CHAPTER VI
DEVIL'S WORK
A white-gloved arm, a voice, and a silvery laugh! Just that--no more!Jimmie Dale, in his favourite seat, an aisle seat some seven or eightrows back from the orchestra, stared at the stage, to all outwardappearances absorbed in the last act of the play; inwardly, quiteoblivious to the fact that even a play was going on.
A white-gloved arm, a voice, and a silvery laugh! The words had formedthemselves into a sort of singsong refrain that, for the last few days,had been running through his head. A strange enough guiding star tomould and dictate every action in his life! And that was all he had everseen of her, all that he had ever heard of her--except those letters,of course, each of which had outlined the details of some affair for theGray Seal to execute.
Indeed, it seemed a great length of time now since he had heard from hereven in that way, though it was not so many days ago, after all. Perhapsit was the calm, as it were, that, by contrast, had given place to thestrenuous months and weeks just past. The storm raised by the newspapersat the theft of Old Luddy's diamonds had subsided into sporadicdiatribes aimed at the police; Kline, of the secret service, had finallyadmitted defeat, and a shadow no longer skulked day and night atthe entrance to the Sanctuary--and Larry the Bat bore the governmentindorsement, so to speak, of being no more suspicious a character thanthat of a disreputable, but harmless, dope fiend of the underworld.
Larry the Bat! The Gray Seal! Jimmie Dale the millionaire! What if itwere ever known that that strange three were one! What if--Jimmie Dalesmiled whimsically. A burst of applause echoed through the house, theorchestra was playing, the lights were on, seats banged, there was thebustle of the rising audience, the play was at an end--and for the lifeof him he could not have remembered a single line of the last act!
The aisle at his elbow was already crowded with people on their way out.Jimmie Dale stooped down mechanically to reach for his hat beneath hisseat--and the next instant he was standing up, staring wildly into thefaces around him.
It had fallen at his feet--a white envelope. Hers! It was in his handnow, those slim, tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers of JimmieDale, that were an "open sesame" to locks and safes, subconsciouslytelegraphing to his mind the fact that the texture of the paper--washers. Hers! And she must be one of those around him--one of thosecrowding either the row of seats in front or behind, or one of thosejust passing in the aisle. It had fallen at his feet as he had stoopedover for his hat--but from just exactly what direction he could nottell. His eyes, eagerly, hungrily, critically, swept face after face.Which one was hers? What irony! She, whom he would have given hislife to know, for whom indeed he risked his life every hour of thetwenty-four, was close to him now, within reach--and as far removed asthough a thousand miles separated them. She was there--but he could notrecognise a face that he had never seen!
With an effort, he choked back the bitter, impotent laugh that rose tohis lips. They were talking, laughing around him. Her VOICE--yes, hehad once heard that, and that he would recognise again. He strained tocatch, to individualise the tone sounds that floated in a medley abouthim. It was useless--of course--every effort that he had ever madeto find her had been useless. She was too clever, far too clever forthat--she, too, would know that he could and would recognise her voicewhere he could recognise nothing else.
And then, suddenly, he realised that he was attracting attention. Levelstares from the women returned his gaze, and they edged away a littlefrom his vicinity as they passed, their escorts crowding somewhatbelligerently into their places. Others, in the same row of seats as hisown, were impatiently waiting to get by him. With a muttered apology,Jimmie Dale raised the seat of his chair, allowing these latter to passhim--and then, slipping the letter into his pocketbook, he snatched uphis hat from the seat rack.
There was still a chance. Knowing he was there, she would be on herguard; but in the lobby, among the crowd and unaware of his presence,there was the possibility that, if he could reach the entrance ahead ofher, she, too, might be talking and laughing as she left the theatre.Just a single word, just a tone--that was all he asked.
The row of seats at whose end he stood was empty now, and, instead ofstepping into the thronged aisle, he made his way across to the oppositeside of the theatre. Here, the far aisle was less crowded, and in aminute he had gained the foyer, confident that he was now in advance ofher. The next moment he was lost in a jam of people in the lobby.
He moved slowly now, very slowly--allowing those behind to press byhim on the way to the entrance. A babel of voices rose about him,as, tight-packed, the mass of people jostled, elbowed, and pushedgood-naturedly. It was a voice now, her voice, that he was listeningfor; but, though it seemed that every faculty was strained and intentupon that one effort, his eyes, too, had in no degree relaxed theirvigilance--and once, half grimly, half sardonically, he smiled tohimself. There would be an unexpected aftermath to this exodusof expensively gowned and bejewelled women with their prosperous,well-groomed escorts! There was the Wowzer over there--sleek, dapper,squirming in and out of the throng with the agility and stealth of acat. As Larry the Bat he had met the Wowzer many times, as indeed hehad met and was acquainted with most of the elite of the underworld.The Wowzer, beyond a shadow of doubt, in his own profession stood upona plane entirely by himself--among those qualified to speak, no one yethad ever questioned the Wowzer's claim to the distinction of being themost dexterous and finished "poke getter" in the United States!
The crowd thinned in the lobby, thinned down to the last few belatedstragglers, who passed him as he still loitered in the entrance; andthen Jimmie Dale, with a shrug of his shoulders that was a greatdeal more philosophical than the maddening sense of chagrin anddisappointment that burned within him, stepped out to the pavement andheaded down Broadway. After all, he had known it in his heart of heartsall the time--it had always been the same--it was only one more occasionadded to the innumerable ones that had gone before in which she hadeluded him!
And now--there was the letter! Automatically he quickened his steps alittle. It was useless, futile, profitless, for the moment, at least, todisturb himself over his failure--there was the letter! His lips partedin a strange, half-serious, half-speculative smile. The letter--thatwas paramount now. What new venture did the night hold in store forhim? What sudden emergency was the Gray Seal called upon to face thistime--what role, unrehearsed, without warning, must he play? What storyof grim, desperate rascality would the papers credit him withwhen daylight came? Or would they carry in screaming headlines theannouncement that the Gray Seal was caged and caught at last, and inthree-inch type tell the world that the Gray Seal was--Jimmie Dale!
A block down, he turned from Broadway out of the theatre crowds thatstreamed in both directions past him. The letter! Almost feverishlynow he was seeking an opportunity to open and read it unobserved; aneagerness upon him that mingled exhilaration at the lure of dangerwith a sense of premonition that, irritably, inevitably was with himat moments such as these. It seemed, it always seemed, that, with anunopened letter of hers in his possession, it was as though he wereabout to open a page in the Book of Fate and read, as it were, apronouncement upon himself that might mean life or death.
He hurried on. People still passed by him--too many. And then a cafe,just ahead, making a corner, gave him the opportunity that he sought.Away from the entrance, on the side street, the brilliant lights fromthe windows shone out on a comparatively deserted pavement. There wasample light to read by, even as far away from the window as the curb,and Jimmie Dale, with an approving nod, turned the corner and walkedalong a few steps until opposite the farthest window--but, as he haltedhere at the edge of the street, he glanced quickly behind him at a manwhom he had just passed. The other had paused at the corner and wasstaring down the street. Jimmie Dale instantly and nonchalantly producedhis cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and fastidiously tapped itsend on his thumb nail.
"Inspector Burton in plain clothes," he observed musingly to himself. "I
wonder if it's just a fluke--or something else? We'll see."
Jimmie Dale took a box of matches from his pocket. The first would notlight. The second broke, and, with an exclamation of annoyance, he flungit away. The third was making a fitful effort at life, as another manemerged hastily from the cafe's side door, hurried to the corner, joinedthe man who was still loitering there, and both together disappeared ata rapid pace down the street.
Jimmie Dale whistled softly to himself. The second man was even betterknown than the first; there was not a crook in New York but wouldside-step Lannigan of headquarters, and do it with amazing celerity--ifhe could!
"Something up! But it's not my hunt!" muttered Jimmie Dale; then, witha shrug of his shoulders: "Queer the way those headquarters chapsfascinate and give me a thrill every time I see them, even if I haven'ta ghost of a reason for imagining that--"
The sentence was never finished. Jimmie Dale's face was gray. The streetseemed to rock about him--and he stared, like a man stricken, white tothe lips, ahead of him. THE LETTER WAS GONE! His hand, wriggling fromhis empty pocket, swept away the sweat beads that were bursting from hisforehead. It had come at last--the pitcher had gone once too often tothe well!
Numbed for an instant, his brain cleared now, working with lightningspeed, leaping from premise to conclusion. The crush in the theatrelobby--the pushing, the jostling, the close contact--the Wowzer, theslickest, cleverest pickpocket in the United States! For a moment hecould have laughed aloud in a sort of ghastly, defiant mockery--hehimself had predicted an unexpected aftermath, had he not!
Aftermath! It was--the END! An hour, two hours, and New York would bemetamorphosed into a seething caldron of humanity bubbling with thenews. It seemed that he could hear the screams of the newsboys nowshouting their extras; it seemed that he could see the people, roused tofrenzy, swarming in excited crowds, snatching at the papers; he seemedto hear the mob's shouts swell in execration, in exultation--it seemedas though all around him had gone mad. The mystery of the Gray Seal wassolved! It was Jimmie Dale, Jimmie Dale, Jimmie, Dale, the millionaire,the lion of society--and there was ignominy for an honoured name, andshame and disaster and convict stripes and sullen penitentiary walls--ordeath! A felon's death--the chair!
He was running now, his hands clenched at his sides; his mind, workingsubconsciously, urging him onward in a blind, as yet unrealised,objectless way. And then gradually impulse gave way to calmer reason,and he slowed his pace to a quick, less noticeable walk. The Wowzer!That was it! There was yet a chance--the Wowzer! A merciless rage,cold, deadly, settled upon him. It was the Wowzer who had stolen hispocketbook, and with it the letter. There could be no doubt of that.Well, there would be a reckoning at least before the end!
He was in a downtown subway train now--the roar in his ears inconsonance, it seemed, with the turmoil in his brain. But now, too, hewas Jimmie Dale again; and, apart from the slightly outthrust jaw, thetight-closed lips, impassive, debonair, composed.
There was yet a chance. As Larry the Bat he knew every den and lairbelow the dead line, and he knew, too, the Wowzer's favourite haunts.There was yet a chance, only one in a thousand, it was true, almost toopitiful to be depended upon--but yet a chance. The Wowzer had probablynot worked alone, and he and his pal, or pals, would certainly notremain uptown either to examine or divide their spoils--they would waituntil they were safe somewhere in one of their hell holes on the EastSide. If he could find the Wowzer, reach the man BEFORE THE LETTER WASOPENED--Jimmie Dale's lips grew tighter. THAT was the chance! It hefailed in that--Jimmie Dale's lips drooped downward in grim curves atthe corners. A chance! Already the Wowzer had at least a half hour'slead, and, worse still, there was no telling which one of a dozen placesthe man might have chosen to retreat to with his loot.
Time passed. His mind obsessed, Jimmie Dale's physical acts werealmost wholly mechanical. It was perhaps fifteen minutes since he haddiscovered the loss of the letter, and he was walking now through theheart of the Bowery. Exactly how he had got there he could not havetold; he had only a vague realisation that, following an intuitivesense of direction, he had lost not a second of time in making his waydowntown.
And now he found himself hesitating at the corner of a cross street. Twoblocks east was that dark, narrow alleyway, that side door that made theentrance to the Sanctuary. It would be safer, a hundred times safer, togo there, change his clothes and his personality, and emerge again asLarry the Bat--infinitely safer in that role to explore the dens of theunderworld, many of them indeed unknown and undreamed of by the policethemselves, than to trust himself there in well-cut, fashionabletweeds--but that would take time. Time! When, with every second, theone chance he had, desperate as that already was, was slipping away fromhim. No; what was apparently the greater risk at least held out the onlyhope.
He went on again--his brain incessantly at work. At the worst, therewas one mitigating factor in it all. He had no need to think of her.Whatever the ruin and disaster that faced him in the next few hours, shein any case was safe. There was no clew to HER identity in the letter;and where he, for months on end, with even more to work upon, had failedat every turn to trace her, there was little fear that any one elsewould have any better success. She was safe. As for himself--that wasdifferent. The Gray Seal would be referred to in the letter, there wouldbe the outline, the data for the "crime" she had planned for that night;and the letter, though unaddressed, being found in his pocketbook,where cards and notes and a dozen different things among its contentsproclaimed him Jimmie Dale, needed no further evidence as to itsownership nor the identity of the Gray Seal.
Jimmie Dale's fingers crept inside his vest and fumbled there for amoment--and a diamond stud, extracted from his shirt front, glistenedsportively in the necktie that was now tucked jauntily in at one side ofhis shirt bosom. He had reached the Blue Dragon, one of Wowzer's usualhang outs, and, swerving from the sidewalk, entered the place. There waswild tumult within--a constant storm of applause, derision, and hilaritythat was hurled from the tables around the room at the turkey-trotting,tango-writhing couples on the somewhat restricted space of polishedhardwood flooring in the centre. Jimmie Dale swaggered down the room,a cigar tilted up at an angle between his teeth, his soft felt hat alittle rakishly on one side of his head and well over his nose.
At the end of the room, at the bar, Jimmie Dale leaned toward thebarkeeper and talked out of the corner of his mouth. There were privaterooms upstairs, and he jerked his head surreptitiously ceilingward.
"Say, is de Wowzer up dere?" he inquired in a cautious whisper.
The man behind the bar, well known to Jimmie Dale as one of the Wowzer'sparticular pals, favoured him with a blank stare.
"Never heard of de guy!" he announced brusquely. "Wot's yours?"
"Gimme a mug of suds," said Jimmie Dale, reaching for a match. He puffedat his cigar, blew out the match, and, after a moment, flung the charredend away--but on his hand, as, palm outward, he raised it to take hisglass, the match had traced a small black cross.
The barkeeper put down the beer he had just drawn, wiped his handhurriedly, and with sudden enthusiasm thrust it across the bar.
"Glad to know youse, cull!" he exclaimed. "Wot's de lay?"
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"Nix!" said Jimmie Dale. "I just blew in from Chicago. Used to know deWowzer dere. He said dis place was on de level, an' I could always findhim here, dat's all."
"Sure, youse can!" returned the barkeeper heartily. "Only he ain't herenow. He beat it about fifteen minutes ago, him an' Dago Jim. I guessyouse'll find him at Chang's, I heard him an' Dago say dey was goin'dere. Know de place?"
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
"I ain't much wise to New York," he explained.
"Aw, dat's easy," whispered the barkeeper. "Go down to Chatham Square,an' den any guy'll show youse Chang Foo's." He winked confidentially. "Iguess youse won't bump yer head none gettin' around inside."
Jimmie Dale nodded, grinned back, emptied his glass, and dug for a coin.
"Forget it!" observed the barkeeper cordially. "Dis is on me. Any friendof de Wowzer's gets de glad hand here any time."
"T'anks!" said Jimmie Dale gratefully, as he turned away. "So long,then--see youse later."
Chang Foo's! Jimmie Dale's face set even a little harder than ithad before, as he swung on again down the Bowery. Yes; he knew ChangFoo's--too well. Underground Chinatown--where a man's life was worth theprice of an opium pill--or less! Mechanically his hand slipped into hispocket and closed over the automatic that nestled there. Once in--wherehe had to go--and the chances were even, just even, that was all, thathe would ever get out. Again he was tempted to return to the Sanctuaryand make the attempt as Larry the Bat. Larry the Bat was well enoughknown to enter Chang Foo's unquestioned, and--but again he shook hishead and went on. There was not time. The Wowzer and his pal--it wasDago Jim it seemed--had evidently been drinking and loitering their waydowntown from the theatre, and he had gained that much on them; butby now they would be smugly tucked away somewhere in that maze of densbelow the ground, and at that moment probably were gloating over thebiggest night's haul they had ever made in their lives!
And if they were! What then? Once they knew the contents of thatletter--what then? Buy them off for a larger amount than the manythousands offered for the capture of the Gray Seal? Jimmie Dale grittedhis teeth. That meant blackmail from them all his life, an intolerableexistence, impossible, a hell on earth--the slave, at the beck and callof two of the worst criminals in New York! The moisture oozed again toJimmie Dale's forehead. God, if he could get that letter before it wasopened--before they KNEW! If he could only get the chance to fight forit--against ANY odds! Life! Life was a pitiful consideration against thealternative that faced him now!
From the Blue Dragon to Chang Foo's was not far; and Jimmie Dale coveredthe distance in well under five minutes. Chang Foo's was just a teamerchant's shop, innocuous and innocent enough in its appearance,blandly so indeed, and that was all--outwardly; but Jimmie Dale, as hereached his destination, experienced the first sensation of uplift hehad known that night, and this from what, apparently, did not in theleast seem like a contributing cause.
"Luck! The blessed luck of it!" he muttered grimly, as he surveyedthe sight-seeing car drawn up at the curb, and watched the passengerscrowding out of it to the ground. "It wouldn't have been as easy to foolold Chang as it was that fellow back at the Dragon--and, besides, if Ican work it, there's a better chance this way of getting out alive."
The guide was marshalling his "gapers"--some two dozen in all, men andwomen. Jimmie Dale unostentatiously fell in at the rear; and, the guideleading, the little crowd passed into the tea merchant's shop. ChangFoo, a wizened, wrinkled-faced little Celestial, oily, suave, greetedthem with profuse bows, chattering the while volubly in Chinese.
The guide made the introduction with an all-embracing sweep of his hand.
"Chang Foo--ladies and gentlemen," he announced; then held up his handfor silence. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said impressively, "this is oneof the most notorious, if not THE most notorious dive in Chinatown, andit is only through special arrangement with the authorities and at greatexpense that the company is able exclusively to gain an entree here forits patrons. You will see here the real life of the Chinese, and in halfan hour you will get what few would get in a lifetime spent in Chinaitself. You will see the Chinese children dance and perform; the Chinesewomen at their household tasks; the joss, the shrine of his hallowedancestors, at which Chang Foo here worships; and you will enter the mostfamous opium den in the United States. Now, if you will all keep closetogether, we will make a start."
In spite of his desperate situation, Jimmie Dale smiled a littlewhimsically. Yes; they would see it all--UPSTAIRS! The same old bunkdished out night after night at so much a head--and the nervous littleschoolma'am of uncertain age, who fidgeted now beside him, would goback somewhere down in Maine and shiver while she related her "widerexperiences" in tremulous whispers into the shocked ears of enviousother maiden ladies of equally uncertain age. The same old bunk--and aprofitable one for Chang Foo for more reasons than one. It was dust inthe eyes of the police. The police smiled knowingly at mention of ChangFoo. Who should know, if they didn't, that it was all harmless fake, allbunk! And so it was--UPSTAIRS!
They were passing out of the shop now, bowed out through a side door bythe obsequious and oily Chang Foo. And now they massed again in a sortof little hallway--and Chang Foo, closing the door upon Jimmie Dale, whowas the last in the line, shuffled back behind the counter in his shopto resume his guard duty over customers of quite another ilk. With thedoor closed, it was dark, pitch dark. And this, too, like everythingelse connected with Chang Foo's establishment, for more reasons thanone--for effect--and for security. Nervous little twitters began toemanate from the women--the guide's voice rose reassuringly:
"Keep close together, ladies and gentlemen. We are going upstairs nowto--"
Jimmie Dale hugged back against the wall, sidled along it, and like ashadow slipped down to the end of the hall. The scuffling of two dozenpairs of feet mounting the creaky staircase drowned the slight sound ashe cautiously opened a door; the darkness lay black, impenetrable, alongthe hall. And then, as cautiously as he had opened it, he closed thedoor behind him, and stood for an instant listening at the head of aladder-like stairway, his automatic in his hand now. It was familiarground to Larry the Bat. The steps led down to a cellar; and diagonallyacross from the foot of the steps was an opening, ingeniously hidden bya heterogeneous collection of odds and ends, boxes, cases, and rubbishfrom the pseudo tea shop above; a low opening in the wall to a passagethat led on through the cellars of perhaps half a dozen adjoininghouses, each of which latter was leased, in one name or another--byChang Foo.
Jimmie Dale crept down the steps, and in another moment had gained thefarther side of the cellar; then, skirting around the ruck of cases, hestooped suddenly and passed in through the opening in the wall. Andnow he halted once more. He was straining his eyes down a long, narrowpassage, whose blackness was accentuated rather than relieved by curiouswavering, gossamer threads of yellow light that showed here and therefrom under makeshift thresholds, from doors slightly ajar. Faint noisescame to him, a muffled, intermittent clink of coin, a low, continuous,droning hum of voices; the sickly sweet smell of opium pricked at hisnostrils.
Jimmie Dale's face set rigidly. It was the resort, not only of the mostdepraved Chinese element, but of the worst "white" thugs that made NewYork their headquarters--here, in the succession of cellars, roughlypartitioned off to make a dozen rooms on either side of the passage,dope fiends sucked at the drug, and Chinese gamblers spent the greaterpart of their lives; here, murder was hatched and played too often toits hellish end; here, the scum of the underworld sought refuge from thepolice to the profit of Chang Foo; and here, somewhere, in one of theserooms, was--the Wowzer.
The Wowzer! Jimmie Dale stole forward silently, without a sound,swiftly--pausing only to listen for a second's space at the doors as hepassed. From this one came that clink of coin; from another that jabberof Chinese; from still another that overpowering stench of opium--andonce, iron-nerved as he was, a cold thrill passed over him. Let thislair of hell's wolves, so intent now on their own affairs, be onceroused, as they certainly must be roused before he could hope to finishthe Wowzer, and his chances of escape were--
He straightened suddenly, alert, tense, strained. Voices, raised in afurious quarrel, came from a door just beyond him on the other sideof the passage, where a film of light streamed out through a crackedpanel--it was the Wowzer and Dago Jim! And drunk, both of them--and bothin a blind fury!
It happened quick then, almost instantaneously it seemed to Jimmie Dale.He was crouched now close against the door, his eye to the crack in thepanel. There was only one figure in sight--Dago Jim--standing besidea table on which burned a lamp, the table top littered with watches,purses, and small chatelaine bags. The man was lurching unsteadily onhis feet, a vicious sneer of triumph o
n his face, waving tauntinglyan open letter and Jimmie Dale's pocket-book in his hands--waving thempresumably in the face of the Wowzer, whom, from the restrictions of thecrack, Jimmie Dale could not see. He was conscious of a sickening senseof disaster. His hope against hope had been in vain--the letter had beenopened and read--THE IDENTITY OF THE GRAY SEAL WAS SOLVED.
Dago Jim's voice roared out, hoarse, blasphemous, in drunken rage:
"De Gray Seal--see! Youse betcher life I knows! I been waitin' fersomet'ing like dis, damn youse! Youse been stallin' on me fer a yearevery time it came to a divvy. Youse've got a pocketful now yousesnitched to-night dat youse are tryin' to do me out of. Well, keep'em"--he shoved his face forward. "I keeps dis--see! Keep 'em Wowzer,youse cross-eyed--"
"Everyt'ing I pinched to-night's on de table dere wid wot youse pinchedyerself," cut in the Wowzer, in a sullen, threatening growl.
"Youse lie, an' youse knows it!" retorted Dago Jim. "Youse have given mede short end every time we've pulled a deal!"
"Dat letter's mine, youse--" bawled the Wowzer furiously.
"Why didn't youse open it an' read it, den, instead of lettin' me do itto keep me busy while youse short-changed me?" sneered Dago Jim. "Youset'ought it was some sweet billy-doo, eh? Well, t'anks, Wowzer--dat's wotit is! Say," he mocked, "dere's a guy'll cash a t'ousand century notesfer dis, an' if he don't--say, dere's SOME reward out fer the GraySeal! Wouldn't youse like to know who it is? Well, when I'm ridin' inme private buzz wagon, Wowzer, youse stick around an' mabbe I'll tellyouse--an' mabbe I won't!"
"By God"--the Wowzer's voice rose in a scream--"youse hand over datletter!"
"Youse go to--"
Red, lurid red, a stream of flame seemed to cut across Jimmie Dale'sline of vision, came the roar of a revolver shot--and like a madmanJimmie Dale flung his body at the door. Rickety at best, it crashedinward, half wrenched from its hinges, precipitating him inside. Herecovered himself and leaped forward. The room was swirling with blueeddies of smoke; Dago Jim, hands flung up, still grasping letter andpocketbook, pawed at the air--and plunged with a sagging lurch facedownward to the floor. There was a yell and an oath from the Wowzer--thecrack of another revolver shot, the hum of the bullet past Jimmie Dale'sear, the scorch of the tongue flame in his face, and he was upon theother.
Screeching profanity, the Wowzer grappled; and, for an instant, the twomen rocked, reeled, and swayed in each other's embrace; then, bothmen losing their balance, they shot suddenly backward, the Wowzer,undermost, striking his head against the table's edge--and men, table,and lamp crashed downward in a heap to the floor.
It had been no more, at most, than a matter of seconds since Jimmie Dalehad hurled himself into the room; and now, with a gurgling sigh,the Wowzer's arms, that had been wound around Jimmie Dale's back andshoulders, relaxed, and, from the blow on his head the man, layback inert and stunned. And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as thoughpandemonium, unreality, and chaos at the touch of some devil's handreigned around him. It was dark--no, not dark--a spurt of flame wasleaping along the line of trickling oil from the broken lamp on thefloor. It threw into ghastly relief the sprawled form of DagoJim. Outside, from along the passageway, came a confused jangle ofcommotion--whispering voices, shuffling feet, the swish of Chinesegarments. And the room itself began to spring into weird, flickeringshadows, that mounted and crept up the walls with the spreading fire.
There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming withthat rush from the passageway--and there was still the letter, thepocketbook! The table had fallen half over Dago Jim--Jimmie Dale pushedit aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man'shands--and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other'sheartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself. Therewas no sign of life--the man was dead.
Jimmie Dale was on his feet now. A face, another, and another showedin the doorway--the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to hisknees. There was one chance--just one--to take those crowding figures bysurprise. And with a yell of "Fire!" Jimmie Dale sprang for the doorway.
They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise againstthe opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway.Doors were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into thesemi-darkness--only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale'sautomatic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead of him. Andthen, behind, the Wowzer's voice shrieked out:
"Soak him! Kill de guy! He's croaked Dago Jim! Put a hole in him, de--"
Yells, a chorus of them, took up the refrain--then the rush of followingfeet--and the passageway seemed to racket as though a Gatling gun werein play with the fusillade of revolver shots. But Jimmie Dale was atthe opening now--and, like a base runner plunging for the bag, he flunghimself in a low dive through and into the open cellar beyond. He wason his feet, over the boxes, and dashing up the stairs in a second. Thedoor above opened as he reached the top--Jimmie Dale's right hand shotout with clubbed revolver--and with a grunt Chang Foo went down beforethe blow and the headlong rush. The next instant Jimmie Dale had sprungthrough the tea shop and was out on the street.
A minute, two minutes more, and Chinatown would be in an uproar--ChangFoo would see to that--and the Wowzer would prod him on. The danger wasfar from over yet. And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale gave a little gaspof relief. Just ahead, drawn up at the curb, stood a taxicab--waiting,probably, for a private slumming party. Jimmie Dale put on a spurt,reached it, and wrenched the door open.
"Quick!" he flung at the startled chauffeur. "The nearest subwaystation--there's a ten-spot in it for you! Quick man--QUICK! Here theycome!"
A crowd of Chinese, pouring like angry hornets from Chang Foo's shop,came yelling down the street--and the taxi took the corner on twowheels--and Jimmie Dale, panting, choking for his breath like a manspent, sank back against the cushions.
But five minutes later it was quite another Jimmie Dale, composed,nonchalant, imperturbable, who entered an up-town subway train, and,choosing a seat alone near the centre of the car, which at that hourof night in the downtown district was almost deserted, took the crushedletter from his pocket. For a moment he made no attempt to read it,his dark eyes, now that he was free from observation, full of troubledretrospect, fixed on the window at his side. It was not a pleasantthought that it had cost a man his life, nor yet that that life was alsothe price of his own freedom. True, if there were two men in the city ofNew York whose crimes merited neither sympathy nor mercy, those two menwere the Wowzer and Dago Jim--but yet, after all, it was a human life,and, even if his own had been in the balance, thank God it had beenthrough no act of his that Dago Jim had gone out! The Wowzer, cute andcunning, had been quick enough to say so to clear himself, but--JimmieDale smiled a little now--neither the Wowzer, nor Chang Foo, norChinatown would ever be in a position to recognise their uninvitedguest!
Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the letter speculatively, gravely. Itseemed as though the night had already held a year of happenings, andthe night was not over yet--there was the letter! It had already costone life; was it to cost another--or what?
It began as it always did. He read it through once, in amazement; asecond time, with a flush of bitter anger creeping to his cheeks; anda third time, curiously memorising, as it were, snatches of it here andthere.
"DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Robbery of Hudson-Mercantile NationalBank--trusted employee is ex-convict, bad police record, served term inSing Sing three years ago--known to police as Bookkeeper Bob, real nameis Robert Moyne, lives at ---- Street, Harlem--Inspector Burtonand Lannigan of headquarters trailing him now--robbery not yet madepublic--"
There was a great deal more--four sheets of closely written data. Withan exclamation almost of dismay, Jimmie Dale pulled out his watch. Sothat was what Burton and Lannigan were up to! And he had actually runinto them! Lord, the irony of it! The--And then Jimmie Dale stared atthe dial of his watch incredulously. It was still but barely midnight!It seemed impossible that since leaving the theatre
at a few minutesbefore eleven, he had lived through but a single hour!
Jimmie Dale's fingers began to pluck at the letter, tearing it intopieces, tearing the pieces over and over again into tiny shreds. Thetrain stopped at station after station, people got on and off--JimmieDale's hat was over his eyes, and his eyes were glued again to thewindow. Had Bookkeeper Bob returned to his flat in Harlem with thedetectives at his heels--or were Burton and Lannigan still trailing theman downtown somewhere around the cafe's? If the former, the theftof the letter and its incident loss of time had been an irreparabledisaster; if the latter--well, who knew! The risk was the Gray Seal's!
At One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street Jimmie Dale left the train; and,at the end of a sharp four minutes' walk, during which he had dodged inand out from street to street, stopped on a corner to survey the blockahead of him. It was a block devoted exclusively to flats and apartmenthouses, and, apart from a few belated pedestrians, was deserted. JimmieDale strolled leisurely down one side, crossed the street at the end ofthe block, and strolled leisurely back on the other side--there was nosign of either Burton or Lannigan. It was a fairly safe presumption thenthat Bookkeeper Bob had not returned yet, or one of the detectives atleast would have been shadowing the house.
Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly, retraced his steps again, andturned deliberately into a doorway--whose number he had noted as he hadpassed a moment or so before. So, after all, there was time yet!This was the house. "Number eighteen," she had said in her letter. "Aflat--three stories--Moyne lives on ground floor."
Jimmie Dale leaned against the vestibule door--there was a faintclick--a little steel instrument was withdrawn from the lock--and JimmieDale stepped into the hall, where a gas jet, turned down, burned dimly.
The door of the ground-floor apartment was at his right, Jimmie Dalereached up and turned off the light. Again those slim, tapering,wonderfully sensitive fingers worked with the little steel instrument,this time in the lock of the apartment door--again there was that almostinaudible click--and then cautiously, inch by inch, the door openedunder his hand. He peered inside--down a hallway lighted, if it could becalled lighted at all, by a subdued glow from two open doors that gaveupon it--peered intently, listening intently, as he drew a black silkmask from his pocket and slipped it over his face. And then, silent asa shadow in his movements, the door left just ajar behind him, he stoledown the carpeted hallway.
Opposite the first of the open doorways Jimmie Dale paused--a curiouslyhard expression creeping over his face, his lips beginning to droopominously downward at the corners. It was a little sitting room, cheaplybut tastefully furnished, and a young woman, Bookkeeper Bob's wifeevidently, and evidently sitting up for her husband, had fallen soundasleep in a chair, her head pillowed on her arms that were outstretchedacross the table. For a moment Jimmie Dale held there, his eyes on thescene--and the next moment, his hand curved into a clenched fist, he hadpassed on and entered the adjoining room.
It was a child's bedroom. A night lamp burned on a table beside the bed,and the soft rays seemed to play and linger in caress on the tousledgolden hair of a little girl of perhaps two years of age--and somethingseemed to choke suddenly in Jimmie Dale's throat--the sweet, innocentlittle face, upturned to his, was smiling at him as she slept.
Jimmie Dale turned away his head--his eyelashes wet under his mask."BENEATH THE MATTRESS OF THE CHILD'S BED," the letter had said. His facelike stone, his lips a thin line now, Jimmie Dale's hand reacheddeftly in without disturbing the child and took out a package--and thenanother. He straightened up, a bundle of crisp new hundred-dollar notesin each hand--and on the top of one, slipped under the elastic band thatheld the bills together, an unsealed envelope. He drew out the latter,and opened it--it was a second-class steamship passage to Vera Cruz,made out in a fictitious name, of course, to John Davies, the bookingfor next day's sailing. From the ticket, from the stolen money, JimmieDale's eyes lifted to rest again on the little golden head, the smilinglips--and then, dropping the packages into his pockets, his own lipsmoving queerly, he turned abruptly to the door.
"My God, the shame of it!" he whispered to himself.
He crept down the corridor, past the open door of the room where theyoung woman still sat fast asleep, and, his mask in his pocket again,stepped softly into the vestibule, and from there to the street.
Jimmie Dale hurried now, spurred on it seemed by a hot, insensate furythat raged within him--there was still one other call to make thatnight--still those remaining and minute details in the latter part ofher letter, grim and ugly in their portent!
It was close upon one o'clock in the morning when Jimmie Dale stoppedagain--this time before a fashionable dwelling just off Central Park.And here, for perhaps the space of a minute, he surveyed the house fromthe sidewalk--watching, with a sort of speculative satisfaction, a man'sshadow that passed constantly to and fro across the drawn blinds of oneof the lower windows. The rest of the house was in darkness.
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale, nodding his head, "I rather thought so. Theservants will have retired hours ago. It's safe enough."
He ran quickly up the steps and rang the bell. A door opened almostinstantly, sending a faint glow into the hall from the lighted room; ahurried step crossed the hall--and the outer door was thrown back.
"Well, what is it?" demanded a voice brusquely.
It was quite dark, too dark for either to distinguish the other'sfeatures--and Jimmie Dale's hat was drawn far down over his eyes.
"I want to see Mr. Thomas H. Carling, cashier of the Hudson-MercantileNational Bank--it's very important," said Jimmie Dale earnestly.
"I am Mr. Carling," replied the other. "What is it?"
Jimmie Dale leaned forward.
"From headquarters--with a report," he said, in a low tone.
"Ah!" exclaimed the bank official sharply. "Well, it's about time! I'vebeen waiting up for it--though I expected you would telephone ratherthan this. Come in!"
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale courteously--and stepped into the hall.
The other closed the front door. "The servants are in bed, of course,"he explained, as he led the way toward the lighted room. "This way,please."
Behind the other, across the hall, Jimmie Dale followed and close atCarling's heels entered the room, which was fitted up, quite evidentlyregardless of cost, as a combination library and study. Carling, ina somewhat pompous fashion, walked straight ahead toward thecarved-mahogany flat-topped desk, and, as he reached it, waved his hand.
"Take a chair," he said, over his shoulder--and then, turning in the actof dropping into his own chair, grasped suddenly at the edge of the deskinstead, and, with a low, startled cry, stared across the room.
Jimmie Dale was leaning back against the door that was closed now behindhim--and on Jimmie Dale's face was a black silk mask.
For an instant neither man spoke nor moved; then Carling, spare-built,dapper in evening clothes, edged back from the desk and laughed a littleuncertainly.
"Quite neat! I compliment you! From headquarters with a report, I thinkyou said?"
"Which I neglected to add," said Jimmie Dale, "was to be made inprivate."
Carling, as though to put as much distance between them as possible,continued to edge back across the room--but his small black eyes, blacknow to the pupils themselves, never left Jimmie Dale's face.
"In private, eh?"--he seemed to be sparring for time, as he smiled. "Inprivate! You've a strange method of securing privacy, haven't you? A bitmelodramatic, isn't it? Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me who youare?"
Jimmie Dale smiled indulgently.
"My mask is only for effect," he said. "My name is--Smith."
"Yes," said Carling. "I am very stupid. Thank you. I--" he had reachedthe other side of the room now--and with a quick, sudden movement jerkedhis hand to the dial of the safe that stood against the wall.
But Jimmie Dale was quicker--without shifting his position, hisautomatic, whipped from his pocket, held a disconcerting bead
onCarling's forehead.
"Please don't do that," said Jimmie Dale softly. "It's rather a goodmake, that safe. I dare say it would take me half an hour to open it. Iwas rather curious to know whether it was locked or not."
Carling's hand dropped to his side.
"So!" he sneered. "That's it, is it! The ordinary variety of sneakthief!" His voice was rising gradually. "Well, sir, let me tell youthat--"
"Mr. Carling," said Jimmie Dale, in a low, even tone, "unless youmoderate your voice some one in the house might hear you--I am quitewell aware of that. But if that happens, if any one enters this room,if you make a move to touch a button, or in any other way attempt toattract attention, I'll drop you where you stand!" His hand, behind hisback, extracted the key from the door lock, held it up for the other tosee, then dropped it into his pocket--and his voice, cold before, rangperemptorily now. "Come back to the desk and sit down in that chair!" heordered.
For a moment Carling hesitated; then, with a half-muttered oath, obeyed.
Jimmie Dale moved over, and stood in front of Carling on the other sideof the desk--and stared silently at the immaculate, fashionably groomedfigure before him.
Under the prolonged gaze, Carling's composure, in a measure at least,seemed to forsake him. He began to drum nervously with his fingers onthe desk, and shift uneasily in his chair.
And then, from first one pocket and then the other, Jimmie Dale tookthe two packages of banknotes, and, still with out a word, pushed themacross the desk until they lay under the other's eyes.
Carling's fingers stopped their drumming, slid to the desk edge,tightened there, and a whiteness crept into his face. Then, with aneffort, he jerked himself erect in his chair.
"What's this?" he demanded hoarsely.
"About ten thousand dollars, I should say," said Jimmie Dale slowly. "Ihaven't counted it. Your bank was robbed this evening at closing time, Iunderstand?"
"Yes!" Carling's voice was excited now, the colour back in his face."But you--how--do you mean that you are returning the money to thebank?"
"Exactly," said Jimmie Dale.
Carling was once more the pompous bank official. He leaned back andsurveyed Jimmie Dale critically with his little black eyes.
"Ah, quite so!" he observed. "That accounts for the mask. But I am stilla little in the dark. Under the circumstances, it is quite impossiblethat you should have stolen the money yourself, and--"
"I didn't," said Jimmie Dale. "I found it hidden in the home of one ofyour employees."
"You found it--WHERE?"
"In Moyne's home--up in Harlem."
"Moyne, eh?" Carling was alert, quick now, jerking out his words. "Howdid you come to get into this, then? His pal? Double-crossing him, eh? Isuppose you want a reward--we'll attend to that, of course. You'rewiser than you know, my man. That's what we suspected. We've had thedetectives trailing Moyne all evening." He reached forward over the deskfor the telephone. "I'll telephone headquarters to make the arrest atonce."
"Just a minute," interposed Jimmie Dale gravely. "I want you to listento a little story first."
"A story! What has a story got to do with this?" snapped Carling.
"The man has got a home," said Jimmie Dale softly. "A home, and awife--and a little baby girl."
"Oh, that's the game then, eh? You want to plead for him?" Carling flungout gruffly. "Well, he should have thought of all that before! It'squite useless for you to bring it up. The man has had his chancealready--a better chance than any one with his record ever had before.We took him into the bank knowing that he was an ex-convict, butbelieving that we could make an honest man of him--and this is theresult."
"And yet--"
"NO!" said Carling icily.
"You refuse--absolutely?" Jimmie Dale's voice had a lingering, wistfulnote in it.
"I refuse!" said Carling bluntly. "I won't have anything to do with it."
There was just an instant's silence; and then, with a strange, slow,creeping motion, as a panther creeps when about to spring, Jimmie Daleprojected his body across the desk--far across it toward the other. Andthe muscles of his jaw were quivering, his words rasping, choked withthe sweep of fury that, held back so long, broke now in a passionatesurge.
"And shall I tell you why you won't? Your bank was robbed to-night ofone hundred thousand dollars. There are ten thousand here. THE OTHERNINETY THOUSAND ARE IN YOUR SAFE!"
"You lie!" Ashen to the lips, Carling had risen in his chair. "You lie!"he cried. "Do you hear! You lie! I tell you, you lie!"
Jimmie Dale's lips parted ominously.
"Sit down!" he gritted between his teeth.
The white in Carling's face had turned to gray, his lips wereworking--mechanically he sank down again in his chair.
Jimmie Dale still leaned over the desk, resting his weight on his rightelbow, the automatic in his right hand covering Carling.
"You cur!" whispered Jimmie Dale. "There's just one reason, only one,that keeps me from putting a bullet through you while you sit there.We'll get to that in a moment. There is that little story first--shallI tell it to you now? For the past four years, and God knows how manybefore that, you've gone the pace. The lavishness of this bachelorestablishment of yours is common talk in New York--far in excess of abank cashier's salary. But you were supposed to be a wealthy man in yourown right; and so, in reality you were--once. But you went throughyour fortune two years ago. Counted a model citizen, an upright man, anhonour to the community--what were you, Carling? What ARE you? Shall Itell you? Roue, gambler, leading a double life of the fastest kind. Youdid it cleverly, Carling; hid it well--but your game is up. To-night,for instance, you are at the end of your tether, swamped with debts,exposure threatening you at any moment. Why don't you tell me again thatI lie--Carling?"
But now the man made no answer. He had sunk a little deeper in hischair--a dawning look of terror in the eyes that held, fascinated, onJimmie Dale.
"You cur!" said Jimmie Dale again. "You cur, with your devil's work! Ayear ago you saw this night coming--when you must have money, or faceruin and exposure. You saw it then, a year ago, the day that Moyne,concealing nothing of his prison record, applied through friends for aposition in the bank. Your co-officials were opposed to his appointment,but you, do you remember how you pleaded to give the man his chance--andin your hellish ingenuity saw your way then out of the trap! Anex-convict from Sing Sing! It was enough, wasn't it? What chance hadhe!" Jimmie Dale paused, his left hand clenched until the skin formedwhitish knobs over the knuckles.
Carling's tongue sought his lips, made a circuit of them--and he triedto speak, but his voice was an incoherent muttering.
"I'll not waste words," said Jimmie Dale, in his grim monotone. "I'm notsure enough myself--that I could keep my hands off you much longer. Theactual details of how you stole the money to-day do not matter--NOW. Alittle later perhaps in court--but not now. You were the last to leavethe bank, but before leaving you pretended to discover the theft of ahundred thousand dollars--that, done up in a paper parcel, was even thenreposing in your desk. You brought the parcel home, put it in that safethere--and notified the president of the bank by telephone from here ofthe robbery, suggesting that police headquarters be advised at once. Hetold you to go ahead and act as you saw best. You notified the police,speciously directing suspicion to--the ex-convict in the bank's employ.You knew Moyne was dining out to-night, you knew where--and at a hintfrom you the police took up the trail. A little later in the evening,you took these two packages of banknotes from the rest, and with thissteamship ticket--which you obtained yesterday while out at lunch bysending a district messenger boy with the money and instructions in asealed envelope to purchase for you--you went up to the Moynes' flat inHarlem for the purpose of secreting them somewhere there. You pretendedto be much disappointed at finding Moyne out--you had just come for alittle social visit, to get better acquainted with the home life of youremployees! Mrs. Moyne was genuinely pleased and grateful. She took youin to see their little girl, who was
already asleep in bed. She leftyou there for a moment to answer the door--and you--you"--Jimmie Dale'svoice choked again--"you blot on God's earth, you slipped the money andticket under the child's mattress!"
Carling came forward with a lurch in his chair--and his hands went out,pawing in a wild, pleading fashion over Jimmie Dale's arm.
Jimmie Dale flung him away.
"You were safe enough," he rasped on. "The police could only construeyour visit to Moyne's flat as zeal on behalf of the bank. And itwas safer, much more circumspect on your part, not to order the flatsearched at once, but only as a last resort, as it were, after youhad led the police to trail him all evening and still remain withouta clew--and besides, of course, not until you had planted the evidencethat was to damn him and wreck his life and home! You were even generousin the amount you deprived yourself of out of the hundred thousanddollars--for less would have been enough. Caught with ten thousanddollars of the bank's money and a steamship ticket made out in afictitious name, it was prima-facie evidence that he had done the joband had the balance somewhere. What would his denials, his protestationsof innocence count for? He was an ex-convict, a hardened criminal caughtred-handed with a portion of the proceeds of robbery--he had succeededin hiding the remainder of it too cleverly, that was all."
Carling's face was ghastly. His hands went out again--again his tonguemoistened his dry lips. He whispered:
"Isn't--isn't there some--some way we can fix this?"
And then Jimmie Dale laughed--not pleasantly.
"Yes, there's a way, Carling," he said grimly. "That's why I'm here." Hepicked up a sheet of writing paper and pushed it across the desk--then apen, which he dipped into the inkstand, and extended to the other. "Theway you'll fix it will be to write out a confession exonerating Moyne."
Carling shrank back into his chair, his head huddling into hisshoulders.
"NO!" he cried. "I won't--I can't--my God!--I--I--WON'T!"
The automatic in Jimmie Dale's hand edged forward the fraction of aninch.
"I have not used this--yet. You understand now why--don't you?" he saidunder his breath.
"No, no!" Carling pushed away the pen. "I'm ruined--ruined as it is. Butthis would mean the penitentiary, too--"
"Where you tried to send an innocent man in your place, you hound; whereyou--"
"Some other way--some other way!" Carling was babbling. "Let me out ofthis--for God's sake, let me out of this!"
"Carling," said Jimmie Dale hoarsely, "I stood beside a little bedto-night and looked at a baby girl--a little baby girl with golden hair,who smiled as she slept."
Carling shivered, and passed a shaking hand across his face.
"Take this pen," said Jimmie Dale monotonously; "or--THIS!" Theautomatic lifted until the muzzle was on a line with Carling's eyes.
Carling's hand reached out, still shaking, and took the pen; and hisbody, dragged limply forward, hung over the desk. The pen spluttered onthe paper--a bead of sweat spurting from the man's forehead dropped tothe sheet.
There was silence in the room. A minute passed--another. Carling's pentravelled haltingly across the paper then, with a queer, low cry ashe signed his name, he dropped the pen from his fingers, and, risingunsteadily from his chair, stumbled away from the desk toward a couchacross the room.
An instant Jimmie Dale watched the other, then he picked up the sheet ofpaper. It was a miserable document, miserably scrawled:
"I guess it's all up. I guess I knew it would be some day. Moyne hadn'tanything to do with it. I stole the money myself from the bank to-night.I guess it's all up.
"THOMAS H. CARLING."
From the paper, Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the figure by thecouch--and the paper fluttered suddenly from his fingers to the desk.Carling was reeling, clutching at his throat--a small glass vial rolledupon the carpet. And then, even as Jimmie Dale sprang forward, the otherpitched head long over the couch--and in a moment it was over.
Presently Jimmie Dale picked up the vial--and dropped it back on thefloor again. There was no label on it, but it needed none--the strong,penetrating odor of bitter almonds was telltale evidence enough. It wasprussic, or hydrocyanic acid, probably the most deadly poison and theswiftest in its action that was known to science--Carling had providedagainst that "some day" in his confession!
For a little space, motionless, Jimmie Dale stood looking down at thesilent, outstretched form--then he walked slowly back to the desk, andslowly, deliberately picked up the signed confession and the steamshipticket. He held them an instant, staring at them, then methodicallybegan to tear them into little pieces, a strange, tired smile hoveringon his lips. The man was dead now--there would be disgrace enough forsome one to bear, a mother perhaps--who knew! And there was another waynow--since the man was dead.
Jimmie Dale put the pieces in his pocket, went to the safe, opened it,and took out a parcel, locked the safe carefully, and carried the parcelto the desk. He opened it there. Inside were nearly two dozen littlepackages of hundred-dollar bills. The other two packages that he hadbrought with him he added to the rest. From his pocket he took out thethin metal insignia case, and with the tiny tweezers lifted up one ofthe gray-coloured, diamond-shaped paper seals. He moistened theadhesive side, and, still holding it by the tweezers, dropped it onhis handkerchief and pressed the seal down on the face of the topmostpackage of banknotes. He tied the parcel up then, and, picking up thepen, addressed it in printed characters:
HUDSON-MERCANTILE NATIONAL BANK,
NEW YORK CITY.
"District messenger--some way--in the morning," he murmured.
Jimmie Dale slipped his mask into his pocket, and, with the parcel underhis arm, stepped to the door and unlocked it. He paused for an instanton the threshold for a single, quick, comprehensive glance around theroom--then passed on out into the street.
At the corner he stopped to light a cigarette--and the flame of thematch spurting up disclosed a face that was worn and haggard. He threwthe match away, smiled a little wearily--and went on.
The Gray Seal had committed another "crime."