments he had been wearing lay
discarded in a heap on the floor, close to that section of
the wall near the door where the base-board, ingeniously
movable, would, in another moment or so, afford them
safe hiding until such time as "Smarlinghue" should re-
appear in person again; from the nostrils, from beneath
the lips, from behind the ears, the tiny, cleverly-inserted
pieces of wax, distorting the features, had vanished; and
now, over the cracked basin on the rickety washstand, the
masterly-created pallor was washed rapidly away—and
the thin, hollow-cheeked, emaciated face of Smarlinghue,
the drug fiend, was gone, and in its place, clean-cut, clear-
eyed, was the face of Jimmie Dale, clubman and mil-
lionaire.
He smiled a little whimsically, a little wanly, as he
stole back across the room. It was a strange life, a
dangerous life! He wondered often enough, as he was
wondering now, what the end of it would be would he
find the Tocsin-or would he find death at the hands of
the underworld—or judicial murder at the hands of the
law for a hundred crimes attributed to the Gray Seal!
Crimes! The smile grew serious and wistful, as he knelt
on the floor and began to loosen the section of the base-
board in front of him. There had never been a crime
committed by the Gray Seal! Yes, it was strange,
the Gr. There hade section as he knelt


168 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
bizarre, incredulous even to himself sometimes, this life
of his—the strange partnership formed so long ago now
with her, the Tocsin, who had prompted those "crimes”
that righted a wrong, that brought sunlight into some life
where there had been gloom before, and hope where there
had been misery—and the love that had come--and then
disaster again, and her disappearance—and his resump-
tion once more of a dual life and a rôle in the under-
world-and, yes, in spite of her own danger, those "calls
to arms” to the Gray Seal again for the sake of others,
while she refused, through love for him, through fear of
the peril that it would bring him, help for herself.
He shook his head, as, the base-board removed now, he
reached into the hollow beyond for the neatly-folded, ex-
pensively-tailored tweeds of Jimmie Dale. She was
wrong in that. Could anything add to the peril in which
he lived, as it was! If only in some way he might reach
her, see her, talk to her, if only for a moment, he could
make her see that, and understand, and
A low, startled cry burst suddenly from his lips; he felt
the blood ebb from his cheeks—and surge back again in
a burning, mighty tide. It was dark, he could not see;
but those wonderfully sensitive finger tips, that were ears
and eyes to Jimmie Dale, were telegraphing a wild, mad,
amazing message to his brain. The Tocsin had been
here-here in the Sanctuary! She had been here-here
in this room—and within the last few hours—sometime
since seven o'clock that evening, when, as Jimmie Dale,
he had come here to assume the rôle of Smarlinghue pre-
paratory to his vigil in Foo Sen's!
His hand, thrust in through the opening to reach for
his clothes, had found an envelope where it lay on the
top of the folded garments—and his hand was still thrust
inside—there was no need to look-the texture of the
paper was hers-hers—the Tocsin's! The blood was


IN THE SANCTUARY
169
racing wildly through his veins. There was a mad joy
upon him—and a sense of keen and bitter emptiness.
Wild thoughts, in lightning flashes, swept his brain. She
must have been here, then, many times before . . . she
knew the Sanctuary as well as he did ... she knew the
secret hiding place behind the base-board ... she had
come, of course, knowing he was absent ... she might
come some day thinking he was absent ... yes, why not
-why not ... perhaps-perhaps that was the way ...
some day she might come again. ...
He laughed a little in a shaken way, and drew out the
letter. With a mental wrench, he forced his mind into
a calmer state. It was very singular that she should have
placed the letter in that hiding place! It could evidence
but one thing—that the contents of the letter, unlike any
she had ever written before, were not of a pressing na-
ture, for she would know very well that it might have
been many hours, days even, before he might go there
for the clothes of Jimmie Dale again! What, then, did
it mean? Had she decided at last to tell him all, to let
him take his place beside her, share her danger, fight with
her! Was that it?
He reached hurriedly into the opening again, drew out
the little leather girdle, and from one of its pockets took
out a flashlight. He had not dared to light the gas be-
fore; dressed, or, rather, undressed, as he was at present,
and no longer Smarlinghue, he dared much less to light
it now.
He tore the envelope open, and, still kneeling on the
floor, the flashlight upon the pages, began to read:
"Dear Philanthropic Crook: You will be surprised
to find this letter in such a place, won't you? Yes, you
are quite right, for once, as you will already have told
yourself, there is no hurry-for it is too late to hurry.


170 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Listen, then! Henry Grenville's safe—the old East Side
lawyer, you know-
He had read eagerly so far. He stared at the letter
now, and the words only danced in an unmeaning jumble
before him. It was not for herself, it was not that she
had thrown the barriers down and was bidding him come
to her; it was again another “call to arms” to the Gray
Seal-and for another's sake. And there came to Jimmie
Dale a miserable disappointment, for his hope, shattered
now, had been greater than he had admitted even to
himself. And then he was aware that, subconsciously, it
had seemed to him a most curious coincidence that the
letter should be dealing with the robbery of Henry Gren-
ville's safe that night. Yes, certainly, it was a most
curious coincidence, when he was even then on his way
to the Rat! He shrugged his shoulders in his whimsical
way. Well, for once, he had forestalled the Tocsin!
There could be little here that he did not already know.
He began to read again, but skimming over the words and
sentences hurriedly now.
"... Curley ... liquor business ... buying out part-
ner, Haines ... this afternoon ... fifteen thousand
dollars . . . large bills, one-hundred, five-hundred and
thousand-dollar denominations ... sealed in envelope
by Grenville ... placed by Grenville in his safe ...
head of one of the most successful and desperate gangs
in the country ... years under cover through position
occupied ... take your time, Jimmie, and be careful
before you act . . . rest of gang is 'working' Boston and
New England this week ... backyard from lane, high
board fence ... in cellar ... cleverly concealed door
at right of coal bin ... knot in wood seventh board
from wall on level with your shoulders . . . short pas-
sage beyond leading to door of den ... sound-proof
room ... exit through other side . . . sliding panel to
room above ... opened by hanging weight inside ..."


IN THE SANCTUARY
171
mistake; but here
es, had taken hose who had hot
In a stunned way now, Jimmie Dale stared for a long
minute at the letter in his hand-then he read it again-
and yet again. And then, the flashlight out, as he tore
the letter into fragments, he stared again, for a long
minute-into the blackness.
It was damnable, it was monstrous, this thing that he
had read; it plumbed the dregs of human deviltry—but
for once the Tocsin was at fault. Of the plot that had
been hatched, of those details that she described, there
could be no doubt, there was no question there, and there
the Tocsin, he knew, had made no mistake; but the
Tocsin, yes, and those who had hatched the crime them-
selves, had taken no account of the possible intervention
of an outsider in the person of—the Rat! There was
even a sort of grim irony in it all—that the Rat should
quite unconsciously have feathered his nest at the expense
of a far more elaborately arranged crime than his own,
and at the expense of those who were of even a more
abandoned, dangerous and unscrupulous type of criminal
than himself!
Jimmie Dale's face hardened suddenly—and suddenly
he stooped and pulled his clothes from their hiding place,
and began to dress. For once, his inside information
outreached hers. It was still—the Rat. Her letter
changed nothing, save that afterwards, perhaps—well,
that afterwards, perhaps, there was another, others be-
side the Rat, with whom an accounting would be made!


CHAPTER XIII
THE SECRET ROOM
TIMMIE DALE dressed quickly now. From the
J pockets of the little leather girdle to the pockets of
his tweeds he transferred a steel picklock, a pair of light
steel handcuffs, a piece of fine but exceedingly strong
cord, a black silk mask, and that small metal case, within
which, between sheets of oiled paper, lay those gray-
coloured, diamond-shaped, adhesive paper seals that were
known in every den in the underworld, known in every
police bureau of two continents, as the insignia of the
Gray Seal. He slipped the flashlight into his pocket, took
his automatic from the discarded garments of Smarling-
hue—and, thrusting the ragged clothing into the opening,
put the removable section of the base-board back into
place.
And now, twin to that streak of lesser gloom that came
from the top-light, another filtered into the room. The
small French window. opened and closed without sound-
the room was empty. A shadow in the courtyard, close
against the wall of the tenement, moved forward a foot,
a yard-a loose board in the fence bordering the lane
swung silently aside and in a moment more, striding
nonchalantly up the block, Jimmie Dale turned into the
Bowery.
He had some distance to go, almost back as far as the
liquor store at the lower end of the Bowery, for the Rat
lived, if he, Jimmie Dale, was not mistaken, just one block
172


THE SECRET ROOM
173
this side, in a small one-story frame building on the cor-
ner of a cross street; and-it seemed incongruous, queerly
out of place somehow-the Rat lived with his mother.
Home ties, or home relationships, hardly seemed in
harmony with the Rat! Still, in this case, it was perhaps
very debatable ground as to which was the more per-
nicious, the old woman or the son! Ostensibly, she kept
a little variety store; but her business, if report were
true, was the edifying occupation of school mistress-
the children graduating under her tuition being ranked
by common consent as the most accomplished pickpockets
in gangland!
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, as he swung at
last from the Bowery into a narrow, poorly lighted street.
Well, at least, if the Rat's criminal career ended to-night,
the Rat's punishment need excite no sympathy for the
old woman, as far as he, Jimmie Dale, was concerne !--
it was a pity only that she had not been behind the bars
herself long ago! Yes, this was the place the small
frame building diagonally across from the corner on
which he had halted. He crossed over for a closer inspec-
tion. The front of the house was dark, the little store
windows shuttered. He hesitated an instant, then walked
around the corner to survey the building from the side
and rear. Here, from a window that gave on the inter-
secting street, there showed a light. The window was
low, scarcely above the level of his head, but held no
promise on that score as a source of information, for tile
shade within was tightly drawn. Jimmie Dale scowled at
it for a moment, noted its proximity to the backyard and
the front of the building. The Rat, then, or the Rat's
mother, was still up, and he would need to exercise more
than ordinary caution-or else wait-indefinitely, per-
haps.
He shook his head at wat alternative, as he looked


174
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
sharply up and down the street. He would gain little
by waiting, and-ah! He was crouched in the doorway
now, the deft fingers working swiftly with the picklock.
There was a faint metallic click, barely audible above his
low-breathed exclamation—and the door opened and
closed behind him.
The flashlight in his hand winked once-and went out.
Small, glass-topped counters were on either side of the
somewhat restricted aisle in which he stood; directly in
front of him, at the rear of the store, was a door, leading,
obviously, to the living rooms beyond.
The old days of Larry the Bat, the rickety, creaky
stairs of the old Sanctuary had trained Jimmie Dale's
step to a silence that was almost uncanny. It might have
been a shadow moving there across the floor of the store,
a shadow fitting through that doorway beyond. There
was no sound.
And now, at the end of a short, dark passage, he
stopped before the door of what was, from its location,
the lighted room he had seen from the street; and, slip-
ping his mask over his face, he placed his ear against the
door panel to listen. He was rewarded only by absolute
silence. His lips, under the mask, twisted queerly, as,
softly, cautiously, he tried the door. It gave under the
steady pressure that he exerted upon it-gave without
sound for the measure of a fraction of an inch-it was
unlocked. And now Jimmie Dale could see into the
room-and suddenly he stepped noiselessly forward, his
automatic holding a bead on the crouched figure of the
Rat, asleep apparently in his chair, whose head, flung
forward, was buried in his crossed arms upon the table
in the centre of the room.
"Good evening!” said Jimmie Dale, in a velvet voice.
There was no answer-the man neither turned his
head, nor looked up.


176
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
for instance, bent on the same errand, they had seen the
Rat leaving the building; then, finding the safe already
looted, they had put two and two together, and had
trapped the Rat here—and the Rat had paid the price!
It might have been that way, but that in itself was a de-
tail, immaterial—they had discovered that it was the Rat.
The Rat's murder proved it. It was not enough that
they should recover the envelope—there would have been
no way to avoid exposure or cover their own crime ex-
cept by murdering the Rat.
He looked down at the silent form sprawled over the
table, and his face relaxed, softened a little. The Rat
was only the Rat, it was true, and the man was a thief,
an outcast, a pariah, a prey upon society; but life to
the Rat, too, had been sweet, and his murder was a
hideous thing—and even such as the Rat might ask jus-
tice. Justice! It had been dirty work-miserable, dirty
work, he had called it when he had thought the Irat
alone involved—but now, thanks to the Tocsin, he knew
it for what it really was, knew it for its damnable, hellish
ingenuity, and its abominable, brutal callousness! Jus-
tice! Yes—but how?
He began to move about the room, his mind for the
moment diverted in an endeavour to reconstruct the scene
as it must have been enacted here around him. The Rat
had broken into the safe before eleven o'clock—that was
obvious now. In fact, it was quite likely to have been
much nearer ten! He had returned here and had been
sitting there at the table, counting over his ill-gotten gains,
perhaps, his back to the door, just as he sat now, and
they had stolen in upon him. But where was the old
woman? True, perhaps little, if any, noise had been
made, and yet-Jimmie Dale, pausing on the threshold of
the door, listened intently. One of the two rooms, whose
doors he saw between this end room and the door opening


THE SECRET ROOM
177
into the store, must be hers, and if she were there, asleep,
for instance, his ear was surely acute enough to catch,
in the stillness that lay upon the house, the sound of
breathing. But there was nothing. Under the mask,
his brows drew together in a perplexed frown. And
then suddenly he stood rigid, tense. Yes, there was a
sound at last-and an ominous one! The front door
leading into the store was being opened, came the scuffling
of footsteps—and then a woman's voice, shrill, wailing:
"W'en I come in not twenty minutes ago dere he was-
dead. My Gawd-knifed he was! An' den I runs fer
youse at de station. I gotta right ter cry, ain't I! He's
my son, he is—ain't he! I gotta right- "
"Keep quiet!” snapped a man's voice gruffly. “We've
heard all that a dozen times now. It's a pity you didn't
think more about being his mother twenty years ago!
Mike, you'd better lock that front door!"
Jimmie Dale drew back, and closed the door softly. If
he were caught here now! The old woman had brought
the police back with her—two of them, it appeared. He
smiled in a hard way. Well, he did not propose to be
caught. His hand reached up to the electric light switch,
there was a click, and the room was in darkness. In the
fraction of a second more he was at the window. Shade
and window were swiftly, silently raised, and he looked
out cautiously. The street was deserted, empty; there
was no one in sight. It was very simple, a drop of a
few feet to the sidewalk, a dash around the corner-and
that was all. They were coming now. He swung one
leg over the sill—and sat there motionless, his mind bal-
ancing with lightning speed the pros against the cons of a
sudden inspiration that had come to him. Justice ..
justice on those guilty of this wretched murder here, and
guilty of many another crime almost as grave .:. he
had asked himself how ... here was a way ... a dare-


178 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
devil, foolhardyance shot, perhapanel door
devil, foolhardy way? ... no, the possibility of being
winged by a chance shot, perhaps, but otherwise a safe
way ... escape through that panel door operated by
weights ... and it was not far to that den the Tocsin
had described ... nor would he be running into a trap
himself ... the gang was not there . . . perhaps no
one ... but perhaps, with luck, those he might wish
would be there ... it would be a gracious little act on
the part of the Gray Seal, would it not, to invite the police,
this Mike and his companion, to that den—they would be
deeply interested! He laughed low-they were almost
at the door now. Well? The doorknob rattled. Yes, he
would do it! Yes—now! He stretched out suddenly,
and with the toe of his boot kicked over a chair that was
within reach. The crash, as the chair fell, was answered
by a rush through the door, a hoarse, surprised and quick-
flung oath-and, as Jimmie Dale swung out through the
window and dropped to the street, the flash and roar of
a revolver shot.
Like a cat on his feet, he whirled as he touched the
pavement, and darted along past the backyard fence,
heading for the lane; and, as he ran, over his shoulder, he
saw first one and then the other of the two men, both in
police uniform, drop from the window and take up the
pursuit. Another shot, and another, a fusillade of them
rang out. A bullet struck the pavement at his feet with
a venomous spat. He heard the humming of another that
was like the humming of an angry wasp. And he laughed
again to himself—but short and grimly now. Just a few
yards more-five of them—to the corner of the lane. It
was the chance he had invited-three yards—two-his
breath was coming in hard, short panting gasps-safe!
Yes! He had won now—they would not get another
shot at him, at least not another that he would have any
need to fear!
police uniforother shot, and ae pavement at hanother that
lang out. Another son from theer of the ear his shoul, fence,


THE SECRET ROOM
179
He swerved into the lane, still running at top speed. A
high board fence, she had said yes, there it was! And it
corresponded in location with where he knew it should
be about three lots in from the street. He sprang for
it, and swung lithely to the top—and hung there, as
though still scrambling and struggling for his balance.
The officers had not turned into the lane yet, and he had
no intention of affording them any excuse for losing sight
of their quarry!
Ah! There they were! A yell and a revolver shot
rang out simultaneously as they caught sight of him-
and Jimmie Dale dropped down to the ground on the
inside of the fence. In the moonlight he could see quite
distinctly. He darted across the yard, heading for the
basement door of the building that loomed up in front
of him.
The little steel picklock was in his hand as he reached
the door. A second-two-three went by. He straight-
ened up and again he waited-stepping back a few feet
to stand sharply outlined in the moonlight.
Again a shout in signal that he was seen, as one of the
officers' heads appeared over the top of the fence and
Jimmie Dale, as though in mad haste, plunged through
the door.
And now suddenly his tactics changed. He needed
every second he could gain, and the police now certainly
could no longer lose their way. He swung the door shut
behind him, locked it to delay them, and snatched his
flashlight from his pocket. He was at the top of a few
ladder-like steps that led down into the cellar of the
building, and halfway along the length of the cellar the
ray of his flashlight swept across a huge coal bin, its
sides, it seemed, built almost up to the ceiling.
Jimmie Dale was muttering to himself now, as he took
the steps at a single leap. and raced toward the side of


180 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the bin that flanked the wall—"seventh board from the
wall—knot on a level with shoulders”—and now he was
counting rapidly—and now the round, white ray played
on the seventh board. They were smashing at the cellar
door now. The knot! Ah-there it was! He pressed
it. Two of the boards in front of him, the width of a
man's body, swung back. He left this open-a blazed
trail for his pursuers, battering now at the cellar door-
and stepped forward into a little opening, too short to
be called a passage, and, silent now, halted before another
door.
Brain and eyes and hands were working now with in-
credible speed. That it was a sound-proof room was
not, perhaps, altogether an unmixed blessing! Was the
place deserted? Was there any one within ? He could
hear nothing. Well, after all, did it make any ultimate
difference? The room itself wouid condemn them!
The picklock was at work again—working silently-
working swiftly. And now, in its place, his automatic
was in his hand.
He crouched a little and with a spring, flinging wide
the door, was in the room. There was a smothered cry,
an oath, the crash of an overturned chair, as two men,
from a table heaped with little piles of crisp, new bank-
notes, sprang wildly to their feet. And Jimmie Dale's
lips twisted in a smile not good to see. Standing there
before him were Curley and Haines.
“Keep your seats, gentlemen-please !” said Jimmie
Dale, with grim irony. “I shall only stay a moment.
It is Mr. Curley and Mr. Haines, I believe-in their
private office! Permit me!”—he reached out with his
left hand, and closed the door. “Ah, I see there is a
good serviceable bolt on it. I have your permission ?”—
he slipped the bolt into place. "As I said, I shall only
stay a moment; but it would be unfortunate, most unfor-


THE SECRET ROOM
181
tunate, if we were by any chance interrupted-prema-
turely!"
Haines, ashen white, was gripping at the table edge.
Curley, a deadly glitter in his wicked little eyes, moistened
his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“How'd you get here, and what the hell d' you want?”
he burst out fiercely.
“As to the first question, I haven't time to answer it,"
said Jimmie Dale evenly. “What I want is the sealed
envelope stolen from Henry Grenville's safe--and I'm
in a hurry, Mr. Curley."
"You're a fool!” said Curley, with a sneer. “It's "
"Yes, I know,” said Jimmie Dale, with ominous
patience, “it's counterfeit, you miserable pair of curs !
Counterfeit like the rest of that stuff there on the table !
Nice place you've got here everything, I see-press,
plates, engraver's tools-nothing missing but the rest of
the gang! Perhaps, though, they can be found! Now
then, that envelope-quick!” Jimmie Dale's automatic
swung forward significantly
"It's in the drawer of the table,” snarled Curley.
"Curse you, who- ”
"Thank you!" Jimmie Dale's lips were a thin line.
"Now, you two, stand out there in the middle of the
floor-and if either of you make a move other than you
are told to make, I'll drop you as I would drop a mad
dog!" He jerked the two chairs out from the table, and,
still covering Curley and Haines, placed the chairs
back to back. "Sit down there, stretch out your arms full
length on either side, the palms of your hands against
each other's !” he ordered curtly; and, as they obeyed-
Haines, cowed, all pretence at nerve gone, Curley
cursing in abandon-he slipped the handcuffs over their
wrists on one side, and, taking the piece of cord from
his pocket that he had intended for the Rat's ankles, he


182 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
deftly noosed their wrists on the other side with a slip
knot, which he fastened securely.
He stepped over to the table.
"Counterfeiting five-hundred and thousand-dollar bills
is rather out of the ordinary run, isn't it-I see these on
the table here are the regular small variety !” he ob-
served coolly, as he pulled the drawer open. “The big
ones make a quick turn-over, though, if you have the
plant to turn them out, and can swing a scheme to cash
them-after banking hours—and steal them back!
Hello, what's this !”—the sealed envelope, torn open at
one end, evidently by the Rat in his examination, but still
full of the counterfeit notes, was blood-smeared, and on
the upper left-hand corner there showed the distinct
impression of a finger print.
There was a sudden crash against the door.
Both men, in their chairs, strained around--and now
Curley, too, had lost his colour.
"My God, what's that!” he whispered.
The thin metal case was in Jimmie Dale's hand. With
the tweezers, he lifted one of the little gray seals to his
lips, moistened it, and, using his elbow, pressed it firmly
down upon the envelope.
Came another furious thud upon the door-and an-
other.
"What's that!” Curley's voice was a frantic scream
now. "For God's sake, do you hear, what's that!"
Jimmie Dale, under a pencilled arrow mark indicating
the finger print, was scrawling a few words in printed
characters.
"It's the police,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. "Some-
body murdered the Rat to-night!" He surveyed the en-
velope in his hand critically. Between the arrow mark
and the gray seal were the words: “Look on the Rat's
collar--and these gentlemen's fingers." He laid the en-
My God had lost hislairs, strai


THE SECRET ROOM
183
velope down on the table-and, as the door suddenly
splintered and sagged under a terrific blow from some
heavy object, he retreated hurriedly to the farther end
of the room. Here a half dozen steps led upward, and
hanging from the ceiling beside them was a cord to which
was attached a leaden weight. He jerked the cord
quickly. A panel above him slid noiselessly back. He
leaped to the top of the stairs, and paused for a moment.
“They've been looking for this place for several years,
I guess,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “And I guess it will
change hands to-night for the last time—and without
the need of any Bill of Sale from old Henry Grenville !
But we were speaking of the Rat—and why the Rat was
murdered. If the Rat had had a chance to spread the
news that the money paid by Mr. Curley this afternoon
was counterfeit, it- "
Jimmie Dale did not finish his sentence. In a bound,
as the door from the cellar crashed inward, he was
through the panel opening and in the room above. There
was light from the open panel behind him-enough to
show him that he was in a small room which was fitted
up as an office—the office of Haines & Curley, whole-
sale liquor dealers!
In an instant he was out of the office, and running
silently down the length of the store. He snatched off
his mask, reached the front door, opened it, stepped out
on the quiet, deserted street-and a moment later Jimmie
Dale was but one of the many that still, even at that hour,
drifted their way along the Bowery.


CHAPTER XIV
THE LAST CARD
TWO weeks had gone by-or was it three? How
1 long was it since he had found the Tocsin's letter
in the secret hiding place of the new Sanctuary! It had
seemed to him then that he had been given a new lead,
a new hope; for, once he had recovered from his startled
amazement at the realisation that she was as conversant
with the secrets of the new Sanctuary as she had been
with the old, there had come the thought of turning that
'very fact to his own account-that if he were unable to
reach or find her by any other means, he might succeed,
instead, by letting her unwittingly come to him. She had
come there once to the Sanctuary when he had been ab-
sent; she was almost certain to come there again—when
she thought he was absent! He had put his plan into
execution. For days at a stretch he had remained hidden
in the Sanctuary—and nothing had come of it—and then
the inaction, coupled with the knowledge that the peril
which faced her, even though his previous efforts to
avert it had all been abortive, had made it unbearable to
remain longer passive, and he had given it up, and gone
out again, combing and searching through the dens and
dives of the underworld.
· That had been two weeks ago or three. And the net
result had been nothing !
Jimmie Dale allowed the evening newspaper to slip
from his fingers. It dropped to the arm of his lounging
chair, and from there to the floor. It was no use. He
184


THE LAST CARD
185
had been reading mechanically ever since he had re-
turned from the club half an hour ago, and he was con-
scious in only the haziest sort of way of what he had
been reading. The market, the general news items, the
editorials, had all blended one into the other to form a
meaningless jumble of words; even the leading article
on the front page, that proclaimed as imminent the final
and complete exposé of what had come to be known as
"The Private Club Ring”-an investigation that, from
its inception, he had hitherto followed closely, promising
as it did to involve and link in partnership with the lowest
of the underworld names that heretofore had stood high
up in the social circles of New York—seemed uninterest-
ing and unable to hold his attention to-night.
He rose impulsively from his chair, and, walking down
the length of the richly furnished room, his tread sound-
less on the thick, heavy rug, drew the portières aside, and
stood looking out of the rear window. It was dark out-
side, but presently the shadows formed into concrete
shapes, and, across the black space of driveway and
yard, the wall of the garage assumed a solid background
against the night. He passed his hand over his forehead
heavily, and a wanness came into his face and eyes. Once
before he had stood here at this window of his den, the
room that ran the entire depth of his magnificent River-
side Drive residence, and old Jason had stood at the
front window—and they had watched, Jason and he
watched the shadows, that were not shadows of walls
and buildings, close in around the house. That was the
night before he had escaped from the trap set by the
Crime Club; the night before the old Sanctuary had
burned down, and police and underworld alike had be-
lieved the Gray Seal buried beneath the charred and
fallen walls; the night before she, the Tocsin, had come


186 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
for a little while into her own, and for a little while
into his arms.
His lips twisted in pain. A little while! Days of
glad and glorious wonder! They were gone now; and
in their place was emptiness and loneliness—and a great,
overmastering fear and terror that would clutch at times,
as it clutched now, cold at his heart.
It was not so very long ago that night, only a few
months ago, but it seemed as though the years had come
and rolled away since then. She was gone again, driven
by a peril that menaced her life into hiding again—a peril
that she would not let him share—because she loved him.
The pain that showed on his twisted lips was voiced
in a low, involuntary cry. Because she loved him! His
hands clenched hard. Where was she? Who was it that
dogged and haunted her, that was wrecking and ruining
her life? God knew! And God knew, employing every
resource he possessed, he had done everything he could
to reach her. And all that he had accomplished had been
the creation of a new character in the underworld! That
was all and yet, strangely enough, in that way
there had come to him the one single gleam of relief
that he had known, for out of the creation of that char-
acter had sprung again the activities of the Gray Seal,
and with the resumption of those activities, since, as in
the old days, those "calls to arms" of hers had come
again he knew that, at least, she was so far alive and safe.
Jimmie Dale swung from the window, and began to
pace rapidly up and down the room. Safe--yes! But for
how long ? She had outwitted those against her up to
now, but for how long would-
He had halted abruptly beside the table. Some one
was knocking at the door.
“Come!” he called.
And old Jason entered—and it seemed to Jimmie Dale


THE LAST CARD
187
mastwell, 1a. He bed en
that he must laugh out like one suddenly over-wrought
and in hysteria. In the old butler's hand was a silver
card tray, and on the tray was—but there was no need to
look on the tray, old Jason's face, curiously mingling
excitement and disquiet, the imperturbability of the but-
ler gone for the nonce, was alone quite eloquent enough.
But Jimmie Dale, master of many things, was most of all
master of himself.
"Well, Jason ?" His voice was quiet and contained
as he spoke. He reached out and took from the tray
a white, unaddressed envelope. It was from her, of
course-even Jason knew that it was another of those
mysterious epistles, one of the many that had passed
through the old butler's hands, that had in the last few
years so completely revolutionised, as it were, his, Jim-
mie Dale's, mode of life. "Well, Jason?” He was toy-
ing with the envelope in his hand. "How did it come this
time?"
"It was in another envelope, Master Jim, sir-ad-
dressed to me, sir,” explained the old butler nervously,
“A messenger boy brought it, sir. I opened the outside
envelope, Master Jim, and-and I knew at once, sir,
that—that it was one of those letters.”
"I see.” Jimmie Dale smiled a little mirthlessly.
What, after all, did the "how" of it matter? It was a
foregone conclusion that, as it had been a hundred times
before, it would avail him nothing so far as furnishing
a clue to her whereabouts was concerned! “Very well,
Jason." His tones were a dismissal.
But Jason did not go; and there was something more
in the act than that of a well-trained servant as the old
man stooped, picked up the newspaper from the floor,
and folded it neatly. He laid the paper hesitantly on the
table, and began to fumble awkwardly with the silver
tray.


188 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"What is it, Jason ?" prompted Jimmie Dale.
"Well, Master Jim, sir," said Jason, and the old face
grew suddenly strained, “there is something that, begging
your pardon for the liberty, sir, I would like to say. I
don't know what all these strange letters are about, and
it's not for me, sir, it's not my place, to ask. But
once, Master Jim, you honoured me with your confidence
to the extent of saying they meant life and death; and
once, sir, the night this house was watched, I could see
for myself that you were in some great danger. I-
Master Jim, sir-I-I am an old man now, sir, but I
dandled you on my knee when you were only a wee tot,
sir, and—and you'll forgive me, sir, if I presume beyond
my station, only-only- " His voice broke suddenly;
his eyes were full of tears.
Jimmie Dale's hand went out, both of them, and were
laid affectionately on the old man's shoulders.
"I put my life in your hands that night, Jason,” he said
simply. “Go on. What is it?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Master Jim, sir.” Jason swal-
lowed hard; his voice choked a little. “It isn't much,
sir, I–I don't know that it's anything at all; but nights,
sir, when I'm sitting up for you, Master Jim, and you
don't come home, I- "
"But I've told you again and again that you are not to
sit up for me, Jason,” Jimmie Dale remonstrated kindly.
"Yes, I know, sir.” Jason shook his head. “But I
couldn't sleep, sir, anyway—thinking about it, Master
Jim, sir. I-well, sir-sometimes I get terribly anxious
and afraid, Master Jim, that something will happen to
you, and it seems as though you were all alone in this,
and I thought, sir, that perhaps if-if some one-some
one you could trust, Master Jim, could do something-
anything, sir, it might make it all right. I—I'm an old


THE LAST CARD
189
man, Master Jim, it-it wouldn't matter about me,
and "
Jimmie Dale turned abruptly to the table. His own
eyes were wet. These were not idle words that Jason
used, or words spoken without a full realisation of their
meaning. Jason was offering, and calling it presumption
to do so, his life in place of his, Jimmie Dale's, if by so
doing he could shield the master whom he loved.
“Thank you, Jason.” Jimmie Dale turned again from
the table. “There is nothing you can do now, but if the
time ever comes ” He looked for a long minute
into Jason's face; then his hands were laid again on the
other's shoulders, and he swung the old man gently
around. “There's the door, Jason-and God bless you !"
Jason went slowly from the room. The door closed.
For the first time that he had ever held a letter of hers
in his hand Jimmie Daie was for a moment heedless of
it. If the time ever came! He smiled strangely. The
love and affection that had come with the years of Jason's
service were not all on one side. Not for anything in
the world would he put a hair of that gray head in
jeopardy! It was not lack of faith or trust that held
him back from taking Jason into his full confidence-it
was the possibility, always present, that some day the
house of cards might totter, the Gray Seal be discovered
to be Jimmie Dale, and in the ruin, the disaster, the
debacle that must follow, the less old Jason knew, for
old Jason's own sake, the better! It was the one thing
that would save Jason. The charge of complicity would
fall to the ground before the old man's very ingenuous-
ness!
And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, a sort
of whimsical fatalistic philosophy upon him, and, as he
tore the envelope open, he sat down in the lounging chair
close to the table. Another “call to arms”! An appeal


190
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
He comand sentenight, ettei
for some one else—never for herself! He shook his
head. How often had he hoped that the summons, in-
stead, would prove to be the one thing he asked and lived
for-to take his place beside her, to aid her! Not one
of these letters had he ever opened without the hope
that, in spite of the intuition which told him his hope
was futile, it would prove at last to be the call to him
for herself! Perhaps this one-he was eagerly unfolding
the pages he had taken from the envelope-perhaps this
one-no!-a glance was enough-it was far remote from
any personal relation to her
“Dear Philanthropic Crook”—he leaned back in his
chair, as his eyes travelled hurriedly over the opening
paragraphs, a keen sense of disappointment upon him,
despite the intuition that had bade him expect nothing
else—and then suddenly, startled, tense, he sat upright,
strained forward in his seat. He could not read fast
enough. His eyes leaped over words and sentences.
"... They are playing their last card to-night ...
David Archman ... it is murder, Jimmie ... letter
signed J. Barca ... Sixth Avenue stationer ... Martin
Moore ... Gentleman Laroque, the gangster ... Nic-
colo Sonnino ... end house to left of courtyard en-
trance . . . safe in rear room . . . lives alone ... to-
night ..."
For a moment Jimmie Dale did not move as he finished
reading the letter, save that his fingers began to tear the
pages into strips, and the strips over and over again into
tiny fragments-then, mechanically, he dropped the pieces
into the pocket of his dinner jacket and mechanically
reached for the newspaper that Jason had picked up and
laid on the talile. And now a dull red burned in his cheeks.
and the square jaw was clamped and hard. Strange
coincidence! Yes, it was strange—but perhaps it was
more than meze coincidence! He had an interest, a very


THE LAST CARD
191
personal, vital interest in that article on the front page
now, in this combine of those who were frankly of the
dregs of the criminal world and those of a blacker breed
who hid behind the veneer of respectability and station.
He read the article slowly. It was but the résumé of
the case that had been under investigation for the past
few weeks, the sensation it had created the greater since
the publicity so far given to it had but hinted darkly at
the scope of the exposure to come, while as yet no names
had been mentioned. “The Private Club Ring," as set
forth in the paper, operated a chain of what purported to
be small, select and very exclusive clubs, but which in
reality were gambling traps of the most vicious descrip-
tion-and the field of their operations was very wide and
exceedingly lucrative. Men known to have money,
whether New Yorkers or from out of town, were “intro-
duced” there by "members” whose standing and pre-
sumed respectability were beyond reproach-and they
were bled white; while, to add variety to the crooked
games, orgies, revels and carousals of the most depraved
character likewise furnished the lever for blackmail-
the “member" ostensibly being in as bad a hole, and in
as desperate a predicament as the "guest” he had intro-
duced!
The article told Jimmie Dale nothing new, nothing that
he did not already know, save the statement that the
evidence now in the possession of the authorities was
practically complete, and that the arrest and disclosure
of those involved might be expected at any moment.
He put down the paper, and stood up and for the
second time that night began to pace the room. If the
article had told him nothing new, it at least explained
that sentence in the Tocsin's letter-they are playing
their last card to-night. They must strike now, or never
-the exposure could be but a matter of a few hours off!
ed article told Ji Wow, save of the aut


192 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
A face crowned with its gray hair rose before him, a
kindly face, grave and strong and fine, the face of a man
of sterling honesty and unimpeachable integrity—the face
of David Archman, the assistant district attorney, who
had both instituted and was in charge of the investiga-
tion that now threatened New York with an upheaval
that promised to shake many a social structure to its
foundations. Yes, they would play their last card, a vile,
despicable and hellish card—but how little they knew
David Archman! They would break his life; it would,
indeed, as the Tocsin had said, be murder-but they
would never break David Archman's unswerving loyalty
to principle and duty! They had tried that-by threats
of personal violence, by the offer of bribes in sums large
enough to have tempted many!
His face hard, his forehead gathered in puzzled fur-
rows, Jimmie Dale stepped to the door, and locked it;
then, drawing aside the portière that hung before the little
alcove at the lower end of the room, knelt down before
the squat, barrel-shaped safe, and his fingers began to
play over the knobs and dials.
Yes, it was a vitally personal matter now; there was
an added incentive to-night spurring the Gray Seal on
to act. David Archman had been his father's closest
friend; and he, Jimmie Dale, himself had always looked
on David Archman, and with reason, as little less than
a second father. His frown grew deeper-he did not
understand. But Tocsin did not make mistakes. He had
had evidence of that on too many occasions when he
had thought otherwise to question it now—but David
Archman's son in this! It seemed incredible! The boy,
he was little more than a boy, scarcely twenty, was and
always had been, perhaps, a little wild, but a thief, an
associate and accomplice of the city's worst crooks and
criminals was something of which he, Jimmie Dale, had


THE LAST CARD
193
never dreamed until this instant, and now, while it stag-
gered him, it brought, too, a sense of merciless fury-&
fury against those who would stab like inhuman cow-
ards, pitilessly, at the father through the son. Their
last card! The safe swung open. Their last card was—
Clarie Archman, the son!
He reached into the safe, took out an automatic, and
placed it in his pocket. There was no necessity to go to
the Sanctuary—what he would need was here in dupli-
cate, and it would be Jimmie Dale, not Smarlinghue,
who played the role of the Gray Seal to-night. A dozen
small steel picklocks in graded sizes followed the revolver,
and after these a black silk mask and a pocket flashlight-
the thin, metal insignia case containing the little diamond-
shaped, gray-coloured paper seals, never absent from his
person since the night he had lost and recovered it again,
was already reposing in an inner pocket of his clothes.
His face was still hard, as he stood up and closed the
safe. The way out, the way to save David Archman
was plain, of course. It was even simple if it was not
too late! And the way out was another “crime" com-
mitted by the Gray Seal! Instead of Clarie Archman
and J. Barca, alias Gentleman Laroque, robbing the safe
of one Niccolo Sonnino, dealer in precious stones, it
would be the Gray Seal-if it was not already too
late to forestall the others!
If it was not too late! He looked at his watch. It
was twenty minutes after eleven. Yes, there should be
time; but, if not-what then? And what of that letter?
His teeth clamped. Well, he would try it; and he would
make every second count now! He was lifting the tele-
phone receiver of the private house installation now,
calling the garage. Benson, his chauffeur, answered him
almost on the instant.


194 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
“The light touring car, Benson, please, and as quickly
as possible,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly.
“Yes, sir-at once,” Benson answered.
Jimmie Dale replaced the receiver on the hook, and,
running now across the floor, unlocked the door, crossed
the hall, and entered his dressing room. Here, he
chanced his dinner clothes for a dark tweed suit—the
location of Niccolo Sonnino's place of business was in a
neighbourhood where one in evening dress, to say the
least of it, would not go unobserved-transferred the
metal case and the articles he had taken from the safe to
the pockets of the tweed suit, and descended the stairs.
Standing in the hallway, Jason, that model of effi-
ciency, with an appraising glance at his master's changed
attire, handed Jimmie Dale a soft hat-and opened the
door.
“Benson is outside, Master Jim,” said Jason; but the
look in the old man's eyes was eloquent far beyond the
respectful and studied quiet of his words. The old face
was pale and grave with anxiety.
"It's all right, Jason-all right this time," Jimmie Dale
smiled reassuringly.
"Thank you, sir," said Jason, in a low voice. "I hope
so, sir. And, begging your pardon, Master Jim, sir, I
pray God it is."
And for answer Jimmie Dale smiled again, and passed
down the steps, and entered the car. But the smile was
gone as he leaned back in his seat after giving Benson
his directions_speed, and a corner a few blocks away
from Chatham Square-he was not so sure that it was all
right. It was entirely a question of time. Given the time
and the opportunity-Niccolo Sonnino out of the road,
for instance--given twenty minutes ahead of Clarie Arch-
man and Gentleman Laroque, it would be simple enough.
But otherwise-his lips thinned-otherwise, he did not


THE LAST CARD
195
know. Otherwise, there was promise of strange, grim
work before daylight came, work that might lead him out
of necessity to the role of Smarlinghue, and as Smarling-
hue-anywhere! He did not know; he knew only one
thing--that, at any cost, if it lay within any power of his
to prevent it, David Archman should not live a broken
man.
The car speeded its way rapidly along in a downtown
direction, Benson keeping, wherever possible, to the un-
frequented streets. Jimmie Dale, busy with his prob-
lem, his mind sifting and turning this way and that the
curious, and in some cases apparently conflicting details
of the Tocsin's letter, paid little attention to his sur-
roundings, save to note approvingly from time to time
that a request to Benson to hurry was equivalent to some-
thing perilously near to a contempt of speed laws. It
still seemed incredible that Clarie Archman was a thief,
a safe-tapper, even if but an amateur one. The boy
must have travelled a pace of late that was fast and
furious. How had he ever become intimate enough with
Gentleman Laroque to be associated with the other in
such a crime as this? How had Laroque come to play
a part in the miserable scheme of trickery that was the
Private Club Ring's last card.
Jimmie Dale shook his head helplessly at the first
question-and shook it again at the second. He knew
Laroque—and he knew him for one of the most de-
graded, as well as one of the most dreaded, gang leaders
in crimeland. Laroque, in unvarnished language, was a
devil, and, worse still, a most callous devil. Laroque
stood first and all the time for Laroque. If murder
would either further or safeguard Laroque's personal
interests, Laroque was the sort of man who would stop
only to consider, not whether the murder should be
committed, but the method that might best be employed


196 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
in order to implicate as little as possible one Laroque!
Also, to those in the secrets of the underworld, Gentle-
man Laroque added to his accomplishments, or had done
so before he rose to the eminence of gang leader, the
profession of "box-worker"-not a very clever exponent
of the art, crude perhaps in his methods, but at the same
time efficacious, as a dozen breaks and looted safes in
the years gone by bore ample witness.
Grimly whimsical came Jimmie Dale's smile. Gentle-
man Laroque would have made a very much better "con-
fidence” man than safe-worker. The man was suave,
polished when he wanted to be, educated; he possessed
all the requisites, and, in abundance, the prime requisite
of all—a cunning that was the cunning of a fox. This
might even have explained his acquaintanceship with
Clarie Archman, except for the fact that it did not explain
Clarie Archman's co-operation in a premeditated robbery
with any one!
Again Jimmie Dale shook his head-and there came
another question, one for which no answer, even of a
suggestive nature, had been supplied in the Tocsin's let-
ter. Why had Niccolo Sonnino's safe been selected as
the one especial and desirable nut to crack? He knew
Niccolo Sonnino, too, in a general way, as all who
resided near or had any dealings in the neighbourhood
where Sonnino lived, knew the man. True, combined
with a small trade in jewelry and precious stones, the
former cheap and the latter of an inferior grade to fit
the purses of his customers, the man was a money-lender
-but in an equally small way. Loans of minor amounts,
a very few dollars as a maximum, was probably the ex-
tent of Sonnino's ventures along this line. Sonnino him-
self was a crafty little man, but craftiness, if it did not
transgress the law, was not a crime; he was undoubtedly
a usurer in his petty way, and he was both feared and
the purses of and the lattery and preci?


THE LAST CARD
197
disliked, but beyond that no one pretended to know any-
thing about him. Ordinarily, Sonnino's safe, then, might
be expected to be rather a barren affair, hardly a lure
for a Gentleman Laroque brand of crook! Why, then,
Sonnino's safe to-night? What was in that letter signed
“J. Barca” that Clarie Archman had received ? J. Barca
was Gentleman Laroque; that would have been evident
in any case, even if the Tocsin had not expressly said
so—but the letter! Did the letter, apart from its incrim-
inating ingenuity, supply the answer to his question?
Had Sonnino, for instance, by some lucky turn, disposed
of his stock in bulk, and was thus for the moment in
possession of an unusually large amount of cash; or,
inversely, had Sonnino received an unusual stock of
stones ? Either of these theories, and equally neither one
of them, might furnish the answer! Jimmie Dale
shrugged his shoulders grimly. He would find the answer
-in Sonnino's safe! One thing, however, one thing that
might have had some bearing on Laroque's choice, one
thing for which he, Jimmie Dale, was grateful to Laroque
for making such a choice, was that Sonnino's place lent
itself admirably to attack-from the standpoint of the
attacker! A black courtyard, screened completely from
the street; a house that
Jimmie Dale looked up suddenly, and, as suddenly,
leaning forward, he touched Benson's shoulder. They
were just approaching a restaurant and music hall known
as “The Sphinx,” that was popular for the moment with
the slumming parties from uptown.
"This will do. You may let me out here at The Sphinx,
Benson," he said quietly; and then, as the car stopped:
“I shall not be long, Benson-perhaps half an hour-
wait for me."
Benson touched his cap. Jimmie Dale ran up the steps
of the restaurant, entered, threaded his way through


198 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
several crowded rooms where the midnight revelry was
in full swing—and passed out of the place by a convenient
rear exit that gave on the adjoining cross street. The
car standing in front of The Sphinx would attract no
notice; and he was now on the same street as Sonnino's
place, and only two short blocks away.
He started forward from the restaurant door-and
paused, struggling with a refractory match in an effort
to light a cigarette. A man brushed by him, making
for the restaurant door, a tall, wiry-built, swarthy, sharp-
featured man-and Jimmie Dale flipped the stub of his
match away from him, and went on. Sonnino himself!
There was luck then at the start-the coast was clear!


CHAPTER XV
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
st the new counted upon belated meal. at work,
TT was one of those countless streets on the East Side
1 each so identical with another-dark, not over clean,
flanked on both sides with small shops, basement stores
and tenement dwellings that crowded one viron the other
in a sort of helpless confusion. Jimmie Dale moved
quickly along. The whimsical smile was back on his
lips. Sonnino, whose business, the money-lending end
of it, would naturally have kept him late at work,
was now evidently intent on a belated meal; Sonnino,
therefore, could be counted upon as a factor eliminated
for at least the next half hour and half an hour was
enough, a little more than enough!
Jimmie Dale glanced back over his shoulder. There
was no one in sight. A yard ahead of him, one of
those relics of barbaric architecture, tunnelled as it
were chrough the centre of a building that the space over-
head might not be wasted, was the black driveway that
gave entrance to the courtyard behind, where Sonnino
lived alone in one of a half dozen small, tottering-from-
age frame houses. Jimmie Dale drew closer to the wall,
came opposite the driveway—and disappeared from the
street.
It was the Gray Seal now, the professional Jimmie
Dale, as silent in his movements as the shadows about
him. He traversed the driveway, and emerged on the
courtyard. Here, it was scarcely less dark. There was
199


200 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
her Fivet, selee little doo
no moon, and no lights in any of the houses that made
the rear of the courtyard. He could just discern the
houses as looming shapes against the sky line, that was all.
He crossed the courtyard, and, reaching the line of
door-stepless, poverty-stricken hovels—they appeared to
be little more than thatcrept stealthily along to the end
house at the left, halted an instant to press his face
against a black window pane, then tried the door cau-
tiously. It was locked, of course. Again there came the
whimsical smile, but it was almost hidden now by the
black silk mask that he slipped quickly over his face.
His finger tips, that were like a magical sixth sense to
Jimmie Dale, embodying all the other five, felt tentatively
over the lock, then slipped into his pocket, selected unerr-
ingly one of his picklocks, and inserted the little stee!
instrument in the keyhole. An instant more and the door
was opening without a sound under Jimmie Dale's hand.
And then, the door open, he stepped over the threshold,
and, in the act of closing the door behind him, stood
suddenly rigid--and where the whimsical smile had been
before, his lips were now compressed into a thin, straight
line.
"What's that?” came a hoarse, shaken whisper out of
the blackness beyond.
“What's what?" demanded another voice-the whisper
this time sharp and caustic. "I didn't hear anything !"
"Neither did I," admitted the first speaker. "It wasn't
that-it was like a draft of air-as though the door or a
window had been opened.”
“Forget it!” observed the second voice contemp-
tuously. “Cut out the jumps—we've got to get through
here before Sonnino gets back. You'd make a wooden
Indian nervous !"
There was silence for an instant, then a curious gnaw.
ing sound punctuated with quick, low, metallic rasps as


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
201
of a ratchet at workand upon Jimmie Dale for a
moment came stunned dismay. Time, the one factor
upon which he had depended, was lost to him; Clarie
Archman and Gentleman Laroque were already at work
in there in that room beyond. He stood motionless, his
brain whirling; and then slowly, without a sound, an
inch at a time, he began to close the door behind him.
He could see nothing; but the door connecting the two
rooms was obviously open—the distinctness with which
the whispering voices had reached him was proof of
that. They were working, too, without light, or he
would have got a warning gleam when he had looked
through the window. And now-what now? The pick-
lock was shifted to his left hand, as he drew his auto-
matic from his pocket. There was only one answer to
the question—to play the game out to the end, whatever
that end might be!
Beneath the mask his face drew into chiselled lines,
as the picklock silently locked the door. There was one
exit from that inner room, and only one-through the
room in which he stood. The Tocsin had drawn an
accurate word-plan of the crude, shack-like place, and
now in his mind he reconstructed it here in the darkness.
The doorway into a small hall that led to the stairs
adjoined the doorway of that inner room where the two
were now at work—and in that room were no windows,
it was a sort of blind cubby-hole where Niccolo Sonnino
transacted his most private business.
Jimmie Dale crept forward up the room. There was
no answering creak of board or flooring, no sound save
that gnawing sound, and the rasping click of the ratchet.
His place of vantage was against the wall between the
two doors—there, he could both command the exit from,
and see into, the inner room, while the doorway into the
hall provided him with a means of retreat should the


202 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
necessity arise. And then, suddenly, halfway up the
room, he dropped down behind what was evidently a
jeweller's workbench. A whisper, obviously Laroque's
this time, came once more from the inner room.
“Shoot the flash again!” And then, savagely: “Curse
it, not on the ceiling! Can't you hold it steady! What
the devil is the matter with you!”
There was no answer. A dull glimmer of light filtered
through the doorway, but from the position in which he
lay Jimmie Dale could distinguish nothing in the inner
room innie Doorway,
“All right! That'll do!" Laroque growled presently.
The light went out. Jimmie Dale crept forward again.
And now he gained the rear wall of the room, and
crouched down close against it between the two door-
ways.
Came the sound of breathing now, heavy, as from sus-
tained exertion, making almost an undertone of the
steady click-click-click of the ratchet, and the sullen gnaw
of the bit. The minutes passed. The flashlight went
on again--and Jimmie Dale strained forward. Two
dark forms, backs to him, were outlined against the face
of the safe which was at the far side of the room, a nickel
dial glistened in the white ray—he could make out nothing
else.
Then darkness again. And again, after a time, the
flashlight. Ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes dragged
by. Jimmie Dale might have been a shadow moving
against the wall for all the sound he made as he changed
his cramped position; but, just below the mask, his lips
were pressed fiercely together. Would Gentleman La-
roque never get through! Sonnino was not only likely
to return in a very few minutes now, but was almost cer-
tain to do so. Under his breath Jimmie Dale cursed
the gangster's bungling methods--and not for their


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
203
crudity alone. His first impulse had been to surprise the
two, hold them up at the revolver point, but the result
of such an act would have been abortive, for the disfig-
ured safe would stand a mute, incontrovertible witness
to the fact that an attempt to force it had been made
and, whether it was actual robbery or attempted robbery
that was proved against the son, it in no way deflected
the blow aimed at David Archman. And, besides, there
was the letter! If he, Jimmie Dale, had been in time
even to have prevented Gentleman Laroque from sinking
a bit into the safe, the letter would have counted not at
all—but now it counted to the extent that it literally
meant life and death. Who had it? Not Clarie Arch-
man—that was certain. And the Tocsin had not said
obviously because she, too, had been in the dark in that
respect. Therefore he could only wait, watch and follow
every move of the game throughout the rest of the night,
if necessary! It was the only course open to him; the
letter, not the robbery, was paramount now.
A curious, muffled, metallic thump, mingled with a
quick, low-breathed, triumphant oath, came suddenly
from the inner room—and then Laroque's voice, eager,
the words clipped off as though in feverish elation:
“There she is! One nice little job-eh? Well, come
on-shoot your light into her, and let's take a look at
the Christmas tree !"
The flashlight's ray flooded the interior of the open
safe. Laroque, on his knees, laughed suddenly, and thrust
his hand inside.
"What did I te!l you, eh?” he chuckled. "I got the
straight tip, eh? Four thousand, if there's a cent!"
Laroque began to remove what were evidently packages
of banknotes from the safe—but Jimmie Dale was no
longer watching the scene. He had edged suddenly back
into the doorway of the hall, and was listening now in-


204 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
tently. A footstep—he could have sworn he had caught
the sound of a footstep-seemed to have come from
just outside the front window. But all was still again.
Perhaps he had been mistaken. No! Slight as was the
sound, he heard, unmistakably now, a key grate in the
lock-and then, stealthily, the front door began to open.
A bewildered look came into Jimmie Dale's face, as
he retreated further back into the hallway itself now.
It was probably Sonnino; but why did Sonnino come
stealing into his own house like-well, like any one of the
three predatory guests already there before him? And
then Jimmie Dale's face cleared. Of course! From the
window the glow of the flashlight in the inner room could
be seen. Sonnino was forewarned, and undoubtedly-
forearmed!
The front door closed softly, so softly that had Jimmie
Dale, supersensitive as his hearing was, not been intent
upon it, it would have escaped him. The glow from the
inner room, faint as it was, threw into shadowy relief
a man's form tiptoeing forward-and then a board
creaked.
"What's that !” came in a wild whisper from Clarie
Archman..
“Got 'em again!” Laroque snapped back. “You make
me tired!”
"Let's get out of here! Let's get out of here-quick!"
Clarie Archman's voice, not so low now, held a tone of
frantic appeal.
"Nix !” said Laroque, in a vicious sneer. "Not till the
job's done! D'ye think I'm going to spend half an hour
cracking a safe and take a chance of missing any bets?
We've got the coin all right, but there ought to be one
or two of Sonnino's sparklers lying around in some of
these drawers, and-
There was a click of an electric-light switch, a cry


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
205
;
from Clarie Archman, the inner room was ablaze with
light, and Jimmie Dale had edged forward again out
of the hallway-Sonnino, revolver in hand, was standing
just over the threshold facing Gentleman Laroque and
the assistant district attorney's son.
Then silence-a silence of seconds that were as min-
utes. And then Gentleman Laroque laughed gratingly.
"Hello, Sonnino!” he said coolly. "A little late, aren't
you? You've kept me stalling for the last five minutes.
Know my friend~Mr. Martin Moore, alias Mr. Clarie
Archman? Clarie, this is Signor Niccolo Sonnino, the
proprietor of this joint.”
And then to Jimmie Dale, where before his mind had
groped in darkness to reconcile apparently incongruous
details, in a flash there came the light. The "plant"
was a little more intricate, a little more cunning, a little
more hellish-that was all!
The boy, white to the lips, was swaying on his feet,
grasping at the table in the centre of the room. He
looked from one to the other, a miserable, dawning
understanding in his eyes.
“You-you know my name?" His voice was scarcely
audible.
"Sure!” said Laroque-and yawned insolently.
"So !” purred Sonnino, in excellent English. "Is it so!
A thief! The son of the so-honest Mister Attorney-a
thief !”
"It's a lie!" The boy's hands, clenched, were raised
above his head, and then shaken almost maniacally in
Gentleman Laroque's face. "It's a lie! I-I don't under-
stand, but-but you two, you devils, are together in
this !"
"Sure!" retorted Laroque, as insolently as before
and flung the other's hands away. “Sure, we are !"
“It's a lie!” said the boy again. "I was in a hole. I
A thief! Punted Sonnine and yawna,


206 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
pe wheise Imos sm it not ji you like its ot spe
needed money. You told me you knew a man who would
lend it to me. That's why I came here with you, and
then-and then you held me here with your revolver, and
began to open that safe.”
"Sure!" returned Laroque, for the third time. "Sure-
that's right! Well, what's the answer?”
"This !” cried the boy wildly. “I don't know what your
game is, but this is my answer! Do you think I would
have touched that money, or have let you—once I got out
of here where I could have got help! I'm not a thief-
whatever else I may be. That's my answer!"
Niccolo Sonnino's smile was oily.
"It is a little late, is it not?” he leered. “Listen, my
little young friend; I will tell you a story. You work
for a bank, eh? The bank does not like its young men to
speculate-yes? But why should you not speculate a
little, a very little, if you like—if you get the very private
and good tips, eh? It is not wrong—no, certainly, it is
not wrong. But at the same time the bank must not
know. Very well! They shall not know—no one shall
know. You are not the young Mr. Archman any more,
you are-what is the name ?-Martin Moore. But Mar-
in Moore must have an address, eh? Very well! On
Sixth Avenue there is a little store where one rents boxes
for private mail, and where questions are never asked-
is it not so, my very dear young friend?”
The boy was staring in a demented way into Sonnino's
face, but he did not speak.
"Aw, hand it to him straight!" Gentleman Laroque
broke in roughly. “I don't want to hang around here all
night. Here, Archman, you listen to me! We piped
you off on that lay about two weeks ago—and it looked
good to us, and we played it for a winner, see? You got
introduced to me, and found me a pretty good sort, and
we got thick together—you know all about that. Also,


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
207
you get introduced to some new brokers, who said they'd
take good care of your margins--maybe they only ran a
bucket-shop, but you didn't know it! All right! You
got snarled up good and plenty. Yesterday you were
wiped out, and three thousand dollars to the bad besides,
and they were yelling for their money and threatening
to expose you. They gave you until to-morrow morning
to make good. You told me about it. I told you this
morning I thought I knew a man who would lend you
the coin, and”-he laughed mockingly, and jerked his
hand toward the safe_"well, I led you to it, didn't I ?”
"I—I don't understand," the boy mumbled helplessly.
"Don't you !" jeered Laroque. “Well, it looks big
enough for a blind man to see! We've got this robbery
wished on you to a fare-thee-well! A young man who
speculates, who uses an assumed name, and runs a
private letter box on Sixth Avenue, and has forty-eight
hours in which to square up his debts or face exposure,
has a hell of a chance with a jury-not!"
The boy circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"But why—why?” he whispered. "I-I never did
anything to you."
“Sure, you didn't!" Laroque's tones were brutally
amiable now. “It's your father. We've an idea that
maybe he won't be so keen about going ahead with that
little investigation of the private clubs after we've put
a certain little proposition about his son up to him.”
"No, no! Nomyou won't!" Clarie Archman's voice
rose suddenly shrill, beyond control. “You won't! You
can't! You're in it yourselves”—he pointed his finger
wildly at one and then the other of the two men—"you-
and you !"
“Think so ?" drawled Laroque. “All right, you tell 'em
So tell the jury about it, tell your father, who is such
a shark on evidence, about it. Sure, I'm in on it with


208 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
you—but you don't know who I am. They'll have a hot
time finding J. Barca, Esquire! I'm thinking of tak-
ing a little trip to Florida for my health, and my valet's
got my grip all packed! Savvy? And now listen to Son
nino. Sonnino's a wonder in the witness box. Niccolo»,
tell the jury what you know about this unfortunate young
man."
Sonnino, a wicked grin on his face, made a dramatic
flourish with the hand that held the revolver,
"Well, I was asleep upstairs. I wakened. I thought
I heard a noise downstairs. I listened. Then I got up,
and went down the stairs quiet like a mouse. I turned
on the light quick-like this”—he snapped his fingers.
“Two men have broken open my safe, and they have my
money, a lot of money, for I keep all my money there;
I do not bank-no. They rush at me, they knock me
down, they make their escape, but I recognise one of
them—it is Mister the young Archman, who I have many
times seen at The Sphinx Café-yes. Well, and then on
the floor I find a letter." He grinned wickedly again.
"Have you the letter that I find-Mister Barca ?”
"Sure," said Gentleman Laroque-and reached into his
pocket. "It was addressed to Martin Moore on Sixth
Avenue, wasn't it?"
"My God!" It came in a sudden, pitiful cry from the
boy, and his hand involuntarily went to his own pocket.
"You—you've got that letter!"
“Do you think you're up against a piker game !” ex-
claimed Laroque maliciously. “Well then, forget it!
You didn't have this in your pocket half an hour before
it was lifted by one of the slickest poke-getters in the
. whole of little old New York.” He was taking a letter
from its envelope and opening out the sheet. “That's the
kind of a crowd that's in on this, my bucko! Listen, and
I'll read the letter. It looked innocent enough when


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
209
you got it, in view of what I told you about knowing a
man who would lend you the money. But pipe how it
sounds with Sonnino's safe bored full of holes. Are
you listening? 'It's all right. Niccolo Sonnino has got
his safe crammed full to-night. Meet me at Bristol
Bob's at eleven. J. Barca.'”.
There was silence in the room. Clarie Archman had
dropped into a chair, and had buried his face in his arms
that were out-flung across the table.
Then Laroque spoke again:
“Do you see where you stand-Clarie? Tell your story
--and it's the story that sounds like a neat ‘plant' of your
lawyer's to get you off. You only get in deeper with
the jury for trying to trick them, see? Here's the evi-
dence—and it's got you cold. Sonnino recognises you.
The letter is identified at the Sixth Avenue place, and
you are identified as the guy that's been travelling under
the name of Martin Moore. J. Barca has flown the coop
and can't be found, and-well, I guess you get it, don't
you?”
"What—what do you want?” The boy did not lift
his head.
"We want your father to let up, and let up damned
quick," said Laroque evenly. “But we'll give you a
chance to get out from under, and you can take it or
leave it-it doesn't matter to us. Your father's got the
papers and the affidavits in the ‘Private Club' case in his
safe at home to-night, and a lot of those affidavits he can
never replace—we've seen to that! All right! You've got
the combination of the safe. Go home and get that stuff
and bring it here. If it's here by four o'clock-that
gives you about three hours—you're out of it. If it
isn't, then your father gets inside information that the
gang is wise to the fact that his son pulled a break to-
night, but that they can keep Sonnino's mouth shut if


210 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
he throws up the sponge, and that if he doesn't call it
off with the 'Private Club Ring,' if he's so blamed fond
of prosecuting, he'll get a chance to prosecute his own
son—as a thief!"
The boy did not move.
“And just one last word,” added Laroque sharply.
“Don't make the mistake of thinking that if you refuse
to get the affidavits it puts a crimp in us. It's oniy be-
cause we're playing white with you, and to give you a
chance, that you're getting any choice at all. We didn't
intend to give you one, but we don't want to be too
rough on you, so if you want to get out that way, and
will agree to keep on queering your father's game if he
starts it over again, all right. But you want to under-
stand that we hold just as big a club over your father's
head the other way.”
“White! Playing white! Oh, my God!” Clarie Arch-
man had lurched up from the chair to his feet. His
face, haggard and drawn, was the face of one damned.
"Good-night !” said Laroque callously. “You know the
way out! You've got till four o'clock. If you're not
back here then- " He shrugged his shoulders signifi-
cantly. "You see, I'm not even asking you what you
are going to do. We don't care. It's up to you. Either
way suits us. And now-beat it !”
Jimmie Dale drew back for a second time that night
into the hallway. A step, slow, faltering, unsteady, like
that of a man blinded, passed out from the inner room,
and passed on down the length of the front room-and
the door opened and closed. Clarie Archman, with
God alone knew what purpose in his heart, was gone.
From the thin metal case, by means of the tiny tweez-
ers, Jimmie Dale took out a gray seal, laid the seal on
his handkerchief, folded the handkerchief carefully,
placed it in his pocket-and crept forward toward the


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
211
inner door again. The two men were bending over the
table, over the money on the table, dividing it. Jimmie
Dale's lips were mercilessly thin; a fury, not the white,
impetuous heat of passion, but a fury that was cold,
deadly, implacable, possessed his soul. He crept nearer
-still nearer.
“The crowd that put this up says we keep it between
us for our work,” said Laroque shortly. “A third for
you, the rest for me. You sure you put all they gave
you in the safe-Niccolo ?” He screwed up his eyes sus-
piciously. “You sure you ain't trying to hold anything
out on me? If you are, I'll make you "
The words died short on his lips—his jaw sagged help-
lessly.
Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway.
“Niccolo, drop that revolver !” said Jimmie Dale softly.
His automatic held a bead on the two men.
The revolver clattered to the table top. Neither of the
men spoke-only their faces worked in a queer, con-
vulsive sort of way, as they gazed in startled fascination
at Jimmie Dale.
"Thank you !” said Jimmie Dale politely. He stepped
briskly into the room, shoved Sonnino unceremoniously
to one side, shoved his revolver muzzle none too gently
into Laroque's ribs, and went through the latter's clothes.
“Yes,” he said, "I thought quite possibly you might have
one.” He pocketed Laroque's revolver, and also Son-
nino's from the table. “And now that letter-thank you !"
He whipped the letter from Laroque's inside coat pocket
and transferred it to his own, then stepped back, and
smiled—but the smile was not inviting. “I've only about
five minutes to spare," murmured Jimmie Dale. “I'm in a
hurry, Niccolo. I see some wrapping paper and string
over there on top of the safe. Get it!"
The man obeyed mechanically, in a stupefied sort of


212 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
way, and placed several of the sheets and a quantity of
string upon the table. Laroque, silent, sullen, under the
spell of Jimmie Dale's automatic, watched the proceedings
without a word.
“Now,” said Jimmie Dale, and an icy note began to
creep into the velvet tones, "you two are going to make
the first charitable contribution you ever made in your
lives-say, to one of the city hospitals. Make as neat and
as small a parcel of that money as you can, Niccolo.”
“Not by a damned sight!" Laroque roared out sud-
denly. "Who the blazes are you! Curse you, I "
He shrank hastily back before the ominous outthrust of
Jimmie Dale's automatic.
"Wrap it up, Niccolo, and tie a string around it!"
snapped Jimmie Dale.
And again, but snarling, cursing now, the man obeyed.
Jimmie Dale's hand went into his pocket, and came out
with his handkerchief. He carried the handkerchief to
his mouth, moistened the adhesive side of the gray
paper seal, and pressed the handkerchief down upon the
top of the parcel.
"It would hardly do for any one to know where the
money really came from-would it?" observed Jimmie
Dale, and smiled uninvitingly again.
The two men were leaning, straining forward, their
eyes on the diamond-shaped gray seal—and into their
faces there crept a sickly fear.
"The Gray Seal!" Sonnino stumbled the words.
"Put an outside wrapper around that package!” in-
structed Jimmie Dale coldly. He watched Sonnino per-
form the task with trembling fingers; and then, placing
the package under his arm, Jimmie Dale backed to the
door. There was a key in the lock on the inner side. He
transferred it coolly to the outer side—and his voice
rasped suddenly with the fury that found vent at last.
amie Dalekerchiet. He adhesive side down upo
moist chief "ent into
seal


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
213
looted og Åh, I see youlled that job, "ded out for t
“You are a pair of hell hounds," he said between his
teeth; “but you are angels compared with the gang that
hired you for this. Well, the game is up! David Arch-
man will settle with them when they face the investiga-
tion—and I will settle with you! One night, a year ago,
in last January, a certain Fourth Avenue bank was
looted of eighteen thousand dollars—do you remember,
Laroque? Ah, I see you do! The police are still look-
ing for the man who pulled that job. What would you
say, Laroque, would be the sentence handed out for that
little affair to a man with, say, your past record?"
Laroque's lips were twitching; his face had gone gray.
“Fourteen years would be a light sentence, wouldn't
it?" resumed Jimmie Dale, an even colder menace in his
voice. “And you remember Stangeist, and the Mope,
and Australian Ike, don't you, Laroque-you remember
they went to the death house in Sing Sing—and you re-
member that the Gray Seal sent them there? Yes, I see
you do; I see your memory is good to-night! Listen,
then! I have heard it said that Gentleman Laroque,
with his gangsters behind him, would stop at nothing
where Gentleman Laroque's own skin was concerned. I
have heard it said that where Gentleman Laroque was
known he was feared. Very well, Laroque, it is your turn
to choose. You can choose between yourself and this
'Private Club Ring' who have purchased your services
in this game to-night. I fancy you can find a means of
inducing Sonnino here to keep his mouth shut; and I
fancy that of the two evils—holding young Archman as
a club over his father, or of your employers facing their
trial and conviction-you can convince the 'Private Club
Ring that the lesser, the lesser as regards your risk,
say, is to face that trial and conviction. Do I make
myself plain-Laroque? It is simply a question of not a
word being said of what has happened to-night-or four-
have i Gentleman i behind himla


214 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
teen years in Sing Sing for you! I do not think you will
find the task difficult when you add, to whatever argu-
ments of your own you may see fit to employ, the fact
that the Gray Seal, if your principals make a move, will
expose them for this night's work on top of what they
will already have to answer for. Well—Laroque?"
There was silence for a minute. Sonnino, cringing,
the suavity, the oiliness of manner gone, a man afraid,
kept his eyes on the table, and kept passing his hands
one over the other. Laroque was the gambler-a twisted
smile was forced to his lips.
"You win," he said hoarsely. "You can take it from
me, I'll go up the river for fourteen years for no one-
I'll take blasted good care of that! But you”-a rage,
ungovernable and elemental, found voice in a sudden
torrent of blasphemous invective-"you-we'll get you
yet! Some day we'll get you, you cursed snitch, you "
"Good-night !” said Jimmie Dale grimly, and, stepping
swiftly back over the threshold, shut and locked the door,
He gained the street, gained his car in front of The
Sphinx—and, twenty minutes later, after a break-neck
run in which Benson for the second time that night defied
all speed laws, Jimmie Dale alighted from his car at a
street corner well uptown, dismissed Benson for the night,
retraced his way half the distance back along the block,
disappeared into a lane, and presently, taking a high
fence with the agility of a cat in spite of his encumber-
ing package, dropped noiselessly down into a backyard.
It was well known ground to Jimmie Dale-as a boy
he had played here in the Archman's backyard, played
here with Clarie Archman. His face masked again, he
moved swiftly toward the rear of the house. There was
still Clarie Archman. What would the boy do? Jim-
mie Dale's hand, a picklock in it again, clenched fiercely.
It was a hell's choice they had given the boy—to rob his


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
215
father, or go down himself, and drag his father with
him, in ruin and disgrace! What would the boy do?
Jimmie Dale was working silently at the back door now.
It opened, and he stepped inside. He was here well
ahead of the other, there was no possibility, granting even
the start the boy had had, that Clarie Archman could
have made the trip uptown in the same time. It was
more likely that the boy might even linger a long while
in misery and indecision before he came home. That was
why he, Jimmie Dale, had dismissed Benson and the car
for the night, and
With a mental jerk, Jimmie Dale focused his mind on
his immediate surroundings. It was dark; there were
no lights in any part of the house, but he needed none,
not even his flashlight-he knew the house as well and
as intimately as his own. He was in the rear hall now,
and now he opened a door, paused cautiously as the dull
yellow glow from a dying grate fire illuminated the room
faintly, then stepped inside. It was the Archman library,
the room where David Archman did a great deal of his
work at night. A desk stood at the lower end of the
room; and in the corner near the portièred windows was
the lawyer's safe.
Jimmie Dale closed the door, moved toward the win-
dow, drew the portières aside, released the window catch,
and silently raised the window itself—it was only a drop
of a few feet to the yard! And then Jimmie Dale sat
down at the desk.
A clock somewhere in the house struck a single note-
that would be halfpast one. Time passed slowly, in-
terminably. The clock struck again-two o'clock. And
then suddenly Jimmie Dale rose from his chair, and
slipped into the window recess behind the portières. The
front door closed, a step came along the hall, the library
door opened, closed again-and Clarie Archman, his fare.


216 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
as the flickering firelight played upon it; like a face of
death, came forward into the room.
For a moment the boy held motionless beside the desk,
his eyes fixed in a sort of horrible fascination upon the
safe--and then, slowly, he moved toward it, and dropped
on his knees before it, and his fingers began to twirl the
knob of the dial. His fingers shook, and he was a
long time at his task-and then the handle turned, and
the safe was unlocked, but Clarie Archman did not open
the door. Instead, he drew back suddenly, and rose
swaying to his feet, and covered his face with his hands.
"I can't! Oh, my God, I–I can't!” he moaned. He
lowered his hands after a moment, and gazed around
him unseeingly, a queer, ghastly look came into his face.
"I-I guess I guess there's only one-one way tomto
beat them,” he whispered. “One way to beat them,
and "
The package in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped suddenly
to the floor, he wrenched the portières aside, and, with
a low, sharp cry, sprang forward. The boy had taken a
revolver from his pocket, and was lifting it to his head.
Jimmie Dale struck up the other's hand-but in time
only to deflect the shot; too late to prevent it being fired.
There was a flash in mid-air, the roar of the report went
racketing through the silent house, and the revolver,
spinning from the other's hands, struck against the wall
across the room.
And then Jimmie Dale had the boy by the shoulders,
and was shaking him violently. Clarie Archman was like
one stunned, numbed, and bereft of his senses.
"It's all right-you're clear! Do you hear—try and
understand-you're clear!” Jimmie Dale whispered
fiercely. "Here's your letter!" He thrust it into
the other's hand. “Destroy it! Those men-Son-
nino-Barca-will say nothing. You don't owe anybody


CAUGHT IN THE ACT
217
any money—that bucket-shop was in the game with the
rest, and " Cries, voices, were coming from above
now; and Jimmie Dale, like a flash, turned from the boy,
leaped for the safe, wrenched the door open, reached
in with both hands, and, snatching up an armful of the
contents, spilled books and papers on the floor. He was
back beside the boy in an instant. “Listen! You heard
some one in here as you entered the house-you came
into the room—you caught me in the act—you fired-you
missed. And now—fight! Fight-pull yourself together
-fight. They are coming !"
He caught the boy around the waist, and the two,
locked together, reeled this way and that about the room.
A chair, deliberately kicked over by Jimmie Dale, crashed
to the floor. The cries drew nearer. Footsteps came
racing madly down the stairs—and then the door of the
library burst open, and David Archman, in pajamas,
dashed through the doorway, and without a second's hesi-
tation, made for the two struggling forms—and Jimmie
Dale, releasing his hold upon the boy, suddenly sent the
other staggering backwards full into David Archman,
checking David Archman's rush-and, turning, sprang
for the window, snatched up his package, hurled himself
over the sill, dropped to the ground, and, racing for the
fence, climbed it, and made the lane, just as a shot, from
David Archman, no doubt, was fired from the window.
A moment more, and Jimmie Dale, his mask in his
pocket, had emerged from the lane, and was walking
nonchalantly along to the street corner; another, and he
had boarded a street car-but under Jimmie Dale's coat
was a most suspicious bulge. Conscious of this, he left
the street car a few blocks farther along, when he was
far enough away to be certain that he would have eluded
all pursuit-and walked the rest of the distance to River- -
side Drive. If he had escaped unscathed, the package


218 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
of banknotes had not-it was his coat that shielded them
from view, not the wrappers, for the wrappers had been
torn almost entirely away in his hasty exit over the
fence.
He reached his home, and mounted the steps cautiously.
There was Jason to consider, Jason with his lovable
pernicious habit of sitting up for his master. Jason
inust not see those banknotes, that was obvious, and if
Jason-yes !- Jimmie Dale was peering now through the
monogrammed lace that covered the plate glass doors in
the vestibule-yes, Jason was still sitting up. And then
Jimmie Dale smiled that strange whimsical smile of his.
Jason was still sitting up-asleep in the hall chair.
Softly, without a sound, Jimmie Dale opened the front
door, entered, passed the old man, and went up the stairs.
In his dressing room, he hid away the package that to-
morrow, or at the first opportunity, would enrich some
deserving charity, and, as silently as he had come up the
stairs, he descended them again, passed by the old man
again, and went out to the street once more. There was
just one reason why Jason, tired out and asleep, sat there
-only one—because Jason, old Jason, faithful, big-
hearted Jason, loved his Master Jim.
Into Jimmie Dale's eyes there came a mist. Perhaps
that was why, because he could not see clearly, that he
stumbled on his way up the steps again; perhaps that
was why he made so much noise that it was Jason who
opened the door and held out his hands for Jimmie Dale's
coat and hat.
"What!” said Jimmie Dale severely. "Sitting up again,
Jason ? Jason, go to bed at once!"
"Yes, sir,” said Jason. “Thank you, sir. Thank you,
Master Jim, sir-I will.”


CHAPTER XVI
ONE CHANCE IN TEN
TT was three nights later. Old Jason had placed a
1 tray with after-dinner coffee and a liqueur set on
the table at Jimmie Dale's elbow-that was fully an
hour ago, and both coffee and liqueur were untouched.
Things were not going well. Apart entirely from all
lack of success where the Tocsin was concerned, things
were not going well. The fate of Frenchy Virat, the
fate of the Wolf, and, added to this, the Gray Seal's
intervention in the plans and purposes of one Gen-
tleman Laroque and certain gentlemen still higher up
than Laroque, had not passed unmarked or unnoticed
in the underworld. And now in the underworld a
strange, ominous and far-reaching disquiet reigned. It
was an underworld rampant with suspicion, mad with
fury, more dangerous than it had ever been before.
Jimmie Dale's hand reached abstractedly into the
pocket of his dinner jacket for his cigarette case. He
lighted a cigarette, leaned back once more in the big,
leather-upholstered lounging chair, and his eyes, half
closed, strayed introspectively around the luxuriously ap-
pointed room, his own particular den in his Riverside
Drive residence. Once, a very long while ago, years
ago, so long ago now that it seemed as though it must
have been in some strange previous incarnation, back
in those old days when the Tocsin had first come into
his life, and when he had known her only as the authoi
219


220
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
of those mysterious letters, those "calls to arms” to the
Gray Seal, she had written: “Things are a little too
warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's let them cool for a
calls to arm
year.", aren't they, written: S
A blue thread curled lazily upward from the tip of the
cigarette. Jimmie Dale's eyes fastened mechanically
on the twisting, wavering spiral, followed it mechanically
as it rose and spread out into filmy, undulating, fan-
tastic shapes and the strong, square jaw set suddenly
hard. It was not so very strange that those words should
have come back to him to-night! Things were “warm”
now-and he could not let them "cool" for a year!
"Warm!” He smiled a little mirthlessly. The com-
parison was very slight! Then, at the beginning, at
the outset of the Gray Seal's career, the police, it was
true, had shown a certain unpleasant anxiety for a closer
acquaintanceship, but that was about all. To-day, lashed
on and mocked by a virulent press, goaded to madness
by their own past failures to "get" the Gray Seal, to
whose door they laid a hundred crimes and for whom
the bars of a death cell in Sing Sing was the goal if
they could but catch their prey, the police, to a man,
were waging a ceaseless and relentless war against him;
and to-day, joining hands with the police, the under-
world in all its thousand ramifications, prompted by
fear, by suspicion of one another, reached out to trap
him, and to deal out to him a much more speedy, but
none the less certain, fate than that prescribed by the
statutes of the law !
He shook his head. It could not go on-indefinitely.
The rôle was too hard to play; the dual life, in a sort
of grim, ironical self-mockery, brought even in its own
successful interpretation added dangers and perils with
each succeeding day. As it had been with Larry the
Bat, the more he now lived Smarlinghue the more it


ONE CHANCE IN TEN
221
became difficult to slough off Smarlinghue and live as
Jimmie Dale; the more Smarlinghue became trusted and
accepted in the inner circles of the underworld, the
more he became a figure in those sordid surroundings,
and the more dangerous it became to “disappear" at will
without exciting suspicion, where suspicion, as it was,
was already spread into every nook and corner of the
Bad Lands, where each rubbed shoulders with his fel-
low in the lurking dread that the other was—the Gray
Seal!
The police were no mean antagonists, he made no mis-
take on that score; but the peril that was the graver
menace of the two, and the greater to be feared, was
the underworld. And here in the underworld in the
last few days, here where on every twisted, vicious lip
was the whisper, “Death to the Gray Seal,” there had
come even another menace. He could not define it, it
was intuition perhaps—but intuition had never failed him
yet. It was an undercurrent of which he had grad-
ually become conscious, the sense of some unseen, guid-
ing power, that moved and swayed and controlled, and
was present, dominant, in every den and dive in crime-
land. There had been many gang leaders and heads of
little coteries of crime, cunning, crafty in their way, and
all of them unscrupulous, like the Wolf, for instance,
who had sworn openly and boastingly through the Bad
Lands, and had been believed for a season, that they
would bring the Gray Seal to a last accounting—but
it was more than this now. There was a craftier brain
and a stronger hand at work than the Wolf's had ever
been! Who was it? He shook his head. He did not
know. He had gone far into the innermost circles of
the underworld—and he did not know. He sensed a
power there; and in a dozen different, intangible ways,
still an intuition more than anything else, he had sensed


222 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
this "some one,” this power, creeping, fumbling, feeling
its implacable way through the dark, as it were, toward
him.
Yes, it was getting "warm”-perilously warm! And
inevitably there must come an end-some day. The
warning stared him in the face. But he could not stop,
could not heed the warning, could not let things “cool”
now for a year, and stand aside until the storm should
have subsided! Where was the Tocsin? If his peril
was great—what was hers!
He surged suddenly upward from his chair, his hands
clenched until the knuckles stood out like ivory knobs.
The Tocsin! The woman he loved—where was she?
Was she safe to-night? Where was she? He could
not stop until that question had been answered, be the
consequences what they might! Warnings, the realisa-
tion of peril-he laughed shortly, in grim bitterness-
counted little in the balance after all, did they not!
Where was the Tocsin ?
The telephone rang. Jimmie Dale stared at the in-
strument for a moment, as though it were some singular
and uninvited intruder who had broken in without war-
rant upon his train of thought; and then, leaning for-
ward over the table, he lifted the receiver from the hook.
"Yes? Hello! Yes?" inquired Jimmie Dale. "What
is it?" :
A man's voice, hurried, and seemingly somewhat agi-
tated, answered him.
"I would like to speak to Mr. Dale-to Mr. Dale in
person."
“This is Mr. Dale speaking,” said Jimmie Dale a little
brusquely. “What is it?"
“Oh, is that you, Mr. Dale?” The voice had quick-
ened perceptibly. “I didn't recognise your voice—but
then I haven't heard it for a long while, have I? This


ONE CHANCE IN TEN 29
is Forrester. Are are you very busy to-night, Mir.
Dale?”
"Oh, hello, Forrester!" Jimmie Dale's voice liad
grown more affable. “Busy? Well, I don't know. It
depends on what you mean by busy."
“An hour or two," the other suggested—the tinge of
anxiety in his tones growing more pronounced. “The.
time to run out here in your car. I haven't any right to
ask it, I know, but the truth is I–I want to talk to
some one pretty badly, and I need some financial help,
and-and I thought of you. I-I'm afraid there's a
mess here. The bank examiners landed in suddenly
late this afternoon."
"The-what?" demanded Jimmie Dale sharply.
“The bank examiners I–I can't talk over the phone.
Only, for God's sake, come—will you? I'll be in my
rooms—you know where they are, don't you on the
corner over "
“Yes, I know," Jimmie Dale broke in tersely; then,
quietly: “All right, Forrester, I'll come.”
"Thank God!" came Forrester's voice--and discon-
nected abruptly.
Jimmie Dale replaced the receiver on the hook, stared
at the instrument again in a perplexed way; then, called
the garage on the private house wire. There was no
answer. He walked quickly then across the room and
pushed an electric button.
"Jason," he said a moment later, as the old butler
appeared on the threshold in answer to the summons,
“Benson doesn't answer in the garage. I presume he
is downstairs. I wish you would ask him to bring the
touring car around at once. And you might have a
light overcoat ready for me Jason.”
“Yes, sir,” said the old man. "Yes, Master Jim, sir,
at once." His eyes sought Jimmie Dale's, and dropped


224 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
-but into them had come, not the questioning of
familiarity, but the quick, anxious questioning inspired
by the affection that had grown up between them from
the days when, as the old man was so fond of saying,
he had dandled his Master Jim upon his knee. "Yes,
sir, Master Jim, at once, sir,” Jason repeated—but he
still hesitated upon the threshold.
And then Jimmie Dale shook his head whimsically-
and smiled.
"No—not to-night, Jason," he said reassuringly. “It's
quite all right, Jason—there's no letter to-night."
The old man's face cleared instantly.
"Yes, sir; quite so, sir. Thank you, Master Jim," he
said. “Shall I tell Benson that he is to drive you,
sir, or- "
"No; I'll drive myself, Jason," decided Jimmie Dale.
“Yes, sir—very good, sir"—the door closed on Jason.
Jimmie Dale turned back into the room, began to pace
up and down its length, and for a moment the reverie
that the telephone had interrupted was again dominant
in his mind. Jason was afraid. Jason-even though
he knew so little of the truth-was afraid. Well, what
then? He, Jimmie Dale, was not blind himself! It had
come almost to the point where his back was against
the wall at last; to the point wherc, unless he found the
Tocsin before many more days went by, it would be, as
far as he was concerned-too late!
And then he shrugged his shoulders suddenly—andi
his forehead knitted into perplexed furrows. For-
rester-and the telephone message! What did it mean?
There was an ugly sound to it, that reference to the
bank examiners and the need of financial assistance.
And it was a little odd, too, that Forrester should have
telephoned him, Jimmie Dale, unless it were accounted
for by the fact that Forrester knew of no one else to


ONE CHANCE IN TEN
225
whom he might apply for perhaps a large sum of ready
money. True, he knew Forrester quite well—not as an
intimate friend-but only in a sort of casual, off-hand
kind of a way, as it were, and he had known him
for a good many years; but their acquaintanceship would
not warrant the other's action unless the man were in
desperate straits. Forrester had been a clerk in the
city bank where his, Jimmie Dale's, father had trans-
acted his business, and it was there he had first met
Forrester. He had continued to meet Forrester there
after his father had died; and then Forrester had been
offered and had accepted the cashiership of a small local
bank out near Bayside on Long Island. He had run
into Forrester there again once or twice on motor trips-
and once, held up by an accident to his car, he had dined
with Forrester, and had spent an hour or two in the
other's rooms. That was about all.
Jimmie Dale's frown grew deeper. He liked For-
rester. The man was a bachelor and of about his,
Jimmie Dale's, own age, and had always appeared to be
a decent, clean-lived fellow, a man who worked hard,
and was apparently pushing his way, if not meteorically,
at least steadily up to the top, a man who was respected
and well-thought of by everybody—and yet just what
did it mean? The more he thought of it, the uglier
it seemed to become.
He stepped suddenly toward the telephone—and as
abruptly turned away again. He remembered that For-
rester did not have a telephone in his rooms, for, on
the night of the break-down, he, Jimmie Dale, had
wanted to telephone, and had been obliged to go outside
to do so. Forrester, obviously then, had done likewise
to-night. Well, he should have insisted on a fuller ex-
planation in the first place if he had intended to make


ONE CHANCE IN TEN
227
with a nod to the old butler, ran down the steps, dis-
missed Benson, who stood waiting, and entered his car.
It was three-quarters of an hour later when Jimmie
Dale drew up at the curb on the main street of the
little Long Island town that was his destination.
"Pretty good run!” said Jimmie Dale to himself, as
he glanced at the car's clock under its little electric
bulb. “Halfpast nine."
He descended from the car, and nodded as he sur-
veyed his surroundings. He had stopped neither in
front of the bank, nor in front of Forrester's rooms
it was habit again, perhaps, the caution prompted by
Forrester's statement relative to the bank examiners.
If there was trouble, and the obvious deduction indi-
cated that there was, he, Jimmie Dale, had no desire to
figure in it in a public way. Again he nodded his head.
Yes, he quite had his bearings now. It was the usual
main street of a small town—fairly well lighted, stores
and shops flanking the pavements on either side, and
of perhaps a distance equivalent to some seven or eight
city blocks in length. Two blocks further up, on the
same side of the street as that on which he was stand-
ing, was the bank—not a very pretentious establishment,
he remembered; its staff consisting of but one or two
apart from Forrester, as was not unusual with small
local banks, though this in no way indicated that the
business done was not profitable, or, comparatively,
large. Jimmie Dale started forward along the street.
On the corner just ahead of him was a two-story builda
ing, the second floor of which had been divided into
rooms originally designed to be used as offices, as, indeed,
most of them were, but two of these Forrester had fitted
up as bachelor quarters.
Jimmie Dale turned the corner, walked down the
side street to the office entrance that led to the floor


228 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
above, opened the door, and ran lightly up the stairs.
At the head of the stairs he paused to get his bearings
once more. Forrester's rooms were here directly at
the head of the stairs, but he had forgotten for the
moment whether they were on the right or left of the
corridor; and the corridor being unlighted now and
without any sign of life left him still more undecided.
It seemed, though, if his recollection served him cor-
rectly, that the rooms had been on the right. He moved
in that direction, found the door, and knocked; but, re-
ceiving no answer, crossed the hall again, and knocked
on the door on the left-hand side. There was no an-
swer here, either. He frowned a little impatiently, and
returned once more to the right-hand door. Forrester
probably was up at the bank, and had not expected him
to make the run out from the city so quickly. He tried
the door tentatively, found it unlocked, opened it a lit-
tle way, saw that the room within was lighted—and
suddenly, with a low, startled exclamation, stepped swift-
ly forward over the threshold, and closed the door be-
hind him.
It was Forrester's room, this one here at the right of
the corridor-his recollection had not been at fault. It
was Forrester's room, and Forrester himself was there
-on the floor-dead.
For a moment Jimmie Dale stood rigid and without
movement, save that as his eyes swept around the apart-
ment his face grew hard and set, his lips drooping in
sharp, grim lines at the corners of his mouth.
"My God!” Jimmie Dale whispered.
There was a faint, almost imperceptible odour in the
room, like the smell of peach blossom-he noticed it
now for the first time, as his eyes fastened on a small,
empty bottle that lay on the floor a few feet away from
the dead man's outstretched arm. Jimmie Dale stepped


230 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
'phoned, that had driven the man to this extremity?
When Forrester had 'phoned he had appeared to be agi-
tated enough, but, at least, he had seemed to have had
hopes that the appeal he was then making might see
him through, and, as proof of that, there had been un-
mistakable relief in the man's voice when he, Jimmie
Dale, had agreed to the other's request. And what had
been the meaning of that "financial help”? Had, for
instance-for it was pitifully obvious that if the bank
had been looted an innocent man would not commit sui-
cide on that account-a greater measure of the depreda-
tion been uncovered than had been counted on, so much
indeed that, say, the financial assistance Forrester had
intended to ask for had now increased to such propor-
tions that he had realised the futility of even a request;
or, again, had it for some reason, since he had telephoned,
now become impossible to restore the funds even if they
were in his possession?
.A sheet of note paper lying on the desk caught Jimmie
Dale's eyes. He stepped forward, picked it up—and his
lips drew tight together, as he read the two or three
miserable lines that were scrawled upon it:
What's left is in the middle drawer of the desk.
There's only one way out now I don't see any other
way. I thought that I could get-but what does that
matter! God help me! I'm sorry.
FLEMING P. FORRESTER.
I'm sorry! It was a pitiful epitaph for a man's life!
I'm sorry! Jimmie Dale's face softened a little the
man was dead now. "I'm sorry. . . . Fleming P. For-
rester”—he had seen that signature on bank paper a
hundred times in the old days; he had little thought ever
to see it on a document such as this!


ONE CHANCE IN TEN
231
He stared at the paper for a long time, and then, from
the paper, his eyes travelled over the desk, then shifted
again to Forrester—and then, for the second time, he
knelt beside the other on the floor. For the moment,
what was referred to as "being all that was left” in
the middle drawer of the desk could wait. There was
another matter now. He felt hurriedly through For-
rester's vest and coat pockets—and from one of the
pockets drew out a folded piece of paper. It was not
what he was looking for, but it was all that rewarded
his search. He unfolded the paper. It was dirty and
crumpled, and the few lines written upon it were badly
penned and illiterate:
The ante's gone up-get me? Six thousand bucks.
You come across with that to-morrow morning by ten
o'clock-or I'll spill the beans. And I ain't got any more
paper to write any more letters on either-savvy? This
is the last.
There was no signature. Jimmie Dale read it again
—and abruptly put it in his own pocket. Yes, he had
liked Forrester-well enough for this anyway! The
man might have a mother perhaps—it would be bad
enough in any case. And those other things, the empty
bottle, the sheet of note paper with its scrawled confes-
sion—what about them? He returned with a queer sort
of hesitant indecision to the desk. He had no right of
course to touch them unless-
He shook his head sharply, as he pulled open the mid-
dle drawer of the desk.
"Newspapers-publicity-rotten!” he muttered sav-
agely. “One chance in ten, and-ah!”
From the back of the drawer where it had been tucked
in under a mass of papers, he had extracted a little


232 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
bundle of documents that were held together by all
elastic band. He snapped off the band, and ran through
the papers rapidly. For the most part they were bonds
and stock certificates indorsed by their owners, and
evidently had been held by the bank as collateral for
loans.
And then suddenly Jimmie Dale straightened up, tense
and alert. He had no desire, very far from any desire
to be caught here, or to figure publicly in any way in the
case. The street door had opened and closed again.
Footsteps, those of three men, his acute, trained hearing
told him, sounded on the stairs. Again there came that
queer, hesitant indecision as he stood there, while his
eyes travelled in swift succession from the bank's securi-
ties in his hand to the note on the desk, to the empty
bottle on the floor, to the white, upturned face of the
silent form huddled against the couch.
"One chance in ten," muttered Jimmie Dale through
his set lips. "One chance in ten-and I guess I'll take
it!”
The footsteps came nearer-they were almost at the
head of the stairs now. But now Jimmie Dale was in
action-swift as a flash and silent as a shadow in every
movement. The bundle of securities was thrust into
his pocket, the sheet of note paper followed, and, as a
knock sounded on the door, he stooped, picked up the
bottle from the floor, and darted into the adjoining
room-and in another instant he had reached the locked
door and was working at it silently and swiftly with a
picklock.


CHAPTER XVII
THE DEFAULTER
AT the other door the knocking still continued-and
A then it was opened-and there came a chorus of
low, horrified, startled cries, and the quick rush of feet
into the room.
The picklock went back into Jimmie Dale's pocket,
and crouched, now, his hand on the knob, turning it
gradually without a sound, drawing the door ajar inch
by inch, he kept his eyes on the doorway connecting with
the other room. He could see the three men bending
over Forrester. Their voices came in confused, broken,
snatches:
"... Dead!... Good God! . . . Are you sure?
... Perhaps he's only fainted . . . No, he's dead,
Poor devil!'s he's only ood. God! ..
And then one of the men, the youngest of the three,
a slight-built, clean-shaven, dark-eyed man of perhaps
twenty-eight or thirty, rose abruptly, and glanced sharp-
ly around the room.
“Yes, he's dead!” he said bitterly. "Any one could
tell that! But he wouldn't be dead, and this would never
have happened if you'd done what I wanted you to do
when you first came to the bank this afternoon. I
wanted you to have him arrested then, didn't I?"
One of the others—and it was obvious that the others
were the two bank examiners-a man of middle age, an-
swered soberly.
233


234 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"You're upset, Dryden,” he said. “You know we
couldn't do that
"On a teller's word against the cashier's-of course
not!" the young man broke in caustically. "Well, you
see now, don't you?”
"We couldn't do it then without proof,” amended the
bank examiner quietly,
“Proof!" Dryden exclaimed. "My God-proof!
Who tipped your people off to have you drop in there
this afternoon? I did, didn't I? Do you think I'd do
that without knowing what I was about! Didn't I tell
you that there was nothing but the office fixtures left!
Didn't I? There were only the two of us on the staff,
and didn't I tell you that I had discovered that the
books were cooked from cover to cover? Yes, I did
And you had to get your pencils out and start in on a
thumb-rule examination, as though nothing were the mat-
ter! Well, what did you find ? The securities in a mess,
what there was left of them—and what was supposed
to be twenty thousand dollars that came out from the
sity yesterday nothing but a package of blank paper !"
“You didn't know that yourself until half an hour ago
when we started to check up the cash," returned the
other a little sharply.
"Well, perhaps, I didn't," admitted Dryden; "but I
knew about the books.”
"Besides that," continued the bank examiner, "Mr.
Forrester was in town this afternoon when we got to
the bank and this is the first time we have seen him, so
we could not very well have done anything other than
we have done in any case. I mention this because you
are talking wildly, and that sort of talk, if it gets out,
won't do any of us any good. You don't want to blame
Mr. Marner here and myself for Mr. Forrester's death,
do you?"


THE DEFAULTER
239
"Jason," said Jimmie Dale sharply, “what's the mat-
ter with you? What are you talking about? What
came?”
"Why-why, sir-I beg your pardon, sir, but I've been
a bit uneasy ever since, sir. It's—it's one of those let-
ters, Master Jim, sir." .
A sudden whiteness came into Jimmie Dale's face, as
he stared into the mouthpiece of the telephone. A “call
to arms” from the Tocsin-now-to-night! What was
he to do! It was not a trivial thing which that letter
would contain-it never had been, and it never would
be, and no matter under what circumstances it found
him, he-
Jason's voice faltered over the wire:
"Are you there, sir, Master Jim?”
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Bring the letter
with you, Jason, and come down with Benson. I will
wait for you here—in the car outside Marlianne's. And
hurry, Jason—take a taxi down."
"Yes, sir,” said Jason, his voice trembling a little. "At
once, Master Jim.”
Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver, returned to the
street, and seated himself in his car. How long wouid
it take them to get here? Half an hour? Well then,
for half an hour his hands were tied, and he could do
nothing but wait. He glanced around him. It was
curious! It was here in this very place that he had once
found a letter from her in his car; it was even here that,
without knowing it at the moment, he had really seen her
for the first time. And now—what did it hold, this let-
ter, this "call to arms” that he sat here waiting for,
while out there in that little town a man lay dead on the
floor of his room, and around whom, where there had
once been the evidence of a coward's guilt, crowned with
the sorriest epitaph that ever man had written, there
knowing
And now
he sa


240 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
was now the evidence of a still blacker crime—the crime
of murder.
He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could
it be that-in her letter! Intuition again? Well, why
not-if old Kronische should answer the question as the
chances were one in ten that old Kronische might an-
swer it! Yes—why not! It would not be strange. In-
tuition–because somehow the feeling that it was so
grew stronger with each moment that passed-well, once
before to-night he had said that intuition had never
failed him yet!
The minutes dragged by interminably. He smoked
another cigarette, and after that another. The clock
under the hood showed five minutes past eleven; the
minute hand crept around to eight, nine, ten minutes
past the hour-and then a taxi swerved on little better
than two wheels around the corner-and Jimmie Dale,
springing from his seat, jumped to the pavement as the
taxi drew up at the curb.
Jason, palpably agitated, and followed by Benson,
descended from the taxi. Jimmie Dale dismissed the
cab, and motioned Benson to the car.
"Well, Jason ?” he said quickly.
"It's here, sir, Master Jim”--the old butler fumbled
in an inner pocket, and produced an envelope"I- "
"Thank you! That's all-Jason.” Jimmie Dale's
quick smile robbed his curt dismissal of any sting. “Ben-
son, of course, will drive you home.”
"Yes, sir." The old man went slowly to the car, and
climbed in beside the chauffeur. "Good-night, sir!"
Jason ventured wistfully. "Good-night, Master Jim!"
"Good-night, Jason-good-night, Benson!” Jimmie
Dale answered—and, turning, started briskly along the
street. Jason's "good-night” had been eloquent of the old
man's anxiety. He would have liked to reassure Jason


242 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
amount four thousand . . . Forrester has been paying
blackmail in the shape of exorbitant interest ever since
... Suviney finally demanded six thousand to-day to
be paid at once ... this has nothing to do with the
bank robbery, but would look black ... added evi-
dence. ..." He read on, his mind seeming to absorb
the contents of the letter faster than his eyes could de-
cipher the words. “English Dick . . . confession forged
... organisation widespread . . . enormously power-
ful... leadership a mystery ... rendezvous that
English Dick visits is at Marlopp's . . . Reddy Mull's
room . . . rear room . . . leaves cash and securities
there under loose board, right-hand corner from door
... twenty thousand cash to-night. ..."
Jimmie Dale was walking on down the street, his fin-
gers picking and tearing the sheets of paper in his hand
into minute fragments. There was a sort of cold, un-
emotional, unnatural calm upon him. It was all here,
all, the Tocsin had-no, not all! She had not known
of the last act in the brutal drama, for her letter had
been written prior to that. She had not known that
there was-murder. But apart from that, to the last de-
tail, in all its hideous, relentless craft, the whole plot was
clear. There was no need to go to old Kronische now,
no need to assume the role of Larry the Bat. The ques-
tion was answered—the confession was a forgery—the
evidence, not of suicide, but of murder, that he, Jimmie
Dale, had left behind him in that room, was the evidence
of fact.
He walked on-rapidly now-heading over in the di-
rection of the Bowery. There had been neither ink nor
pen upon the desk where he had found the confession,
nor had there been a fountain pen in Forrester's pocket
when he had searched the other! He laughed out a
little harshly. A strange oversight on some one's part


246 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
The sounds from the pool room were louder, more dis-
tinct now, even rising once into a shout of boisterous
hilarity; but there was no other sound. The round, white
ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight circled the room sud-
denly, inquisitively—and went out. It was a bare,
squalid place, dirty, filthy, disreputable. There was a
bed, unmade, a table, a few chairs, a greasy, threadbare
carpet on the floor-nothing else, save that his eyes had
noted that the electric-light switch was on the wall be-
side the jamb of the door.
The flashlight winked again—and again went out.
Jimmie Dale slipped his mask over his face, and moved
forward toward the wall.
"Under loose board, right-hand corner from door,"
murmured Jimmie Dale. He was kneeling on the floor
now. "Yes, here it was!" His flashlight was boring
down into a little excavation beneath the piece of floor-
ing he had removed. He stared into this for a mo-
ment, his lips twitching grimly; then, with a whimsical
shrug of his shoulders, he replaced the board, and stood
up. He had found the hiding place without any trouble
-but he had found it empty. "I guess," said Jimmie
Dale, with a mirthless smile, “that there's a good deal
of the bank's property at large-temporarily!"
There was a chair by the wall close to the door, he
had noticed. He moved over, and sat down-but, in-
stead of his flashlight, his automatic was in his hand
now. There was the chance, of course, that English
Dick had already been here with that twenty thousand
from the bank, and in that case, as witness the empty
hiding place, Reddy Mull had already passed it on; but
it was much more likely that neither one of the two had
yet arrived. Which one would come first then–English
Dick, or Reddy Mull? If it were Reddy Mull it would
be unfortunate—for Reddy Mull. His, Jimmie Dale's,
De the be was He nicht,
nowi had already.and in that ca already pa


ALIAS ENGLISH DICK
247
immediate business was with English Dick, and he was
quite content to leave Reddy Mull to the later ministra-
tions of the police.
Jimmie Dale's fingers tested the mechanism of his auto-
matic in the darkness. Whose was the master brain
behind all this? This crime to-night bore glaring evi-
dence to the work of some far-flung, intricate and pow-
erful organisation—the Tocsin was indubitably right in
that. Was this the first concrete expression he had had
of that undercurrent he had sensed of late as permeating
the underworld, that he had sensed was reaching out as
one of its objects for him, and that,
He came suddenly without a sound to his feet, and
pressed back close against the wall, his body rigid and
thrown forward like one poised to spring. There was
a footstep outside the door, the rasp of a key in the lock,
then a faint, murky path of light as the door opened,
and a man stepped forward over the threshold. The
key was inserted with another rasping sound in the inner
side of the lock, the door closed, the key turned and
was withdrawn, thrust evidently into its possessor's
pocket-and then Jimmie Dale, silently, in a lightning
flash, was upon the other, his hand at the man's throat,
the cold, round muzzle of his automatic against the
other's face. There was a choked cry, the thud as of
something dropping on the floor-and then Jimmie Dale
spoke.
"Put your hands up over your head!” he breathed
grimly—and, as the other obeyed, his own hand fell
away from the man's throat, and in a quick, deft sweep
over the other's clothing located the bulge of a revolver,
and whipped it from the man's pocket. He pushed the
man with his automatic's muzzle back against the wall,
closer to the electric-light switch. Was it Reddy Mull-
or English Dick? And then Jimmie Dale laughed low,
man stepped f another rasping he key turn


248 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
unpleasantly, as he switched on the light. He was star-
ing into a face that was white and colourless—the face
of a man with a heavy black moustache, and whose slouch
hat was jammed far down over his eyes. The process
of elimination made it very simple—it was English Dick.
The man blinked, and wet his lips with his tongue,
and at sight of Jimmie Dale's mask, perhaps because it
suggested a community of interest, tried to force a
smirk.
"What's—what's the game?” he stammered.
"This—to begin with !” said Jimmie Dale grimly-
and, stooping, picked up from the floor a small black
satchel, the object that English Dick had dropped on
entering the room. “Go over to that table !" ordered
Jimmie Dale curtly.
The man obeyed.
"Sit down!” Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words
in cold menace.
Again the man obeyed.
Jimmie Dale, his back to the door as he faced the
other across the table, snapped open the bag. It was
full to the top with banknotes and securities. Under his
mask his lips curled in a hard, forbidding smile. He
took from his pocket the package of the bank's securi-
ties he had found in the drawer of Forrester's desk, and
laid it in silence on the table beside the satchel; beside
this again, still in silence, he placed the bottle that had
contained the hydrocyanic acid, and after an instant's
pause-spread out the sheet of note paper bearing For-
rester's forged signature.
The man's face, white before, had gone a livid gray.
"W-what do you want?” he whispered.
"I want you to write another confession." There was
a deadly monotony in Jimmie Dale's voice, as he tapped


ALIAS ENGLISH DICK
249
the paper with the muzzle of his automatic. “This one
is out of date.”
"I don't know what you mean," faltered English Dick.
"So help me, honest to God, I don't!"
"Don't you!" There was a curious drawl in Jimmie
Dale's voice—and then in a flash his free hand swept
across the table, jerked away the other's moustache, and
pushed the slouch hat up from the man's eyes. “I mean
that the game is up-Dryden.”
There was a low cry; and the man, with working lips,
shrank back in his chair.
“You cur!” The words were coming fast and hot
from Jimmie Dale's lips now. "English Dick, alias
Dryden, the bank teller! So, you don't know what I
mean! Listen, then, and I'll tell you! Six months ago
you got a position in the bank. Since then you've forged
names right and left on securities, falsified the books,
and stolen cash and securities. Day by day, working
in with your gang, you've brought the loot here, com-
ing in disguise of course, as you've come to-night, for
it wouldn't do for 'Dryden' to be seen in this neigh-
bourhood! And you turned the loot over to Reddy
Mull—by leaving it, if he didn't happen to be around,
under that loose board there in the corner."
“My God!” The man's face was ghastly. “Who-
who are you?"
"To-day," went on Jimmie Dale, as though he had not
heard the other, "you came to the climax of the plan you
had been working on for those six months—the bank
was wrecked—and what little there was left you took”-
he jerked his hand toward the open satchel—"replacing
it at the last moment with previously prepared dummy
packages. And you took it, you cur”- Jimmie Dale's
voice choked suddenly--"not only at the expense of a
man's life, but of his good name and reputation. You


ALIAS ENGLISH DICK
251
with a black-jack, then forced the poison down his
throat, laid him on the floor, placed the empty bottle
beside him, and left the confession on the desk. The
plan was very cunningly worked out. The bruise on
Forrester's head was most obviously accounted for-
his head had struck, of course, against the leg of the
couch—he was found lying in that position! It is
strange, though, isn't it, how sometimes the most cun-
ning of plans go astray in the simplest and yet the most
perverse of ways? Who, under the circumstances, would
have thought of it! Your accomplice had simply to
place a document already prepared upon the desk. Even
you did not think to warn him yourself. It did not
enter his head to see if there were pen and ink there
with which it might have been written, or, failing that,
a fountain pen in Forrester's pocket-and there was
neither the one nor the other. That's all-except the
name of the man who killed Forrester.” Jimmie Dale
leaned forward sharply. “Who was it?"
English Dick wet his lips again.
"I—they—they'd kill me like-like a dog if I told,"
he mumbled.
“They?” The monosyllable came curt and hard.
"I don't know," said English Dick. "That's God's
truth-I never knew—there's a big gang-none of us
know."
"But you know who worked with you in this.” Jim-
mie Dale was speaking through clenched teeth. “You
know who killed Forrester.”
"Yes.” The man's whisper was scarcely audible.
“Who?"
"Reddy-Reddy Mull.”
“Yes," said Jimmie Dale in his grim monotone, “I
thought so.”
He reached into the satchel where a small package of


252 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
securities were wrapped up in a sheet of the bank's
stationery, removed the sheet of paper, and spread it
out before English Dick. “Write it down!” he com-
manded—and the muzzle of his automatic jerked for-
ward to touch the fountain pen in the other's vest pocket.
"Write it-all of it-your own share-Reddy Mull's—
the whole story!”
The man's lips seemed to have gone dry again, and
again and again his tongue circied them.
"I can't!” he said hoarsely. “I daren't—they'd kill
me. And—and if they didn't, it would send me up, and
perhaps—perhaps to the chair."
"You take your chances on that”- Jimmie Dale's voice
was low and even—“but you take no chances here--for
there are none." The automatic in Jimmie Dale's hand
edged ominously forward. “It's Forrester's exoneration
-or you. Do you understand? And you make your
choice—now.”
For an instant the man's eyes met Jimmie Dale's, then
shifted, as though drawn in spite of himself, to the
muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic; and then his hand
reached into his pocket for his pen.
From the pool room in front came an outburst of
hand-clapping and applause—there was evidently a
match of some kind going on. Jimmie Dale, his eyes
on English Dick, as the latter began to write with a sort
of feverish haste as though fear and a miserable desire
to have done with it spurred him on, picked up the ar-
ticles from the table, and placed them in the satchel.
He waited silently then—and then English Dick pushed
the paper toward him.
Jimmie Dale picked it up, and read it. It was al?
there, all of it—and the signature this time was not
forged! He placed the paper in the satchel, and closed
the satchel.


ALIAS ENGLISH DICK
253
English Dick passed his hand across a forehead that
was beaded with perspiration.
“What are you going to do?” he asked under his
breath.
"I'm going to see that this—and you—reaches the
hands of the police,” said Jimmie Dale tersely. “We'll
leave here in a moment—by the window. There's a
patrolman who passes the end of the lane once in a
while, and I expect, with the aid of a piece of cord and
a pocket handkerchief as a gag, that he'll find you
ihere. My method may be a little crude, but I have
reasons of my own for not walking into a police station
with you. But before we go, there's still that matter of
-the men higher up. They needed a clever penman for
this job and one who wouldn't be recognised—and they
got the best! Who brought you over from England ?”
"A friend over there, one of the 'swell ones,' put it
up to me,” English Dick answered heavily.
“Yes—and here?” prodded Jimmie Dale. “Who got
you into the bank here?"
"I don't know.” English Dick shook his head. "I
reported to a man called Chester. He doped out the
story I was to tell, and told me to go to the bank and
apply for the job, and that it was already fixed.”
"I'd like to meet 'Chester,'” said Jimmie Dale grimly.
"Where does he live?”
"I don't know," said English Dick again. "I tell you,
I don't know! They're big--my God, they'll get me for
this, if the law doesn't! I don't know where he lives“
he always came to me. The only one I know is Reddy
Mull, and
His voice was drowned out in a louder and more pro-
longed burst of applause from the pool room, which
mingied shouts, cries and the thunderous banging of
cue butts on the floor.


254 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
"A good shot!” said Jimmie Dale, with a grim smile.
“Yes,” said English Dick, “a good shot”—but into his
voice had crept a new note, a note like one of malicious
triumph.
Jimmie Dale's lips set suddenly hard and tight. Yes,
he heard now--perhaps too late—what the other saw.
The uproar that had drowned out all other sounds had
subsided—the door behind him had been unlocked and
was now opening slowly.
And then Jimmie Dale, quick as thought is quick, his
fingers closed on the satchel, hurled himself around the
table and to the floor. There was the roar of a report,
a flash of flame, as Reddy Muil, hand thrust in through
the partially open doorway, fired—a wild scream, as
the shot, meant for him, Jimmie Dale, found another
mark directly behind where he had been standing—and
English Dick, reeling to his feet, pitched forward over
the table, carrying the table with him to the floor. It
had taken the time that a watch takes to tick. Came
the roar of a report again, as Jimmie Dale fired in turn
-at the electric-light bulb a few feet away from him
on the wall. There was the tinkle of shattering glass
—and darkness. Came shouts, cries, a yell from the
door from Reddy Mull, a fusillade of shots from Reddy
Mull's revolver, the rush of many feet from the pool
room-and Jimmie Dale, in the blackness, dropped si-
lently from the window to the ground.
He gained the street; and, five minutes later, blocks
away, he entered the private stall of a Bowery saloon.
Here, Jimmie Dale added another paper to the contents
of the satchel. The characters printed, and badly
formed, the paper looked like this:


ALLAS ENGLISH DICK
255
WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE

"And I guess,” said Jimmie Dale grimly to himself
"that if I slip this to the police, the police will get-
Reddy Mull.”


CHAPTER XIX
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
L OW far away last night, with Forrester's murder
11 and the sordid dénouement in Reddy Mull's room,
seemed! How far away even half an hour ago this
very night seemed! Just half an hour ago! Then, with
no thought but one of dogged perseverance to keep up
his quest, with neither hint nor sign that his quest was
any nearer the end than it had ever been, he had entered
Bristol Bob's, here, in the role of Smarlinghue; and now,
as a rift that had opened in the clouds, there had come
sudden and amazing joy. It held him now in thrall. It
threatened even to make him forget that he was for
the moment Smarlinghue-forget what, as Smarlinghue,
Smarlinghue dare not forget-the rôle he played.
He leaned forward suddenly and caught up his whisky
glass-whose contents had previously and surrepti-
tiously been spilled into the cuspidor on the floor beside
his chair. He lifted the glass to his mouth, his head
thrown back as though to drain a final, lingering drop,
then he thumped the glass down on the table, licked
his lips—thin and distorted by "Smarlinghue's" make-
up-and wiped them with the sleeve of his threadbare
coat.
A man at the next table, well known as the Pippin,
young, flashily dressed, his almost effeminate features
giving an added touch of viciousness, through incon-
Imped hough he glass pidor
the glas, drain a fins mouth, his bes
256


THE BEGINNING OF THE END 259
several years ago rather abruptly—with a year's im-
prisonment! Jimmie Dale did not recall the details of
the particular offence of which the Pippin had been
found guilty, save that it had been for theft. It did
not, however, matter very much. The Pippin of to-day
as he was known to the underworld, to which strata of
society he had immediately gravitated on his release
from prison, was all that was of immediate interest. He
had associated himself with a gang run by one Steve
Barlow, commonly known as the Mole, and under this
august patronage and protection had already more than
one "job" of the first magnitude to his credit. The
Pippin, in a word, was both an ugly and an unpleasant
customer.
Jimmie Dale's eyes continued to circuit the seedy dance
hall. What was it that the Pippin was to procure from
Melinoff, and for which, if necessary, the Pippin was
to go "the limit”? Melinoff himself was not with-
out reproach, either! What was the game? Meli-
noff was an old-clothes and junk dealer, and, as a
side line, at times a very profitable side line, had been
known to act as a "fence" for stolen goods. He had
skirted for years on the ragged edge with the police, and
then, caught red-handed at last, had changed his occupa-
tion for a more useful one during a somewhat prolonged
sojourn in Sing Sing. Affairs after that had not pros-
pered with Melinoff. His wife, honest if her husband
was not, and already an old woman, had been hard put
to it with the shabby shop and the meagre business she
was able to transact; so hard put to it, indeed, that the
wonder had been that she had managed to keep the roof
over her head. She had died a few months after her
husband's release. Melinoff, if he had had no other
virtue, had at least loved his wife, and the Melinoff of
old, then a sprightly enough man for his years, was no


260 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
more, and it was a decrepit, stoop-shouldered, dirty and
grey-bearded figure that shuffled now around the old-
clothes shop, apathetic of "bargains," where before it had
been a man whose keenness was matched only by the sort
of eager craft and low cunning with which he had con-
ducted his business.
A smile, half grim, half whimsical, flickered across
Jimmie Dale's lips. There were strange lives, strange
undercurrents, always, ceaselessly, at work here in the
underworld, here where the grist from the human mill
found its place. Melinoff, the Pippin, each of those
whirling figures out there on the floor, each of those
men and women whose laughter rose raucously from
the tables, or whose whisperings, as heads were lowered
and held close together, seemed an unsavoury, vicious
thing, had known a strange and tortuous path; yet
strangest, most tortuous of them all, was—his own!
His fingers, as he thrust the Pippin's note into the side
pocket of his coat, touched the torn fragments of an-
other note, tiny little particles of paper, torn over and
over again into fine and minute shreds—the Tocsin's note
—the note that seemed suddenly to have changed all his
life. It had come as her communications had always
come—without bridging the way that lay between them,
without furnishing him with a clue through the method
employed for their transmission that would avail him
anything, or supply him with any means of reaching her.
It had been thrust into his hand by a street urchin, as
he had entered the door of Bristol Bob's that half an
hour before. He had not even questioned the urchin-
it would have been useless, futile, barren of results. A
hundred previous experiences had at least taught him
that! He could surmise about it, though, if he would;
and, in view of the contents of the note itself, surmise,
in all probability, with fair accuracy. The Tocsin had


THE BEGINNING OF THE END 261
satisfied herself that he was neither at home nor at the
club, and had, therefore, chosen an inconspicuous mes-
senger to search for "Smarlinghue” through the under-
world. And there would have been no risk. For the
first time in all the years that her letters had been the
motive force, the underlying basis of the Gray Seal's
acts, it would not, as far as dangerous consequences were
concerned, have mattered if the note had gone astray,
or had even been read by others. He need not even
have torn it up, as he had done through force of habit,
for there was no "plan" to-night, no coup to carry
through. The note, for the first time, was not a “call to
arms;" it was what he had been longing for, always
hoping for, yet never permitting himself to build too
strongly upon lest he should lay up for himself a store
of disappointment too bitter for endurance-it was a
note of hope. There were just a few lines, a few sen-
tences; and it had contained neither form of address nor
signature. To any one save himself it meant rìothing, it
had no significance. Snatches of it ran through his mind
again:
"... It is the beginning of the end . i. The way is
clearing . . . I am very happy to-night, and I wanted to
tell you so ..."
The end at last! The end of the years of peril; the
end of that fear gnawing always at his heart that she
might never live to come out into the sunlight again; the
end of this dual life he led; the return to a normal ex-
istence where surroundings like the present, where the
dens and dives of the underworld, the secret rookeries
nursing their hell-hatched crimes, the taint and smell of
evil, and the reek of soul-filth would be hereafter no
more than a memory! To be through with it all, through?


262 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
at his figures, and wliquor-speladen
Ort
with it all, and to know her love instead—because she
was safe!
He stared about him, and stared with queer incredulity
at his own miserable clothing. Was it true, was it reality
—this figure that the underworld knew as Smarlinghue,
who sat here, and with dirty fingers played with a whisky
glass on the cheap, liquor-spotted table, and out of half-
closed, well-simulated drug-laden eyes gazed on those
dancing figures out there on the floor to whom the law
from cradlehood had been a natural enemy, and to the
door of hardly one of whom but lay crimes that ranged
from the paltry to the hideous!
Reality! Yes, it was real! God knew the abysmal
depths of its reality. Months piled on months there
had been of it! Those voices out there that rose in a
jangle of ribald mirth were the same voices that, hushed
in deadlier menace, had whispered that grim slogan,
“Death to the Gray Seal!" through every hidden cranny
in the underworld; these men and women here around
him were of the same breed as those who only last night
had struck down and brutally murdered Forrester, and
not content with murder had plotted to rob their victim
of his good name as well!
Jimmie Dale's hand clenched suddenly—his mind was
off at a tangent, away for the moment from her. Well,
they had failed last night in all save murder! Failed-
and one of them had already paid the price, and another,
in the Tombs awaiting trial, faced the certainty of the
death chair in Sing Sing! But those two, Reddy Mull
and English Dick, had been little more than tools. Whose
was the hidden master brain behind them, controlling
this evil power that struck in the dark; that lately, though
unseen, was permeating the underworld with its pres-
ence; that intuitively he had felt was reaching out, feeling
its way, to grapple with and, if it could, to strangle him-
had already panced the certaineddy Mul


THE BEGINNING OF THE END
263
tact with this ad had any concrtime, that he hbut it was
and twet was in the incentive
the Gray Seal! He had felt the menace, known that it
existed, and the slogan ringing always in his ears, the
whispered “Death to the Gray Seal" had taken on a
deeper significance, had brought him a more acute and
imminent sense of peril than ever before; but it was
only last night, for the first time, that he had equally
felt that he had had any concrete knowledge of, or con-
tact with this new antagonist. And last night, if there
had been a challenge he had accepted it, and if there
had been no challenge he had at least thrown down the
gauntlet himself! If this was actually the criminal or-
ganisation that was arrayed against him, the master
brain at the head of it would now have a greater in-
centive than ever to trap and exterminate the Gray Seal,
for English Dick lay dead, and Reddy Mull was be-
hind the bars, and twenty thousand dollars in cash that
they had schemed for was in the hands of the police-
thanks to the Gray Seal! Added incentive! They would
move heaven and earth to reach him now! All the
trickery, all the hell-born ingenuity that they possessed
would be launched against him now, and Jimmie Dale's
face, that had been set and hard, relaxed suddenly.
Well, granted all that! What did it matter now? They
would but hunt a myth! Between them and himself
now there stood the Tocsin's note. “The way is clear-
ing. ... I am very happy to-night.” She would not
have written that unless she were very sure. To-mor-
row, perhaps, and Smarlinghue, and the Gray Seal, and
Larry the Bat would have passed forever out of ex-
istence, and there would be only Jimmie Dale, and she,
and love-and a phantom left behind in the underworld
against whom the underworld and this evil genius of
crime might pit their wits to their hearts' content!
There was an uplift upon him, a sense of freedom so
great that it seemed actually physical as well as men-


THE BEGINNING OF THE END
265
the word “squeal” implied that Melinoff was to be held
strictly up to his full share of some mutual villainy
should he show any inclination to waver, it might not
be an altogether unfitting exit from the stage if the
Gray Seal should make his final bow to the underworld
by playing a role in the Pippin's little drama, whatever
that drama might prove to be!
Yes, why not! He passed Melinoff's place in any
event, and there was no reason why he should remain
any longer here in Bristol Bob's. The second glass of
whisky followed the first-into the cuspidor. Again the
threadbare sleeve was drawn across the thin, distorted
lips, and, pushing back his chair, Jimmie Dale rose from
the table and made his way out into the street.


CHAPTER XX
THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP
TEN minutes later, still in the heart of the East Side,
1 Jimmie Dale reached his destination, and paused on
the edge of the sidewalk, ostensibly to light a cigarette
while he looked tentatively around him, before the en-
trance to a courtyard that ran in behind a row of cheap
and shabby tenements. He shook his head, as he tossed
the match away. It was still early; there were too many
people about, to say nothing of the group of half-naked
children playing in the gutter under the street lamp in
front of the courtyard entrance, and "Smarlinghue" was
far too well known a character in that section of the Bad
Lands to warrant him in taking any chances. If any-
thing was wrong in Melinoff's dingy little place behind
there, if anything had transpired, or was about to trans-
pire that would ultimately, say, invite the attention of the
police, it might prove extremely awkward—for Smarl-
inghue—should it be remembered that he had entered
there! There was a better way—a much better way, and
one that was exceedingly simple. It would hardly occa-
sion any comment, even if he were noticed, if he entered
one of the tenements, where, with probably a dozen
families hiving in as many rooms, one could come and
go at all hours without question or hindrance.
He moved slowly along, and, out of the radius of the
street lamp now and away from the children, paused
again, this time before the last tenement in the row that
266


THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP 267
made the front of the courtyard in the rear. For the
moment there were no pedestrians in the immediate
neighbourhood, and Jimmie Dale, stepping through the
tenement doorway, gained the narrow, unlighted hall
within. He stopped here, hugged close against the wall,
to listen, and, hearing or seeing nothing to disturb him,
moved forward again, silently, without a sound, along
the hall. There must be, he knew, a rear exit to the
courtyard behind. Yes-here it was! He had halted
again, this time before a door. He tried it, found it
unlocked, opened it, stepped outside, and closed the door
behind him.
It was dark out here in the courtyard, and objects
were only faintly discernible; but there were few locali-
ties in that neighbourhood with which Jimmie Dale,
either as Smarlinghue, or in the old days as Larry the
Bat, was not intimately acquainted. To call it a court-
yard hardly described the place. It was more an open
backyard common to the row of tenements, and rather
narrow and confined in space at that. It was dirty,
cluttered with rubbish, and across it, facing the rear of
the tenements, was a small building that many years ago
had been, possibly, a stable or an outhouse belonging to
some private and no doubt pretentious dwelling, which
long since now, with the progress northward of the city,
had been supplanted by the crowded, poverty-stricken,
and anything but pretentious tenements. This outhouse
had been to a certain extent remodelled, and to a certain
extent made habitable, and as long as any one could re-
member Melinoff with his old-clothes shop had been its
tenant.
Jimmie Dale began to make his way cautiously across
the yard, wary of the tin cans and general rubbish which
an inadvertent step might metamorphose most effectively
into a decidedly undesirable advertisement of his pres-


268 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
ence. There was no light that he could see in Melinoff's
at all; and he frowned now in a puzzled way. Had the
Pippin been and gone; or was he, Jimmie Dale, ahead of
the Pippin? The Pippin would have had ample time, of
course, to get here, for he, Jimmie Dale, had probably
remained in Bristol Bob's a good half hour after the
Pippin had left. In that case, then, Melinoff must have
gone away with the Pippin again—that would account
for there being no light. But, on the other hand, if the
Pippin had not yet arrived, and Melinoff expected the
visit, it was most curious that the place was in dark-
ness!
And then Jimmie Dale smiled a little mockingly at
himself. His deductions would perhaps have been of
infinitely more value if he had first waited to make sure
of the premise on which they were based! As a matter
of fact, there was a light! He had reached the front
of the little place, and peering cautiously through the
window could make out, across the black interior, a
thread of light that came through the crack of a closed
door, and from what was, evidently, another room in the
rear.
Jimmie Dale's fingers closed on the heavy, cumber-
some, old-fashioned door latch, pressed it down noise-
lessly, and exerted a little tentative pressure on the
door itself. It was locked. A minute passed in abso-
lute silence, as a little steel instrument was inserted in
the lock—and then the door swung inward and was
closed again, and Jimmie Dale, rigid and motionless,
stood inside.
He was listening now for some sound, the sound of
voices, or the sound of movement from that lighted
room. There was nothing. Jimmie Dale's lips tightened
suddenly. It was very curious! There was an "up-
stairs” to the place, such as it was, but if Melinoff was


THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP
269
SLUON,
up there alone, or with the Pippin, they were up there
in the dark unless they were in the rear upstairs room;
in which case they could not, in view of the ramshackle
nature of the building, have made the slightest move-
ment without making themselves heard from where he
stood.
From his pocket Jimmie Dale produced a flashlight.
The ray played once, as though with queer, diffident
curiosity, about him, swept once more in a circuit around
the room, swiftly, in an almost startled way this time
—and there was darkness again. And, instead of the
flashlight, Jimmie Dale's automatic was in his hand
now, and he was moving quickly and silently forward
toward that thread of light and the closed door leading
into the rear room.
Around him everything was in disorder; not the dis-
order habitual to such a place where odds and ends of
the heterogeneous accumulation of Melinoff's stock in
trade might be expected to be deposited wherever con-
venience and not system dictated, but a disorder that
seemed to hold within itself something of ominous prom-
ise. Old clothes, for instance, that might at least have
been expected, even with the most profound carelessness
and indifference, to have received better treatment, were
strewn and scattered about the floor in all directions.
And now Jimmie Dale stood still again. There was a
sound at last; but a sound that he could not imme-
diately define. It came from the room beyond—like a
dull, muffled thud mingling with a low, long-drawn gasp.
It was repeated—and then, unmistakably, there came a
moan.
In a flash now, Jimmie Dale, his automatic thrust for-
ward, was at the door. He stooped with his eye to the
keyhole; and the next instant, his face hard and tense, he
flung the door open, and jumped forward into the room.
sound now Jimmie Dabout the floor


270 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Those words of the Pippin's note seemed to be searing
through his brain in letters of fire—“go the limit-go the
limit.” There was no need to speculate longer on their
meaning; they meant-murder. On the floor, a dark
ugly, crimson pool beside him, lay Melinoff, the old-
clothes dealer. And as Jimmie Dale sprang to the
other's side, there came again that curious muffled thud-
as the old man weakly lifted his head a few inches from
the floor only to have it fall limply back again. The
man was nearly gone—it needed no experienced eye to
tell that. Melinoff's face was grayish in its pallor, and
his eyes, open, seemed to have lost their lustre; but
as Jimmie Dale knelt and lifted the man's shoulders and
supported the other's head upon his knee, the light in
the old-clothes dealer's black eyes seemed suddenly to
return and to glow with a strange, passionate, eager fire,
as they fixed on Jimmie Dale's face. Melinoff's lips
moved. Jimmie Dale bent his head to catch the words
that were almost inaudible.
"The—the Pippin. Here"—the old man's hand strug-
gled toward his side where a dark crimson blotch had
soaked his shirt—"here-he-he stabbed me—because-
because- " The voice failed and died away, and the
man's head fell back on Jimmie Dale's arm.
Jimmie Dale raised the other's head gently again.
"Yes!” he said quickly, striving to rouse the other.
“Yes; go on! I understand. The Pippin stabbed you.
Because—what? Go on, Melinoff! Go on! I am lis-
tening."
The eyes opened once more—but the light was dying
out of them, and they were filming now. And then
suddenly the man forced himself forward into a sitting
posture, and his voice rang wildly through the room:
"It is a lie! A lie! I played square-do you hear!
Old Melinoff played square! I did not understand at
as they fixed glow with a stes eyes seemed the light in
Old Mis a lie! Aice, rang wildli forward int. And then


THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP 271
first—but I did not forget. I remembered. Old Melinoff
would never forget—never forget-never for- "
A tremor ran through the old man's form, the voice
was stilled-it was the end.
For a moment, his lips tight and set, Jimmie Dale held
the other there in his arms, as he stared at a little object
on the floor where Melinoff had been lying, and that
previously had been hidden beneath the other's body-
an object that glittered and sparkled now as the light
caught it. There had even been then, it seemed, no
need for Melinoff's dying accusation—the evidence of
the Pippin's guilt would have been plain enough to the
first person who found old Melinoff and moved the old
man's body. For himself, Jimmie Dale, the Pippin's
note, since it had actuated him in coming here, would
have been enough to have fixed the guilt in his mind
where it belonged; but the police, for instance, would
not have been so well informed! The police, however,
would now have all, and more than all the evidence
they required. That little thing that glittered there was
one of the Pippin's notorious diamond-snake cuff links.
Jimmie Dale did not disturb it. He laid old Melinoff
back on the floor, and the old man's body covered the
cuff link again as it had done before. He stood up
then, and looked around him. The room seemed to have
been used for no one particular purpose. It was par-
titioned off from the shop proper, it was true; but,
equally, it appeared to have been used as a sort of
overflow for the shop's stock in trade. Here, as in
front, clothing of all descriptions littered the floor; and
also there were signs that a violent struggle had taken
place. The room, which had obviously served, apart
from being a store-room, as kitchen, dining room, and,
in fact, for everything save a bedroom, was in a state
of chaos—chairs were upset, à table stood up-ended


THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP
273
a cuff link and be unaware of that fact for any extended
length of time. And that cuff link was damning, ir-
refutable, incontrovertible evidence, exactly the evidence
the police required to convict the guilty man! Yes, un-
doubtedly, the Pippin would be back—and at any mo-
ment now. Figuring that the Pippin had left Bristol
Bob's half an hour before he, Jimmie Dale, had started
out, and allowing, say, twenty minutes for the struggle
and subsequent murder here, the Pippin could only have
been gone a matter of some ten minutes. In the excite-
ment, and probably a run through lanes and alleyways,
it was quite possible that the Pippin would not have
noticed his loss in that length of time; but he could not,
with a loose cuff, and especially when it was usually
fastened by so highly prized a link, have remained much
longer than that in ignorance of his loss.
Jimmie Dale smiled grimly now in the darkness. It
was almost analogous to Meighan's waiting for the re-
turn of the Magpie, except that he, Jimmie Dale, had
neither the desire nor the intention of usurping the func-
tions of the police. “Smarlinghue,” for very obvious
reasons, could neither appear nor bear witness in the
case; he could take no chances of the discovery being
made that “Smarlinghue" was but a character that
cloaked Jimmie Dale and the Gray Seal-and, above
all, he could take no chances to-night when at last he
was on the threshold of the return to his old normal
life again! But he had, nevertheless, no intention of per-
mitting the Pippin to elude the law, or to escape the con-
sequences of the act to which that mute form lying in
there on the crimsoned floor bore hideous testimony.
The cuff link, obviously loosened and dropped unnoticed
on the floor during the struggle, would not only connect
the Pippin with the crime, but would convict him of it
as well; he, Jimmie Dale, therefore, did not propose to


276 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
and if the Pippin were coming back at all he would
have been back long before this.
Jimmie Dale closed the door of the old-clothes shop
behind him, crossed the yard, and using the back door
of the tenement again, gained the street. Well, he was
quite satisfied! The hour he had spent there mattered
little. He had desired only one thing—that the evidence
of the Pippin's guilt should not be disturbed. And for
the rest-he smiled whimsically as he started briskly
along the street—there was Carruthers, of the Morning
News-Argus, who, if, in the old days, he had been one of
the most dogged and relentless in his efforts to run the
Gray Seal to earth, was at the same time, though without
knowing it-Jimmie Dale's smile broadened—the Gray
Seal's most intimate friend and old college pal! If the
Pippin was just as surely brought to book that way, why
do old Carruthers and his sheet out of a “scoop”!
Jimmie Dale made his way rapidly now over to the
Bowery, and here headed in an uptown direction. Two
blocks further along, however, on the corner occupied by
the Crescent saloon, he turned into the cross street, and
passed in through the saloon's side entrance. The Cres-
cent saloon, as he had previously more than once had
occasion to remark, was nothing if not thoughtful of
the peculiar needs of its somewhat questionable class
of patrons. Around the corner of the little passageway,
just as it turned into a small lounging room before the
barroom proper was reached, was a telephone booth
whose privacy could scarcely be improved upon. He
opened the door of the booth, stepped inside, and closed
the door carefully and tightly behind him. The Argus
being a morning paper, Carruthers, except on very rare
occasions, was always to be found at his office until late
into the night; but Jimmie Dale, having deposited his
coin in the slot, was rewarded with the information


278
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
don? ... Yes—murder. ... What? ... It is a cuff
link, the Pippin's cuff link, that was dropped in the
struggle. . . . What? ... No, I do not know why; I
have told you all I know. There is nothing more, Mr.
Carruthers-except that I should advise you to work
as quickly as possible, as otherwise some one may stum-
ble on the crime before you do. Good-night, Mr. Car-
ruthers.”
Carruthers was still talking, wildly, excitedly. Jimmie
Dale calmly hung up the receiver, left the telephone
booth, and went out to the street again-by the side
entrance. If Carruthers made inquiry of central as to
where the call had come from, the reply that it was
from the Crescent saloon would in no way serve Car-
ruthers, or any one else. No one, even in the Crescent
saloon, would be able to furnish any information as to
who had telephoned. It was, therefore, in a word, up
to Carruthers now; the Pippin would be brought to ac-
count; and as far as he, Jimmie Dale, was concerned,
his connection with the affair was at an end.
Jimmie Dale walked quickly along, turning from one
street into another. Here and there, in front of various
resorts, and on the corners, he passed little groups of
men engaged in bated, low-toned conversation. Or-
dinarily this would have interested Jimmie Dale, for the
groups were composed, not of ordinary citizens, but of
the dregs and scum of the underworld, and it was evi-
dent that something quite out of the usual run of things
had suddenly seized upon the Bad Lands as a subject
for gossip. But it was already long after eleven o'clock,
and to-night, with Melinoff's murder disposed of now,
he was through, he hoped, with the underworld forever.
He was anxious only to reach the Sanctuary without any
further delay, and, thereafter, equally without further
loss of time, to get to his home or to the club, where at


280 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
and that the Wowzer's face, close to his own, was
swirling around and around in swift and endless gyra-
tions—but he was conscious, too, that he was master of
himself. The muscles of his face twitched—but it was
to express incredulity. His tongue carried the cigarette
butt languidly back to the other corner of his mouth.
"Aw, go on!” said Jimmie Dale. “Try it on somebody
else! Silver Mag croaked out the night they had that
fire down there in the old tenement.”
"Yes, she did-nix!” scoffed the Wowzer, with a short
laugh. "De same way dat blasted snitch of a Gray Seal
did—eh? Say, Smarly, I'm handin' it to youse straight,
Dey caught her snoopin' around one of de en-trays inta
Foo Sen's half an hour ago. Say, de whole mob all de
way up de line's been tipped off. I'm givin' youse de real
thing. Youse must have been asleep somewhere, or
youse'd have been wise before.”
"Sure—I believe you!” said Jimmie Dale earnestly,
"Who caught her, Wowzer?”
"De Mole," replied the Wowzer. "An' he's got her
now over in his layout.”
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke. There
seemed to be a horrible, ghastly dryness in his mouth;
there seemed to well up from his soul and overwhelm
him a world of mocking and sardonic irony. The Mole!
The Mole was the leader of the gang with which the
Pippin was allied; it was at the Mole's place that the
Pippin usually lived; it was at the Mole's place that the
police would first institute their search for the Pippin-
and five minutes ago, through Carruthers, he had un-
leashed the police! The Wowzer's face seemed to be
swirling around and around in front of him again. To
get away—and think! He could have groaned, cried out
aloud!


SILVER MAG
285
two from the priceless store, but it was the only way-
to risk it as Smarlinghue or Jimmie Dale, to risk recog-
nition, would be the act of a fool, for it would render
abortive the initial success, if, by any means, he could
succeed even to that extent. Thank God for the circum-
stances that, prior to this, had led him to duplicate
Larry the Bat's disreputable apparel; thank God for
the one chance of life-for her—that this afforded now.
The gas was out again, the room was in darkness.
Through the little French window, and hugged close
against the wall of the tenement, and through the loose
board in the fence that gave egress to the lane, Jimmie
Dale, as Larry the Bat now, slunk along. And then, in
the lane, he broke into a run. And now, an added peril
came-à glimpse of Larry the Bat by any of gang-
land's fraternity, man or woman, and it would be the
end! His position now was analogous to hers as Silver
Mag before she had been caught! There would be no
parley—it would be the end! But that was the chance
he took, the only chance there was for her.
But Jimmie Dale knew the East Side. By alleys and
lanes, through yards and over fences, Jimmie Dale made
his way along; and when forced into the open to cross a
street, it was a dark, ill-lighted section that was chosen,
and where for a short distance here and there he must
needs keep to the street he held deep in the shadows of
the buildings, crouching in doorways to avoid passers-by.
It took time—he dared not calculate how long. Car-
ruthers was not the man to let the grass grow under his
feet! Carruthers would probably, before leaving home,
have telephoned some Headquarters' man to meet him-
the detective would have telephoned Headquarters from
Melinoff's—and after that it would not take the police
long to reach the Mole's !
It took time, this tortuous threading of the East Side


286 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
- he did not know how long it had taken—but at last,
as he swung into a long, black, and very narrow alley-
way, he drew a quick breath of relief. So far, at least,
he was ahead of the police. It was still and silent,
there was no sound of any disturbance, and the Mole's
now was only a little way ahead. He stole forward
noiselessly. It was very quiet-much more quiet even
than usual in that far from savoury neighbourhood. He
remembered, with a grim smile of satisfaction, that the
Wowzer had explained there was to be no crowding for
front seats for fear of attracting the attention of the
police. It had been very thoughtful of the Mole to pass
that word around-very! With the underworld,
prompted by curiosity and seething with hate, swarming
here, the single chance he, Jimmie Dale, had of reach-
ing her would have been swept away. He paused now,
his lips set hard, crouched by the fence that separated
the Mole's backyard from the alleyway. His plan was
simple; but it depended for its ultimate success almost
entirely on his ability to secure an instant means of dis-
appearance for the Tocsin the moment she was outside
the Mole's walls. That he could find her, that he could
get her out of the house was another matter-he could
only trust to his wits and nerve in that respect. But if
he succeeded in that, then-he moved silently a little
further up the lane, crossed to the other side and halted
again, this time before the back door of a shed. In an
instant his picklock was at work; in another he had
opened the door a bare fraction of an inch. His lips
grew tighter, as he retraced his steps to the Mole's
fence. If that shed were ever needed at all, there would
not be time to fumble in the dark for knob or latch-
and there would be no necessity for that fumbling now !
From the shed there was a very sure' means of escape
across a small intervening yard, and out through an


SILVER MAG
287
areaway into the street, for the shed was one of the
many entrances to Foo Sen's, a place with which he
was very intimately acquainted—all this, of course, pro-
vided that, if the Tocsin were seen to enter the shed,
some one held the pursuers back long enough to afford
her time to reach the street.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, as he opened
a low gate in the fence silently and stepped through into
the yard beyond, leaving the gate open behind him. He
was not a fool, blinded to what probably lay ahead! He
could not hope to reach the Tocsin, much less effect her
rescue, without warning the inmates of this house that
loomed up before him now, without a fight with the
Mole and the Mole's gangsters. It was not likely that
he could reach the shelter of that shed, but the Tocsin
could, and, once inside, throwing away her cloak and
wig, “Silver Mag” would disappear, and after that there
was the Sanctuary, and then her own brave wits. There
came a queer twist to Jimmie Dale's lips, and then a
shrug of his shoulders again. It was not likely to be the
ending to the night that he had thought it might be
when sitting there in Bristol Bob's only a few short
hours ago!
Faint streaks of light through the interstices of a shut-
tered window showed just in front of him, as he stole
forward across the yard. Window or back door, it mat-
tered little to Jimmie Dale now, so that he could gain an
entry into the house unobserved. It was very quiet-
even ominously quiet—that impression came to him sud-
denly again. The quarter here was full of dives and
gambling hells and resorts frequented by the worst in
crimeland—but it seemed that the Mole's injunction had
been obeyed to the letter! It boded little good-for
her! Jimmie Dale's face, under the grime of Larry
the Bat's make-up, grew white and set, as he approached
entry into the houiet that impressios full of dives


288 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the window. God in Heaven, was he already too late!
The Mole, with his little tobacco shop in front as a blind,
and his rooms above rented to "lodgers,” thus housing
the gang of Apaches that worked under his leadership,
had had every opportunity, once the Tocsin was in his
power in there, of doing as he would. And then another
thought came flashing quick upon him. If they had gone
that far, if she were dead, they must have discovered
that under the cloak and the gray, straggling hair of
Silver Mag—was Marie LaSalle. He forced a grip of
iron upon himself, fighting mentally like a madman with
himself for his self-control. The night with every pass-
ing moment seemed yawning wider and wider before
him in a chasm that threatened ruin, and disaster, and
the wreckage of everything that in life was worth the
living, and—no! Not yet! The luck had turned! She
was there! Silver Mag was there! There! And safe
so far!
The window was shoulder high. He was peering in
through the blind. There was no light in the room it-
self, but a faint glow came in through the open door-
way of a lighted room beyond-enough to enable him to
make out a woman's form, the grizzled hair streaming
over the threadbare cloak, as she lay on a cheap cot
across the room, her face to the wall, her hands bound
together behind her back.
It was Jimmie Dale working with all the art he knew
now; and those slim, sensitive, wonderful fingers were
swift and silent as they had never been before. A steel
jimmy loosened the shutters, and they swung apart with-
out a sound. He could see better now—see, at least, that
she was alone in the room. He tapped softly on the
window pane. It was too dark to see her face, but he
saw her raise her head quickly, and then, evidently, quick
to meet an emergency as she always was, rise from the


SILVER MAG
289
cot and steal to the edge of the open door. He was
working at the window now. A fever of anxiety was
upon him—it seemed that his fingers stumbled, that they
had lost their cunning, that an eternity passed as she
stood there apparently on guard by the door, her bound
hands behind her back like some piteous appeal to him
to hurry—to hurry-and, in the name of all that life
meant to both of them, to make haste.
And now cautiously, inch by inch, he was raising
the window; and in another moment, in obedience to his
whisper, the bound wrists were thrust within his reach,
and he was severing the cords with his knife.
"Thank God!" breathed Jimmie Dale fervently.
"Now jump-across the yard—the door of Foo Sen's
shed—it's open-quick-
There came a sudden crash from the front of the
house, a sudden turmoil from within, a burst of shouts,
a chorus of yells. The police! And now another shout,
another burst of yells—from the rear—from the lane !
Jimmie Dale's lips were like a thin, straight line. She
was free from the house now, standing beside him here
in the darkness. He reached swiftly up and closed the
shutters—left open they invited immediate attention.
His mind was working in lightning flashes. The police
were at the front and rear, of course—they would not
raid the front and leave the rear unguarded! But why
the shouts out there in the lane-why had they not
rushed in at once-and why now that shot! It was fol-
lowed by another, and still another-and then a fusillade
of them, as though the shots were returned.
"Quick!” he whispered again, and led the way toward
the gate in the fence. The police would be pouring out
of the house from the back door in a minute—the only
chance was a dash for it. His mind was groping now,
bewildered. What did it mean? The police who had
the pobor in a mas gropingo had


SILVER MAG
291
upon the floor, and called her name over and over again.
"Marie! Marie! Marie!” he whispered frantically.
There was no answer—no movement. The strong,
steady hands shook, those marvellous fingers, usually so
deft and sure, faltered now as they loosened the cloak
and threw the hood back over the wig of tangled, mat-
ted hair. It was not the darkness alone that would not
let him see—there was a mist and a blur before his eyes.
And now he loosened the heavy wig itself to give her
relief—she would have no further need of that, for it
would not be as Silver Mag that she left here--if she
left here at all-no, no!-his mind seemed breaking-
she would leave here, she must-yes, yes, she was breath-
ing now—she was not dead-not dead!
He wrenched his flashlight from his pocket. To find
the wound and stop the flow of blood! The ray shot
out—there was a cry from Jimmie Dale—and like a man
distraught he reeled to his feet-and like a man dis-
traught stared at the upturned face, ghastly white under
the flashlight's glare.
It was the Pippin.
The wig of grizzled hair that he had unconsciously
been holding dropped from Jimmie Dale's hand, and his
hand went upward to his temple. Was he mad! Was
this joy, relief, rage or fury that, surging upon him,
was robbing him of his senses! The Pippin! How
could it be the Pippin! The cloak with its hood, and
the long, gray matted wig were very like Silver Mag's--
very like Silver Mag's! The Pippin! The Pippin !
one-time actor who had murdered old Melinoff, the old-
clothes dealer! No—he was not mad! Dimly, his mind
groping in the darkness, he began to see.
The Pippin's eyes opened.
"Who's there?” he demanded weakly.
that, she Pipp hood, and


292 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
Jimmie Dale, without a word, leaned forward, and
threw the ray of light upon his own face.
A queer smile Alickered across the Pippin's lips; his
voice, weak as it was, was debonair and careless.
"Well, we nearly got you, Larry—at that! You fell
for it, all right. Only—only some one”-his voice weak-
ened still farther—"must have spilled the beans—to the
-police.”
Jimmie Dale made no answer. His lips were thinned
and tight together. It was plain enough now. It had
been a plant to get him—to get Larry the Bat, who was
known to the underworld to be the Gray Seal-to get the
Gray Seal through an appeal to the Gray Seal's loyalty
toward his pal, Silver Mag! A plant, devilish enough in
its ingenuity-Silver Mag impersonated—the “news” of
her capture spread broadcast through the underworld
on the chance that it would reach the ears of Larry the
Bat, and tempt Larry the Bat into the open-as it had
done! He knew now why the Pippin had gone to Melin-
off's—old Melinoff's stock, more than any other dealer's,
would be the most likely to supply the Pippin with the
garments that, if not too closely inspected, would pass
muster for Silver Mag's. He knew now why the under-
world, believing what it had been told, had been warned
to keep away from the Mole's—he knew now that it
was because he was to have no inkling that he was walk-
ing into a baited trap.
He had torn the Pippin's clothing loose, found the
bullet hole in the left side, perilously near the heart, and
was striving now to staunch the other's wound. The
man had little call for mercy, but at least-
The Pippin pushed his hand away.
“It's no use," said the Pippin. "I'm—I'm done for.
But-but I don't understand. When you came to the
window, I went to the door and tipped them off that you
on the phure spread brous impersonated ilish enough in


SILVER MAG
293
were there, and the gang that was waiting started around
into the lane so that you wouldn't get any chance to make
a break that way. I—I don't understand. Where
where did the police come from?”
"I sent them—from Melinoff's,” said Jimmie Dale
grimly.
The Pippin came up on his elbow.
“You!" he gasped. “You—you know what happened
there—you were wise to everything all the time?"
"No," said Jimmie Dale. “I only knew you had mur-
dered Melinoff. You left one of your cuff links there."
"Did I?” said the Pippin. He sank back on the floor
again. "I didn't know it. It-it must have fallen out
of my shirt when I undressed. I came away wearing
women's things, and carrying my own clothes in a
bundle.” He laughed shortly, huskily. “That's what was
the matter with Melinoff. It was the old fool's own fault!
I didn't want to hurt him! He didn't understand at first
when I was pawing all his stuff over, but when he saw
me try the things on, and tumbled that I was-was going
to play Silver Mag, he said he wouldn't stand for it.
Ha, ha! Silver Mag!” The Pippin's voice had taken
on a queer mumbling note, and his mind seemed to be
functioning suddenly in a half-wandering way. “Some
rôle, Silver Mag! I was the star to-night! You remem-
ber Silver Mag—how she used to go around in the old
days and hand out the silver coins, never a bill, just coins,
to the families whose men were doing spaces up the river
in Sing Sing? She kept old Melinoff's wife going while
he was in limbo—that's what he said. I didn't want to
hurt the old fool, but he wouldn't keep his mouth shut.
Ha, ha! Silver Mag! It was some play on the boards
to-night! Clever brain, the Big Fellow's got! It wasn't
any good if Silver Mag and Larry the Bat were together,
but Silver Mag was seen buying a ticket and getting on a
r Mas out the men wervelinot, I di


SILVER MAG
295
It was that unseen hand of last night-only to-night the
challenge had been direct. Well, he would pick up the
gauntlet again-and at the same time, perhaps, add a
little "atmosphere” to Carruthers' scoop! From his
pocket came the thin, metal insignia case; and, lifting
it with the tiny tweezers, moistening the adhesive side
with his tongue, Jimmie Dale stooped down and fastened
a gray seal on the floor by the Pippin's side.
And then Jimmie Dale crept out of the shed toward
Foo Sen's, and crept into the dark areaway, and, as he
had come, by alleyways and lanes, and through yards,
and by ill-lighted, unfrequented streets, returned again
to the Sanctuary_alone.


CHAPTER XXII
THE TOCSIN'S STORY
as domihe undecht ha
TT was a whimsical movement, a whimsical trick of
1 Jimmie Dale's—that outward thrust of his hand that
he might study it in a curiously impersonal, yet merci-
lessly critical way. He laughed a little harshly, as he
allowed his hand to drop again to the arm of his chair.
No, there was no tremor there-mentally he might be
near the breaking point, his nerves raw and on edge;
but physically, outwardly, he gave no sign of the strain
that, cumulative in its anxiety, had increased hourly, it
seemed, in the three days that had passed since the night
he had so narrowly escaped the trap laid by that un-
known master criminal, whose cunning, power and
malignant genius was dominating and making itself felt
in every den and diye of the underworld, and for whom
the Pippin and the Mole that night had been but blind
tools, pawns moved at the will of this unseen, evil strate-
gist upon a chessboard of inhuman deviltry.
An evening newspaper lay open on the table. Jimmie
Dale's eyes fixed for an instant on a glaring headline,
then travelled slowly around the little room-one of the
St. James' Club's private writing rooms and came back
to the paper again. The failure of that night, the Pip-
pin's death, the stir and publicity, the stimulus given
to police activity, had, it seemed, in no way acted as a
deterrent upon the sinister ingenuity which, he made no
doubt, was likewise the author of the mysterious crime
296


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
297
that to-night was upon every tongue in the city—the
murder of one of New York's most prominent bankers
under almost incredible circumstances, and the coinci-
dent disappearance of a number of documents which
were vaguely hinted at as being of international impor-
tance and of priceless worth. The crime had been com-
mitted in broad daylight, in mid-afternoon, in the bank-
er's private office, and within call of the entire staff of
the bank. No one had been seen either to enter or leave
the office during an interval of some fifteen to twenty
minutes, previous to which time it had been established
by one of the staff that the banker was engaged in his
usual occupation at his desk, and at the expiration of
which he had been discovered by the cashier lying dead
upon the floor, his skull fractured by a blow that had
evidently been dealt him from behind, the desk in disorder
as though it had been hurriedly searched, and the papers,
known to have been in the banker's possession at that
time, gone.
Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his eyes in a
dazed way. No, of course, he did not know, he could
not actually know that it was the same guiding evil genius
at work here that had murdered both Forrester and old
Melinoff, but something beyond actual proof, a sense of
intuition, made of it a certainty in his own mind, at
least, which left no room for argument. There had been
viciously clever work here, as daring and crafty as it
was remorseless in its brutality, and—he laughed sud-
denly, harshly as before, and, rising abruptly from his
chair, stepped to the window, pushed aside the portières,
and stood staring down on Fifth Avenue, whose great,
wide, lighted thoroughfare seemed a curiously and in-
congruously lonely spot now in its evening quiet and
emptiness.
Suppose it was so! Granted that his intuition was in
Jimmie Da No, of coit was the shoth Forre
the wind and, Frisiand he


298 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
estraneous, of that it had suhen mind and and stumbled
no way astray! What did it matter? It was a thing
extraneous, of no personal significance to him! It was
even strange that it had succeeded in intruding itself
upon his thoughts at all, when mind and soul in these
last few days had fought and groped and stumbled
against the sickness of a fear that, growing upon him,
had blotted out all other things from his consciousness.
The Tocsin! Where was she? What had happened ?
Had she—no, he dared not let himself believe what a
brutal logic told him now he should believe. He would
not! He could not! And yet since that night when her
note had come, the note that had been so full of a glad
spontaneity, so full of victory "It is the beginning of the
end ... The way is clearing ... I am very happy to-
night, and I wanted to tell you so”-since that night
there had been no word from her.
No, that was not literally true. There had been word
from her; but, rather than having brought hope and re-
assurance to him, it had only increased his fear and
anxiety. That night, after a return to the Sanctuary,
where, in lieu of the character of Larry the Bat, he had
resumed his own personality again, he had hurried to his
home to await the expected word from her that would
tell him her success, which her note had indicated was to
be looked for at any moment, had been achieved. The
night, however, had brought forth nothing; but in the
morning, amongst the mail which old Jason, his butler,
had handed him, had been a letter from her. It had been
written evidently in leisure, and evidently prior to the
hurried little note that happiness, a surge of joy, a glad-
ness and a hope whose share she could not hold back
from him, had undoubtedly prompted her to write; it
had been born out of impulse, that note, an impulse due,
apparently, to a sudden turn in the brave fight she was
waging which seemed to place the final victory almost


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
299
within her grasp. The letter was not at all like that;
it struck a far sterner note—the possibility of defeat-
not in despair, not in a tone of failing courage, but as one
who, weighing the chances, was not blind to an opponent's
strength, but who, even in one's own defeat, still sought
to snatch final victory even after death.
Jimmie Dale turned from the window, sat down again
in his chair, and drew the letter from his pocket-and,
sitting there, the strong jaws clamped and locked, his
face drawn in rigid lines, the dark, steady eyes cold and
hard, read it again, as he had read it many times before
since Jason had handed it to him that morning several
days ago :
"Dear Philanthropic Crook: I wonder if I am writ-
ing those words for the last time? I believe I am. I
do not mean I am in such danger that I will never have
the opportunity again; but, rather, that I will never have
the need to do so. But to-night should tell. It is very
near the end-one way or the other-and I believe it is
my way. Oh, Jimmie, I pray God it is, and that to-
morrow-but I did not start this letter to you to talk
of that.
“Long ago-do you remember, Jimmie?-I wrote you
that I would not, could not bring you into the shadows
again for me, and that I must fight this out alone. It
must be that way, Jimmie; there is no other way, and
what I am about to say must not lead you to think tiat
I am hesitating now, or have changed my mind. It is
only this—that the game is not won until the last card
is played, and, while I am almost certain that I sce the
way now, there is still that last card to play. Do not
let us mince matters, Jimmie. If I fail, you know what
it means. But, in the bigger way, Jimmie, I can only
count for but very little in the balance. There is the
afterwards that is of far more moment—that justice,
swift and sure, should put an end to the depredations


500
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
and the menace to society that exists to-day in the person
of one of the cleverest and most conscienceless fiends
that ever plotted crime. Nor, in case you should have
to take up the work where I leave off, would you be
even then obliged to come into those shadows again.
It is very strange, Jimmie. It is almost like some grim,
terribly grim, ironical joke. Everything, all the power,
all the resources that this man possesses have been used
against me in the last few months, because he knows
that unless he accomplishes my death he must remain in
hiding just as he has forced me into hiding; and yet
at the same time—and this he does not know, because he
does not know that he is known to you, and that you, as
Jimmie Dale, a man whose position and prominence
would carry conviction with every word you might say,
are in a position to testify against him—with my death
he automatically accomplishes his own destruction. And
so you see, Jimmie, in one sense at least, I cannot fail !
No, I do not mean to speak lightly-I-I have as much
as you, Jimmie—to live for.
“Listen, then! We knew, you and I, that while both
my supposed uncle and the head of the Crime Club were
killed that night of the old Sanctuary fire, and that the
greater number, almost all in fact, of the members of
the band were caught by the police, that a few of them
still evaded the trap and escaped. But we believed these
were so few in number and were so thoroughly disorgan-
ised that nothing more was to be feared from them. And
this in a very great measure is true; but it is not alto-
gether true. No, I am not going to tell you that the
Crime Club rose from its ashes and is in operation again;
but one of the men who escaped that night, one of the
Club's leaders, possessed evidently of the secret as to
where the Club's surplus funds were hidden, is the man
who, through a lavish use of those funds, is operating
now through the underworld, who is responsible for
Forrester's murder, and is the man who through all these
months has sought to reach me. I referred to him as
‘one of the leaders'- I believe him now to have been the


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
301
most dangerous of them all. You know him as–Clarke.
Do you remember, Jimmie ? He was the man who so
cleverly impersonated Travers as the chauffeur, after
they had killed Travers. He was the man who was at
the house that night when Travers first learned that my
father and my uncle had been murdered, and that the
same fate was in store for me. I told you that from
where he sat in the room that night I could not see his
face, that Travers told me who he was—but, apart from
not being able to recognise him on that particular
occasion, I knew him well, for he had been a frequent
visitor to the house even prior to my father's death, and
subsequently in company with Travers as one who ap-
peared to have struck up an intimacy with my supposed
uncle.
"The day after the Crime Club was raided by the
police, you will remember that Clarke not being amongst
those caught, I gave the authorities what particulars i
could in reference to the man. But nothing came of it.
A description and the name of 'Clarke' was little enough
to work on. The man had disappeared. Time passed,
and I supposed, as no doubt you, as well, supposed, that
Clarke had made good his escape, that he was probably
well content with such good fortune, and that nothing
more, if he could help it, would ever be heard of him.
Jimmie, I was wrong. Within a month a series of nar-
row escapes from accidents, any one of which might
easily have accomplished my death, seemed to follow me
persistently. I will not take the time now to enumerate
them all—they were so commonplace, so liable to happen
to any one, such for instance as escaping by a hair's-
breadth from being run down by a speeding car swerving
around the corner as I started to cross the street, or again
by an iron tackle falling from a scaffolding where work
was in progress on the building in which, pending the
remodelling of my own house, as you know, I had taken
an apartment, that at first I attached no ulterior signifi-
cance to them. But finally, as they persisted, I became
convinced that they were deliberate and premeditated


302
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
attempts upon my life. I said nothing to you, as I did
not wish to alarm you. And then one night Clarke
showed himself.
“Do you remember the colourless liquid, the poison
instantaneous in its action and defying detection by
autopsy, which was so favourite a method of murder
with the Crime Club? I had expected to be out for the
evening, and had given the maids permission to go out
together. It was about halfpast eight when I left the
apartment. I had only gone a few blocks when I returned
for something I had forgotten. I was in my bedroom
when I heard the hall door open stealthily. I switched
off the bedroom light instantly, and slipped into the
clothes closet, leaving the door just ajar. I knew, of
course, that if it were another attack directed against me,
it was one that was prearranged and that was being made
on the presumption that I was out and that the apartment
was empty. There was silence for a moment or two,
then a step crossed the threshold of the bedroom, and
the light went on. It was Clarke. There was a little
night table beside the bed on which my maid, before she
had gone out, had placed as usual a carafe of ice water
and a small tray of biscuits. Clarke was evidently very
well acquainted with this fact. He stepped at once to
the table, took a vial from his pocket, poured the con-
tents into the carafemand the next instant the room was
in darkness again, and Clarke was gone. I acted as
quickly as I could. I dared not move or give any sign
of my presence until he was out of the apartment, for I
would have accomplished nothing except my death. But
the minute the outer door closed I picked up the telephone
to communicate with the vestibule. It was a ground-
floor apartment, as you know. The one chance was to
have the hall porter intercept Clarke in the vestibule.
As a matter of fact, the telephone was not answered
for fully a minute or so—too late, of course! Clarke
had vanished. The boy at the telephone desk said he


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
303
had been brily that nighthoped to sa
had been busy with another call. That is all, Jimmie.
I saw clearly that night that there was only one thing
left for me to do if I hoped to save my life, and that
was to fight Clarke with his own weapons. And so I
wrote you; and you know now why Marie LaSalle ‘left
the city for an extended trip,' as her bankers informed
you, and why during all these months I have 'disap-
peared.'
"I come now to the last thing I have to say—the
reason for writing this letter. My death was essential
to Clarke, because he believed that I was the only one
who could positively identify him as 'Clarke,' and that,
therefore, as long as I lived he could not resume his own
identity and personal freedom of action for fear that I
might, even if only through inadvertence, recognise him.
He could take no chances. But I believe I have beaten
Clarke. I have discovered that 'Clarke' is in reality Peter
Marre, the shyster lawyer, better known among his clien-
tele as Wizard Marre. But Marre, too, has disappeared
you understand, Jimmie? And now, hidden, under cover,
never showing himself personally, 'Clarke' is working,
not only to reach me, but to further all his other schemes,
through some agency without appearing himself either
as Marre or as 'Clarke.' I believe it is only a matter
of a few hours now before I shall either have got to the
bottom of who and what this agency is, or else-again
do not let us mince matters, Jimmie-Clarke' will have
been too much for me. And in that latter case is found
the whole object of this letter. Once I am removed
from his path, and believing that no one else could, or
would, link 'Clarke' and Peter Marre together, he will
naturally resume the freedom of his former life, and
Peter Marre will appear again in his old-time sur-
roundings, a Peter Marre unhampered by fear of
discovery, and therefore a Peter Marre a hundredfold
more dangerous than ever before. And so, Jimmie, if
that should happen, you have simply to get this infor-
mation into the hands of the police without appearing
yourself, say, through the agency of the Gray Seal-


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
305
physical pain. For these three days now he had fought
with mind and body and soul against the one conclusion
that was tenable—the conclusion which to-night, robbing
him of every hope in life, bringing a grief and anguish
greater than he could bear, cold logic was finally forcing
him to accept. She would have known the torment of
anxiety in which he lived, and if her plans had only been
delayed or checked, if it had been no more than that, she
would surely have communicated with him and allayed
his fears.
A low sound, a moan of bitter pain, came from Jimmie
Dale's lips. Logic had won at last, and was triumphant
in the blackest hour that had ever come into his life.
The one glimmer of hope to which, as time went on and
one by one other hopes had vanished, he had still clung
tenaciously, had surrendered, too, and gone down before
the face of that brutal logic that weighed neither human
agony nor suffering in its remorseless conclusions.
Clarke, it was true, had not yet resumed his former life
as Peter Marre—but he, Jimmie Dale, was forced to
admit now that that meant little or nothing. A thousand
and one reasons might account for Clarke postponing his
re-entry into his old life—that the man had allowed three
days to pass proved nothing.
Marre! Peter Marre! Wizard Marre! A smile that
held no mirth hovered for an instant over Jimmie Dale's
lips. Yes, he knew Marre, Marre of the underworld,
well! The man was brilliant, clever—and possessed of a
devil's soul! Also Marre, as certainly no other man had
ever held it, held the confidence of crimeland—and crime-
land had supplied the tricky lawyer with his clientele.
And so Marre was “Clarke," one of the leaders of the
old Crime Club! Jimmie Dale's smile disappeared, and
his lips drew straight and tight together. It was quite
easily understood now. The returns in a financial sense


306 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
from such a clientele, large even as they perhaps might
be, were meagre and pitiful in comparison with the huge
sums which, in one way and another, the Crime Club
would have acquired; but the returns in another sense
had been vast and of incalculable value, not only to
Clarke, but to the Crime Club as well. Clarke's power
in the underworld as Marre had reached the height where
the underworld itself eulogised that power by bestowing
on the man the “moniker” of Wizard, investing him, as
it were, with a title and a peerage in that inglorious realm.
And this power, supplying a foreknowledge of events
through intimacy with those whispered secrets in the
innermost circles of the citizenry of crimeland, must have
been of immeasurable worth. And now Clarke, hidden
away somewhere, acting, it appeared, through some un-
known agency and go-between, was utilising that power
with deadly cunning and effect-not only against the
Tocsin, but against society at large, as witness the murder
of Forrester of a few days ago, and presumably the
murder of Jathan Lane, the banker, not longer ago than
this afternoon.
Jimmie Dale shook his head suddenly. Acting through
some unknown agency? The Tocsin had not said that.
Indeed, if she had been as near to the final move in this
battle of wits which she had been playing for months, as
her letter indicated, she must have known by now who
and what and where that agency was. And he could
see plainly enough why she had kept her own counsel
in that respect. It was through her great, unselfish love
for him that she had intentionally refrained from giving
him any clue that would enable him to find his way
into the danger zone which she reserved for herself
alone. Yes, he understood that-but it only made what
he feared now the harder to bear. She had been right, of
course, in her conclusion as to what he would have done


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
307
had she given him the opportunity! It was the one thing
he had been fighting for, struggling for, battling for all
these months, that clue—and she had told him only that
“Clarke" was behind it all, and that “Clarke” was Peter
Marre. And it had served him little! As though the
earth had opened and swallowed the man and his alias
up, there was neither trace nor sign of Peter Marre.
He knew that well! He had not been idle since that
letter came! He had instantly seized upon what he had
hoped would prove the clue that he could follow to the
heart of the web-and the clue had led him nowhere.
Marre, like the Tocsin, was somewhere "on a trip.”
Marre's office was not closed. A year ago Marre had
taken in with him as partner a young lawyer by the name
of Cleaver, who lacked only, through experience, the
same degree of dishonest finesse and cunning possessed
by Marre himself-a defect which Marre had doubtless
counted on speedily rectifying under his own unholy
tutelage! Cleaver was carrying on the business. To
all inquiries Cleaver's replies had been the same-Mr.
Marre, through overwerk, had been obliged to take a
rest; he did not know where Mr. Marre was other than
that Mr. Marre was making an extended tour through
the Orient, nor did he know when Mr. Marre might be
expected to return; Mr. Marre, purposely, in order that
he might escape all thought and care of business, and
to preclude the possibility of anything of that nature
reaching him, had refrained from giving the office any
specific address. But he, Jimmie Dale, had not been
content with inquiries alone in those last few days
though the result here again had been nothing. He was
satisfied only that, in so far as the main issue was con-
cerned, Cleaver was not in Marre's confidence, and
that Cleaver not only did not know Marre's exact where-


308 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
abouts, but believed, as he had said, that Marre was
travelling somewhere in the Orient.
Jimmie Dale drew his hand heavily again across his
forehead. It seemed as though the very act of sitting
here was a traitorous act to her, that even in this mo-
mentary inaction he had cause for bitter self-reproach
and even for contempt—and yet he could see no way now
to take. In the last three days, as Smarlinghue, as Jim-
mie Dale, yes, even as Larry the Bat again, working with
feverish intensity, with almost sleepless continuity, he
had exhausted every means and effort within his power
of running Marre, alias Clarke, to earth. There seemed
nothing now left to do but to wait until Marre should re-
sume his own identity; nothing left but the promise of a
vengeance that—again Jimmie Dale laughed harshly, and,
as the laugh died away, a smile took its place on the
thinned lips that was not good to see. Yes, she was right
in that; he knew Marre—he knew Marre, with his thin,
cruel face, his black, sleepy eyes; his suave, ingratiating
manner that hid under its veneer a devil's treachery!
Nor, well as he knew the man, was it strange that he
had not known Clarke as Peter Marre, for he had
seen Clarke only once that night in the long ago, in
Spider Jack's when the man, with consummate art, a
master of disguise, had impersonated Travers, the dead
chauffeur, and had succeeded in fooling even Spider
Jack himself. But he, Jimmie Dale, knew now. Yes,
she had been right—a whiteness came and gathered on
his lips—in that sense she could not fail, Marre at least
would pay! But perhaps not quite as she suggested,
perhaps not quite by the simple act of a denunciation to
the police, perhaps not quite in so simple a way as that,
for, after all-his hand clenched over the sheets of her let-
ter—though it would be easy enough to establish Marre's
alias now that the alias was known, there might be an-
Spider Jackisguise, had imped in for


THE TOCSIN'S STORY
309
another way in which Marre would answer, a more inti-
mate way, a more personal way! Not murder—the skin
was ivory white across his knuckles-not murder,
but-
Jimmie Dale was quietly folding the sheets of paper
in his hand. Some one was knocking at the door.
"Come in!” said Jimmie Dale—and slipped the letter
back into his pocket, as the door opened.
It was one of the club's attendants.
"I beg pardon, Mr. Dale, sir," said the man; “but there
is a 'phone call for you." He glanced toward the tele-
phone on the table. “I was not sure just where you were,
sir. Shall I ask them to connect you here?”
"Thank you!” said Jimmie pleasantly. “Very good,
Masters. No-I'll attend to it myself.”
The man withdrew, and closed the door again. Jim,
mie Dale rose from his chair, and, stepping to the table,
picked up the instrument.
“There is a call for me, I believe," he said. “This is
Mr. Dale."
There was a moment's silence, then Jimmie Dale spoke
again.
“Yes-hello!” he said. “Yes, this is Mr. Dale.
What- "
The room seemed suddenly to swirl about him—the
hand so steady a few moments ago was trembling pal-
pably now as it held the instrument. Her voice? No
he was mad! It was his brain, overwrought, strained,
not to the breaking point, but beyond, that had broken at
last, and was mocking at him now in some cruel phan-
tasy. Her voice? No, it could not be, for shemfor she
was-
"Jimmie! Jimmie!”—the voice came hurriedly again,
almost frantically this time. “Jimmie—are you there?”
"You!" His lips were dry, he moistened them with his


HUNCHBACK JOE
313
spitefully, illuminated the room with a wavering meagre
yellow flame.
Under the light, Jimmie Dale unfolded the paper, his
face hardening suddenly. It was not like any note she
had ever written him before-there was no white envel-
ope here, no paper of fine and delicate texture, no ink-
written message carefully penned; instead, evidence
enough of her desperate haste, the desperate circum-
stances probably under which she had written it, the mes-
sage was on a torn piece of brown wrapping paper, and
the words, in pencil, were scrawled in hurried, broken
sentences. And standing there, fighting for a grip upon
himself, Jimmie Dale read the message-almost illegible
in places and then, as though a strange incredulity, a
strange inability to grasp and understand its import fully,
were prompting him, he read it again, murmuring
snatches of it aloud.
“... I did not mean to bring you into the shadows
.. but there is another life, not mine, at stake ... I
have no right to do anything else ... if I intervened,
or gave warning, the evidence that will convict Clarke's
agent, and will convict Clarke through the agent, is lost
.. that is why, in spite of all, I am writing this ... do
you understand? ... for three nights he disappeared,
and somehow, I do not yet know how, evaded me in
the daytime ... no trace, just as I believed I had the
man through whom Clarke is working trapped ...
dared not take the chance of giving up watch for an
instant ... did not know about this afternoon until an
hour ago ... too late . . . Jathan Lane's murder at the
bank . .. Klanner, the janitor of the bank ... very
fair hair, scar on left cheek bone . . . worked at night
... under passage from private office . . . blackjack
with which murder was done, document and money in
Klanner's room ... unmarried . . . lives in rear room,
Farst floor of tenement at ... you must get the evidence


HUNCHBACK JOE
315
He glanced quickly around him. Would it be as
Smarlinghue to-night? He shook his head. No, if it
were really the end, if he won through to-night, this
would be the last time he would ever stand here in the
Sanctuary, and to leave the clothes of Jimmie Dale here,
even in so secure a hiding place as behind that movable
section of the base-board, would impose upon him the
necessity of returning—was but to hamper himself, and,
indeed, as likely as not, if hard pressed, to court disaster.
His glance, strangely whimsical, strangely wistful now,
travelled again over the room. If it was the end to-night,
this was his good-by to Smarlinghue, to Larry the Bat-
and the Gray Seal. This was his exit from the sordid
stage of the underworld-forever. Yes, in time, sus-
picious of Smarlinghue's continued absence, they would
investigate and search the Sanctuary here; they might
even discover that hiding place in the wall—but what did
it matter? They would find only the trappings of a
character that had passed out of existence; and out of
that fact the police and the underworld would be privi-
leged to make what capital they could! No, it would
not be as Smarlinghue that he would work to-night-he
was well enough as he was. He had not worn evening
clothes since that letter came, for the nights had been
spent in constant toil, and the dark suit of tweeds he wore
now was not conspicuous. Nor need he even have re-
course to that hiding place again-what he required was
already in his pockets—for days now, in whatever rôle he
had played, he had been prepared for any emergency.
Jimmie Dale looked at his watch it was ten minutes
after nine-and, reaching up, turned out the light. A
minute more and the French window was silently opened
and closed again, and Jimmie Dale was once more on the
street. Here, walking quickly, but keeping to the less
frequented streets, he headed deeper into the East Side.


HUNCHBACK JOE
317
the bank's president in the latter's private office. Clarke
had therefore chosen the line of least resistance—the
bank president's office! And that accounted, he, Jimmie
Dale, understood now, for the sudden failure of the Toc-
sin's plans three nights ago, since it accounted evidently
for the sudden disappearance of Hunchback Joe, which
had checkmated her on that night and on subsequent
nights—for it had taken those three nights to perfect their
plans in the bank, and the work there had evidently been
done under the personal supervision of Hunchback Joe.
The plan's cleverness and cunning lay in its devilish
simplicity-it required only long, painstaking and labo
rious preparation. There were, according to the news-
papers, two entrances to the banker's private office; the
customers' entrance from the main rotunda of the bank,
and a rear entrance leading in behind the cages to the
working quarters of the staff, which was separated from
the general offices by a short, narrow, enclosed passage
with a second door at the extreme end. The president's
office, as befitted his position, was richly furnished, and
the passage, being in reality but an adjunct to the office
itself, had not been overlooked-it was carpeted with a
long Persian rug. That portion of the basement directly
beneath the president's office and the passage had been
partitioned off into a storeroom for old files and books,
and was consequently rarely visited. For the rest, the
method was fairly obvious. The storeroom was ceiled
in with wood, which, when carefully cut away, could be
replaced during the daytime, and so hide all traces of
what was going on should any one enter the place. It
required, then, simply a certain number of nights' work-
and it had taken three. An opening had been cut through
the flooring into the passage, and the surface flooring of
the passage over the aperture refitted into place, so that,


318 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
covered by the rug, there was no indication that anything
was wrong.
The minor details the Tocsin had passed over-but to
supply them required but little effort of the imagination.
The president customarily devoted a certain amount of
time each afternoon to the matter in question, and im-
mediately on his return from lunch always took the
papers from the vault and carried them to his private
office. It became, then, simply necessary that the man,
or men, hiding in the basement should know when the
president was alone; but this would hardly be a very
difficult matter, for, with nothing but the upper skin of
the flooring left, one had only to post himself in the open-
ing and he could hear as well, almost, as though he were
in the private office itself. The entrance could then be
effected in the security of the little passage; the rear door
of the passage would be silently locked against interrup-
tion; the door leading into the president's office, where
the president sat with his back to the door, would be
silently opened—then a quick leap, soundless on the heavy
carpet—the blow of a blackjack-the limp body caught
and lowered to the floor-the documents secured-the
escape.
The escape! Jimmie Dale had turned suddenly into
a pitch-black areaway, and, cautiously now, was making
his way to the rear of a three-story tenement of the
poorer class. The escape had naturally been accom-
plished in exactly the same way—the rear door unlocked
again to obviate any immediate attention being paid to
the passage—the murderer lowering himself through the
aperture, and, as he replaced the flooring, manipulating
the rug so that it would drop innocently back into place-
and the exit from the basement would of course already
have been provided for. Jimmie Dale's face was hard.
The newspapers, going to press almost at the moment the


320 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the underworld in general had but an extremely super-
ficial acquaintance with Hunchback Joe; that Hunchback
Joe's minor depredations against the law were but a
cloak to—the mental soliloquy ended abruptly. Jimmie
Dale drew suddenly back from the door, and, retreating
along the wall of the building, crouched down in the
darkness beneath the window. What was that? It came
again—a step, stealthy, cautious, from the areaway-
and now another step—there were two men there.
The picklock was back in his pocket, and, in its place,
his fingers closed around the stock of his automatic. A
shadow showed around the corner of the building, a
queer, twisted, misshapen shadow-it was followed by
another. Jimmie Dale drew in his breath softly. Hunch-
back Joe! He had rather expected that the man would
already have come and gone, that this initial act of the
brutal drama staged for the night's work would already
have been performed. Well, it did not matter! There
was still time-time to wait while Hunchback Joe did
his work here, time in turn to do his own and still reach
Baldy Jack's before ten o'clock.
From somewhere in the distance came the roar and
rattle of an elevated train; from a neighbouring tene-
ment came the strains of a wheezy phonograph. The
figures were at the rear door of the tenement now. A
minute passed; the door opened, closed, the two figures
had disappeared—and then, in a flash, Jimmie Dale had
straightened up, and a steel jimmy was working with
deft, silent speed at the window sash. He had the time
it would take Hunchback Joe to reach and open Klan-
ner's door from the hall inside—no more. And if he
could watch Hunchback Joe at work it would simplify
to a very large extent his own task when Hunchback Joe
was through; there would be no necessity for a search,
and-ah! The window gave. He raised it noiselessly,


HUNCHBACK JOE
321
reached inside and pulled down the roller shade to within
an inch of the sill, and pulled the window down again to
a little below the level of the shade. The opening left
was unnoticeable—but he could now both see and hear.
There came a faint sound from within-the creak of a
slowly opening door, a step across the floor, then the
flare of a match, and the light in the room went on.
Jimmie Dale was drawn back now against the wall at
one corner of the window, his eyes on a level with the
sill. He had made no mistake about that misshapen,
twisted shadow-it was Hunchback Joe. Jimmie Dale's
eyes travelled to the hunchback's companion-and nar-
rowed as he recognised the other. The man was well
enough known in the underworld, a hanger-on for the
most part, a confirmed hop-fighter, though when not under
the influence of the drug he was counted one of the cley-
erest second-story workers and lock-pickers in the Bad
Lands-Hoppy Meggs, they called him. Again Jimmie
Dale's eyes shifted-to Hunchback Joe once more. Like
some abnormal and repulsive toad the man looked. His
shoulders were thrust upward until they seemed to merge
with the head itself, the body was crooked and bent for-
ward, due to the ugly deformity of the man's back, while
the face was carried at an upward tilt, as though tardily to
rectify the curvature of the spine, and out of the sinister,
bearded face, the beard tawny and ill-kempt, little black
eyes from under protruding brows blinked ceaselessly.
A sudden fury, an anger hot and passionate seized
upon Jimmie Dale; and there came an impulse' almost
overpowering to play another rôle, a deadlier, grimmer
rôle than that of spectator! A toad, he had called the
man. He was wrong—the man was a devil in human
guise. He crushed back the impulse, a cold smile on his
lips. He could afford to wait! It was not time yet.
There was still the game to play out. He would have an


HUNCHBACK JOE
323
that way they won't change any of the plans or details as
they stand now in those papersmeh? And meanwhile a
copy is just as good to the man who is coughing up to you
and me and the rest of us for this, isn't it?”
“My Gawd!” said Hoppy Meggs in fervent admiration,
as he locked the trunk.
“Yes," said Hunchback Joe and the snarl was back
in his voice. “And now you see to it that you've got the
rest of what you've got to do straight. It won't pay
you to make any mistakes! Let the Mole's crowd start
something before you pull the lights-it's got to look like
a drunken row where the bystander, with nobody but
himself to blame for being in such a place as that, acci-
dentally gets his! And you tip the Kid off again to
leave Klanner by his lonesome at the table before the
trouble starts, or he'll get in bad himself. The Kid can
pull a fake play to make up with some moll across the
room. Klanner's no friend of his, he never saw the man
before you understand ?-just ran into him outside the
dance hall, if any questions are asked. But I don't want
any questions, and there won't be any if he plays his
hand right. Tell him I said his job's over once he has
Klanner inside—and to stand from under. Get me?"
"Sure!” said Hoppy Meggs.
"Well, we'll beat it, then," snapped Hunchback Joe.
The room was in darkness again. Jimmie Dale
crouched further back along the wall. The rear door
opened, two shadows emerged, passed around the cor-
ner of the tenement—and disappeared.
The minutes passed, five of them, and then Jimmie
Dale, too, was making his way softly along the areaway
to the street—but in Jimmie Dale's pockets were the short
leaden blackjack, ugly for the stain on its leathern cover-
ing, the packet of papers, and the roll of banknotes that
had been in Klanner's trunk. He gained the street,
hos, the packet of sly for the stain pockets were the s


HUNCHBACK JOE
325
Klanner would be shot and killed. The rest was obvious.
The man's effects would naturally be examined, and the
evidence of his "guilt" found in his trunk. It was an
open and shut game against a dead man! Even his pre-
vious good record would smash on the rock of a pre-
sumed double life. The fact that Klanner had volun-
tarily been in a place like Baldy Jack's was damning in
itself!
Jimmie Dale, approaching the garishly lighted exterior
of the dance hall now, lit a cigarette. The plan, if suc-
cessful, placed the guilt without question or cavil upon
Klanner, but that was not all-strong as that motive
might be, Clarke had had still another in view, and one
that perhaps took precedence over the first. Hunchback
Joe had defined it clearly enough. The documents would
have been valueless to Clarke, either to sell, or to put
to any use himself, if the plans and arrangements they
contained were subsequently altered or changed. But it
was obvious that a man in Klanner's station could have
no personal interest in them; it was obvious, as evidenced
by the money, that he was working for some one else, and
therefore the documents appearing in his trunk would
logically appear to have been recovered before he had
been able to hand them over to his principal, and before
any vital harm had been done that would necessitate any
change in the details they contained.
Jimmie Dale pushed the door of the dance hall open,
and stepped nonchalantly inside. It was the usual scene,
there was the usual hilarious uproar, the usual close,
almost fetid atmosphere that mingled the odours of stale
beer and tobacco. Baldy Jack's was always popular, and
the place, even for that early hour, was already doing a
thriving business. Jimmie Dale's eyes, from a dozen
couples swirling in the throes of the bunny-hug on the
polished section of the floor in the centre of the hall,
es of theves, fready doing


326 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
strayed over the little tables that were ranged three and
four deep around the walls. At the upper end of the
room a man, fair-haired and neatly dressed, though his
clothes were evidently not those of one in over-affluent
circumstances, sat alone at one of the tables. It might,
or might not, be Klanner. Jimmie Dale strolled forward
up the hall, and, as though deliberating over his selec-
tion of a seat, paused by the table. The man looked up.
There was a long, jagged scar on the other's right cheek
bone. It was Klanner. Jimmie Dale pulled out a chair
at a vacant table directly behind the other, and sat down.
A waiter, in beer-spotted apron and balancing a dripping
tray, came for his order.
“Suds !” said Jimmie Dale laconically.
Again Jimmie Dale's eyes made a circuit of the place,
failed to identify the person of one Kid Greer, and, giv.
ing up the attempt, rested speculatively instead on Klan.
ner's back. Yes, he could quite fully understand why
the Tocsin could not have warned Klanner to beware,
for instance, of Kid Greer. Such a warning, apart from
keeping Hunchback Joe from planting the evidence,
would even have defeated its own end-for, even to save
Klanner, the game had to be played out as Hunchback
Joe had planned it. They meant to "get" Klanner, and
if not here at Baldy Jack's, then somewhere else. She
knew what they meant to do here—she might not know
when, or how, or where they would make the attempt if
they had been forced to change their plans.
Jimmie Dale tossed a coin on the table, as the waiter
set down a glass of beer in front of him—and then, over
the top of the glass, Jimmie Dale resumed his scrutiny of
the hall. Directly behind him was a back entrance that
opened on a lane at the rear of the building; and between
himself and the entrance was only one table, which was
unoccupied. Jimmie Dale, playing with his match box,


HUNCHBACK JOE
327
as he lighted another cigarette, dropped the box, stooped
to pick it up-and drew his chair unostentatiously nearer
to Klanner.
It was ten o'clock now, time that-yes, the game was
on now! A man, that he recognised as one of the
Mole's gunmen, had dropped into a seat a couple of
tables away from Klanner, where there was a clear space
between the two men. There was a sudden jostling
among the dancers on the floor—then an oath, rising high
mine the women andere was
above the riot of talk and laughter-a swirl of figures--
a medley of shouts and women's screams, drowning out
the squeak of the musicians' violins and the thump of
the tinny piano.
Jimmie Dale's jaws locked hard together. There was
a struggling, furious mob at the lower end of the hall-
but his eyes now never left the gunman two tables away.
Klanner, in dazed amazement, had half risen from his
seat, as though uncertain what to do. The screams,
shouts, oaths and yells grew louder-came the roar of a
revolver shot--another-pandemonium was reigning now.
It seemed an hour, a great period of time since the first
shout had rung through the hall—it had been but a mat-
ter of seconds. Jimmie Dale was crouched a little for-
ward in his chair now, tense, motionless. What was
holding Hoppy Meggs! This was Hoppy Meggs' cue,
wasn't it?—those shots there, aimed at the floor, had only
been to create the panic—there was to be another shot
that
The hall was in sudden darkness. With a spring,
quick on the instant, Jimmie Dale was upon Klanner's
back, hurling the man to the floor. The tongue-flame of
a revolver split the black over his head; there was the
deafening roar of a revolver shot almost in his ears that
blotted out for an instant all other sounds—and then
came the shouts and cries again in an access of terror


HUNCHBACK JOE
329
of plzes," said Klann Jimmie Dale quon't risk rec
night-if all went well-it did not matter, for Klanner
then would be no longer a factor to Clarke or Hunchback
Joe!
"It means," said Jimmie Dale gravely, “that there's
been some sort of a gangster's fight pulled off, and that
probably there's been dirty work-murder-in there.
The police will go the limit to round up everybody they
can find who was in Baldy Jack's. There's only one
thing to do-keep your mouth shut and lie low to-night.
You can't take any chances of getting into this—you look
like a man who's got a decent job he doesn't want to
lose, and you don't look like a man who is entitled to be
saddled with a reputation for hanging around that sort
of place. Do you live near here?”
“Yes,” said Klanner, a little dully.
"Well then,” said Jimmie Dale quietly, "get out of this
neighbourhood for the night. Don't risk recognition
while the chase is hot. Go uptown somewhere to any
hotel you like, and stay there in your room. You can go
to work just as well from there in the morning. Got any
money?"
“Yes,” said Klanner slowly. "Yes, I got some money
-and I guess you're right. Say, who are you anyway?
You seem to have a line on this sort of thing, and I
guess I owe you a whole skin. If you hadn't- "
"I'm a man in a hurry,” said Jimmie Dale whimsically
-and then the grim note crept back into his voice. "I
am giving you a straight tip. Take it-and take that
street car that's coming along there.” He held out his
hand.
"Sure !” said Klanner. "And I ”
"Good-night,” said Jimmie Dale, and started abruptly
across the street, entering the lane on the other side again
-but here, in the shadows, he paused for a moment,
watching until Klanner boarded the uptown car.


CHAPTER XXIV
AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE
TWENTY minutes later, well along the East River
1 front, in an unsavoury and deserted neighbourhood,
Jimmie Dale was crouched before the door of a small
building that seemed built half on the shore edge, and
half on an old and run-down pier that extended out into
the water. The building itself was little more than a
storage shed, and originally had probably laid claims to
nothing more pretentious-to-day it served as warehouse
and office for Hunchback Joe's "business," and, above,
for. Hunchback Joe's living quarters. Jimmie Dale
glanced around him sharply-not for the first time.
There were no other buildings in his immediate vicinity,
and such as could be seen loomed up only as black,
shadowy, distant shapes—warehouses and small factories,
for the most part, and empty and deserted now at night.
It was intensely black-only a twinkling light here and
there from a passing craft on the river, and the glow
from thousands of street lamps that, like some strange
aerial illumination, hovered over the opposite shore.
The shed itself, windowless at least in front, was as
silent, as deserted, and as black as all around it.
Jimmie Dale's hand stole into his pocket, produced a
black silk mask, adjusted the mask over his face and
then the deft, slim fingers were at work with a little steel
instrument on the door lock. A moment more, and the
door swung silently inward, slowly, inch by inch. He
listened intently. There was no sound. He stepped in-
ently inwardlyA moment to a little st
330


332
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
the other had not yet returned, would be back here, and,
in all probability, long before midnight. Midnight!
Why had the Tocsin set midnight, waited for midnight
as the hour for the Secret Service raid? Did she have
a hidden purpose in that? Was it possible she knew that
some one beside Hunchback Joe would also be here at
that hour-that Clarke might be here, too! Well, why
not! There might well be need for a conference be-
tween Clarke and his unholy chief of staff! There
might~Jimmie Dale frowned savagely. His mind was
running riot! He had not come here to speculate on
possibilities; for, whatever might happen, there was
definite and instant work to do.
The white ray of the flashlight played steadily now
around him. The place evidently served as the office;
it was partitioned off again in exactly the same manner
from the rear of the shed, making an oblong enclosure
the width of the shed one way, and a good fifteen feet
the other. It was electric-lighted, and contained a bat-
tered table in lieu of desk, upon which stood the tele-
phone; there were several chairs, and a safe, whose
scratched, marred, and apparently ramshackle exterior
did not disguise from Jimmie Dale the fact that it was of
the finest and most modern make.
A rough, wooden stairway led above. Jimmie Dale
mounted this, found that it gave on a crudely furnished,
attic-like bedroom, and then descending again, he opened
the rear door of the partition, and flashed his light around
the back of the shed. There were a few packing cases
here—that was all. The shed was evidently built out
to the extreme end of the pier, judging from its depth;
and there had been side doors, but these were boarded
up and bore evidence of having been long out of use-
and there were no windows.
Jimmie Dale returned now to the front of the shed.


AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE 333
"Under the sail-cloth in left corner,” she had written.
Yes, here it was! He stooped down, a twisted smile on
his lips, and, taking from his pocket the packet of papers
and the blackjack, tucked them under several folds of
the cloth. “Unto Cæsar!" she had said. Well, he had
rendered back to "Cæsar" the things that were “Cæsar's."
He straightened up. The Secret Service men would
know where to look-she would have seen to that! "Un-
to Cæsar!” The smile died away, and an angry red
tinged Jimmie Dale's cheeks—he was picturing again
that scene in Klanner's room, the bestial deviltry of that
deformed and hideous creature who, to cover up his own
guilt, was railroading an innocent man to death. “Unto
Cæsar!”-yes, there was grim justice here--but that was
not enough! Justice might and would have its turn, but
before then there was another sort of justice, too!
He went back into the office, and sat down in a chair
beside the table where he could command the door. He
laid his flashlight, the ray on, upon the table, took from
his pocket the metal insignia case, lifted out a seal,
dropped it by means of the tweezers on his handkerchief,
folded the handkerchief carefully, and replaced the in-
signia case and handkerchief in his pocket; then, switch-
ing off the flashlight, he restored that, too, to his pocket.
It was dark now again and silent. There was no
sound, save the gentle lap of water against the pier, and
the distant, muffled murmur of traffic from one of the
great bridges that spanned the river. Jimmie Dale's
automatic was in his hand. There was one man who
stood between the woman whom he loved and her happi-
ness, one man who had driven her from her home and by
every foul art and craft had sought to take her life, one
man, one man only-Marre, alias Clarke. And once
Clarke were run to earth, she was free forever-no one
else had any incentive in hounding her to her death,


AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE 335
Jimmie Dale rose to his feet.
“This—to begin with !” he said-and, crossing the
room, felt through the other's pockets, and possessed him-
self of the man's revolver. "Now go over there, and
sit down at that table!”
Hunchback Joe laughed contemptuously again, as he
obeyed; but there was a hint of deadly menace in his
voice as he spoke.
"Go to it-while you can!” he snarled. “You've got
the drop on me. Well, what do you want?”
Jimmie Dale followed, and faced the other across the
table. Hunchback Joe's eyes, with that curious, un-
pleasant trick of which the man seemed possessed, were
blinking ceaselessly.
"I want to give this back to you,” said Jimmie Dale
quietly—and Aung the roll of bills that he had taken
from Klanner's trunk down upon the table.
Hunchback Joe's eyes ceased to blink.
“Why, thanks!” grinned Hunchback Joe. "You're a
queer sort of a night marauder, you are! Sure this is
for me, and that you aren't making a mistake?”
"Quite sure," said Jimmie Dale, still quietly. “It's
yours. It's the money you planted in Klanner's trunk
a couple of hours ago.”
"I never heard of Klanner,” said Hunchback Joe.
"It's simply the evidence that that isn't all I found in
the trunk,” said Jimmie Dale. “There was a packet
of papers, and the blood-stained blackjack with which
Jathan Lane was murdered in the bank this afternoon."
"My God, the man's mad!" muttered Hunchback Joe
under his breath. “I'm up against a maniac !"
Jimmie Dale had taken his handkerchief from his
pocket, and, carrying it to his mouth, had moistened the
adhesive side of the little seal. His voice rasped, as his
hand went down upon the table.


336
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
to blink. He
him, and now in shad come
"You blot on God's earth!" he said hoarsely. “That's
enough of that! The buttons are off the foils to-night,
Hunchback Joe!”
For the second time, Hunchback Joe's eyes had ceased
to blink. He was staring at the gray seal on the table
top in front of him, and now in spite of his effort to
maintain nonchalance, a whiteness had come into his
face.
"You !" he shrank back a little in his chair. “The
Gray Seal!"
Jimmie Dale's lips were thin and drawn tight together.
He made no answer.
It was Hunchback Joe who broke the silence.
“What's your price?” he asked thickly. “I suppose
you've got those those other things, or at least you know
where they are.”
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, "I know where they
are.”
"Well”-Hunchback Joe hesitated, fumbling for his
words—"we're both tarred with the same brush, only
you're worse than I am. I've got to pay your price, of
course. Make it reasonable. I haven't got all the money
in the world. Tell me where those things are, and name
your figures.”
"My figure”—Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words
-"is a little information. A trade, Hunchback Joe
mine for yours. I want to know where Peter Marre,
alias Clarke, is ?”
Hunchback Joe drew back from the table with a jerk.
The whiteness in his face had changed to an unhealthy,
leaden gray. He shook his head.
"I don't know,” he said. “That's straight-I've heard
of Marre, of course, everybody has, he's a lawyer; but
I never heard of Clarke, and that's "


AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE 337
"A lie!” Jimmie Dale cut in, an ugly calm in his voice.
“You- "
But Jimmie Dale, too, was interrupted. The telephone
on the table was ringing. His automatic covering Hunch-
back Joe, he pulled the instrument toward him, and lifted
the receiver from the hook.
"Hello!” he said gruffly. “What's wanted ?"
A voice responded in feverish excitement :
"Say, dat youse, Joe? Dis is Hoppy Meggs. Say,
de fly cops has got tipped off ; dey're on de way down to
yer place now. Youse want to beat it on de jump!"
"Wait a minute!” said Jimmie Dale. He passed the
instrument over to Hunchback Joe. “It's for you,” he
said, with a queer smile.
Hunchback Joe put the receiver to his ear-and a mo-
ment later, without a word in reply, returned it to the
hook. But he had risen from his seat, and, swaying on
his feet, was gripping at the table edge for support.
"I could have told you that,” said Jimmie Dale evenly;
“but you've got it now from a source that you won't
question. I told you the buttons were off the foils to-
night, but you don't seem to realise it yet. Three nights
ago you laid a trap for me and the Pippin died. Do
you understand what I mean now by naked foils? You've
one chance for life and that's to answer my question.
But I'll play fair with you, and tell you that I'm going to
see that the police get you even if you do answer. Those
documents and that blackjack are here in this place, and
the Secret Service men know where to find them.” Jim-
mie Dale's watch was in his hand. “It's five minutes to
twelve. They'll be here at midnight. I've got to make
my getaway before they come. I need two minutes for
that, including locking you in so that you can't get away.
That leaves you three minutes to make up your mind.
If you answer, you can have whatever chance your law.


338 ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
yers can get you; if you refuse, you and I settle our
score before I leave. It's three minutes against a pos-
sible commutation of sentence to life imprisonment.
Where is Marrep!
The misshapen, shrunken thing was rocking on its
feet. There was no answer.
“There are two minutes left,” said Jimmie Dale in a
monotone.
The man's eyes, coal black, hunted, the pupils gone,
swept the room. His lips were working; his hands,
clenching and unclenching, clawed at the table.
"One!” said Jimmie Dale.
There was a scream of ungovernable fury, the crash
of the toppling table, and, reaching out with both hands
for Jimmie Dale's weapon, Hunchback Joe hurled him-
self forward—but quick as the other was, Jimmie Dale
was quicker, and with his left hand, palm open, pushed
full into the man's face, he flung the other back.
And then there came a cry—a cry in a woman's voice:
“Marre!"
It was the Tocsin's voice from the rear doorway of
the office. It was her voice; Jimmie Dale could never
mistake it even in its startled cry—but he did not look.
His eyes were on the man who was standing on the other
side of the overturned table, whose beard where he, Jim-
mie Dale, had grasped the other's face had been wrenched
away, and whose shrunken figure seemed to tower up
now in height, and whose deformity was a padded coat,
awry now because of the erect and upright posture in
which the man stood. It was Clarke, the master of dis-
guise, who once had impersonated Travers, the chauf-
feur; it was Marre-Wizard Marre.
There was a ghastly smile on the man's face.
"Marre," he said. “Yes—Marre. But you never knew
it, did you, Miss LaSalle-until now! Well, now is time
man who cry—but hele.could ne


340
ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
brushed his cheek, there came a quick half sob to Jimmie
Dale's lips.
"Marie !” he whispered. “Marie-at last!"
Came the rip and tear and send of wood, the thud
of a falling door from the front of the shed, the rush
of feet-but Jimmie Dale was in the boat now, and the
packing case above was swung back into place.
“Right ahead, Jimmie!” she breathed. “The planks
at the end of the pier swing aside-yes, there—no, a
little to the right-yes!”
The boat shot out into the river-farther out-and the
pier and shed merged into the shadows of the shore
line and were lost.
And then Jimmie Dale let the oars swing loose. She
was crouched in the bottom of the boat close beside him.
He bent his head until his lips touched her hair, and lower
still until his lips touched hers. And a long time passed.
And the boat drifted on. And he drew her closer into
his arms, and held her there. She was safe now, safe
for always—and the road of fear lay behind. And
into the night there seemed to come a great quiet, and a
great joy, and a great thankfulness, and a wondrous
peace.
And the boat drifted on.
And neither spoke for they were going home.
THE END


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