 CHAPTER III A. THE MOTHERLOAD It was the following evening, and they had dined together again at the St. James Club, Jimmy Dale and Carothers of the Morning News Argus. From Clayton and a discussion of the Metzer murder, the conversation had turned, not illogically, upon the physiognomy of criminals in general. Jimmy Dale, lazily ensconced now in a lounging chair in one of the club's private library rooms, flicked a minute speck of cigar ash from the sleeve of his dinner-jacket, and smiled whimsically across the table at his friend. Oh, I daresay there's a lot in physiognomy, Carothers, he drolled. Never studied the thing, you know, that is, from the standpoint of crime. Personally I've only got one prejudice. I distressed, on principle, the man who wears a perennial and pompous smirk, which isn't of course strictly speaking physiognomy at all. You see, a man can't help his eyes being beady, or his nose pronounced, but pomposity and a smirk now, Jimmy Dale shrugged his shoulders. Carothers laughed, and then glanced ludicrously at Jimmy Dale, as the door, a jar, was pushed open, and a man entered. Speaking of angels, murmured Jimmy Dale, and sat up in his chair. Hello, Markle, he observed casually. You've met Carothers of the new Argus, haven't you? Markle was fat and important. He had beady black eyes, fastidiously trimmed whiskers, and a pronounced smirk. Markle blew his nose vigorously, coughed asthmatically, and held out his hand. Of course, certainly, said he effusively, I've met Carothers several times, used his sheet more than once to advertise a new bond flotation. The dominant note in Markle's voice was an ingratiating and unpleasant whine, and Carothers nodded, not very cordially, and shook hands. Markle went back to the door, closed it carefully, and returned to the table. Fact is, he smiled confidentially, I saw you two come in here a few minutes ago, and I've got something that I thought Carothers might be glad to have for his society column, say, in the Sunday edition. He dove into the inside pocket of his coat, produced a large, Morocco leather jewelers case, and, holding it out over the table between Carothers and Jimmy Dale, suddenly snapped the cover open, and then, with a complacent little chuckle that terminated in another fit of coughing, spilled the contents on the table under the electric reading lamp. Like a thing of living, pulsing fire it rolled before their eyes, a magnificent diamond necklace of wondrous beauty gleaming and scintillating as the light ray shot back from a thousand facets. For a moment both men gazed at it without a word. Little surprise from my wife, volunteered Markle, with a debonair wave of his pudgy hand, and trying to make his voice sound careless. The case lay open, patently displaying the name of the most famous jewelry house in America. Jimmy Dale's eyes fixed on Markle's whiskers, where they were brushed outward in an ornate and fastidious gray-black sweep. By Jove, he commented, you don't do things by halves, do you, Markle? Two hundred and ten thousand dollars I paid for that little bunch of gougas, said Markle, waving his hand again. Then he clapped Carothers heartily on the shoulder. What do you think of it, Carothers, eh? Say, a photograph of it, and one of Mrs. Markle, eh? Please, her, you know. She's crazy on this society stunt. Oh, flubbed up to me, of course. How's it strike you, Carothers? Carothers very evidently liked neither the man nor his manners, but Carothers above everything else was a gentleman. To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Markle, he said a little frigidly, I don't believe in this sort of thing. It's all right from a newspaper standpoint, and we do it. But it's just in this way that owners of valuable jewelry lay themselves open to theft. It simply amounts to advising every crook in the country that you have a quarter of a million at his disposal, which he can carry away in his vest pocket, once he can get his hands on it, and you invite him to try. Jimmy Dale laughed. And what Carothers means, Markle, is that you'll have the gray seal down your street. Carothers talks of crooks generally, but he thinks in terms of only one. He can't help it. He's been trying so long to catch the chap that it's become an obsession, eh, Carothers? Carothers smiled seriously. Perhaps, he admitted, I hope, though, for Mr. Markle's sake, that the gray seal won't take a fancy to it. If he does, Mr. Markle can say goodbye to his necklace. Poof! coughed Markle arrogantly, overrated. His cleverness is all in the newspaper columns. If he knows what's good for him, he'll know enough to leave this alone. Jimmy Dale was leaning over the table, poking gingerly with the tip of his forefinger at the center stone in the setting, revolving it gently to and fro in the light, a very large stone, whose weight would hardly be less than fifteen carats. Jimmy Dale lowered his head for a closer examination, and to hide a curious, mocking little gleam that crept into his dark eyes. Yes, I should say you're right, Markle, he agreed judicially. He ought to know better than to touch this. It would be too hard to dispose of. I'm not worrying, declared Markle, importantly. No, said Jimmy Dale, two hundred and ten thousand, you said. Any special significance to the occasion, if the question's not impertinent? Birthday, wedding, anniversary, or something like that? No, nothing like that, Markle grinned, winked secretively, and rubbed his hands together. I'm feeling good, that's all. I'm going to make the killing of my life tomorrow. Oh, said Jimmy Dale. Markle turned to Carruthers. I'll let you in on that, too, Carruthers, in a day or two, if you'll send a reporter around. Financial man, you know. It'll be worth your while. And now, how about this? What do you say to a little article in the photos next Sunday? There was a slight hint of rising color in Carruthers' face. If you'll send them to the society editor, I have no doubt he'll be able to use them. He said breastfully. All right! said Markle, and coughed, and patted Carruthers' shoulder patronizingly again. I'll just do that little thing. He picked up the necklace, dangled it till it flashed and flashed again under the light, then restored it very ostentatiously to its case, and the case to his pocket. Thanks awfully, Carruthers! He said as he rose from his chair. See you again, Dale. Good night. Carruthers glared at the door as it closed behind the man. Say it, prodded Jimmy Dale, sweetly. Don't feel restrained, because you are a guest. I absolve you in advance. Rotter, said Carruthers. Well, said Jimmy Dale, softly. You see, Carruthers? Carruthers' match crackled savagely as he lighted a cigar. Yes, I see, he growled. But I don't see, you'll pardon my saying so, how vulgarity like that ever acquired membership in the St. James Club. Carruthers, said Jimmy Dale plaintively, you ought to know better than that. You know, to begin with, since it seems he has advertised with you that he runs some sort of brokerage business in Boston. He's taken a summer home up here on Long Island, and some misguided chap put him on the club's visitors list. His card will not be renewed. Sleek customer, as any trifle familiar, I was only introduced to him last night. Carruthers grunted, broke his burnt match into pieces, and began to toss the pieces into an ashtray. Jimmy Dale became absorbed in an inspection of his hands, those wonderful hands with long, slim, tapering fingers, whose clean pink flesh masked a strength and power that was like to a steel vice. Jimmy Dale looked up, going to print a nice little story for him about the costliest and most beautiful necklace in America. He inquired innocently. Carruthers scowled. No, he said bluntly, I am not. He'll read the news-argus a long time before he reads anything about that, Jimmy. But therein Carruthers was wrong. The news-argus carried the story of Markle's diamond necklace in three-inch caps in red ink on the front page in the next morning's edition. And Carruthers gloated over it because the morning news-argus was the only paper in New York that did. Carruthers was to hear more of Markle and Markle's necklace than he thought, though for the time being the subject dropped between the two men. It was still early, barely ten o'clock, when Carruthers left the club and, preferring to walk to the newspaper offices, refused Jimmy Dale's offer of his limousine. It was but five minutes later, when Jimmy Dale, after chatting for a moment or two with those about in the lobby, in turn sought the coat room where Markle was being assisted into his coat. Getting home early, aren't you, Markle? remarked Jimmy Dale pleasantly. Yes, said Markle, and ran his fingers fuzzily, comb-fashioned, through his whiskers. Quite a little run-out to my place, you know. And with, you know what, I don't care to be out too late. No, of course, concurred Jimmy Dale, getting into his own coat. They walked out of the club together, and Markle climbed, importantly, into the tonneau of a big gray touring car. Ah, home, Peters! he sniffed at his chauffeur. And then, with the grand deloquent wave of his hand, to Jimmy Dale, night-dale! Jimmy Dale smiled with his eyes, which were hidden by the brim of his bat. Good night, Markle, he replied, and the smile crept curiously to the corners of his mouth as he watched the gray car disappear down the street. A limousine drew up, and Benson, Jimmy Dale's chauffeur, opened the door. Home, Mr. Dale, he asked cheerily, touching his cap. Yes, Benson, home, said Jimmy Dale absently, and stepped into the car. It was a luxurious car, as everything that belonged to Jimmy Dale was luxurious. And he leaned back luxuriously on the cushions, extended his legs luxuriously to their full length, plunged his hands into his overcoat pockets, and then a change stole strangely slowly over Jimmy Dale. The sensitive fingers on his right hand in the pocket had touched, and now played delicately over a sealed envelope that they had found there, played over it as though indeed by the sense of touch alone they could read the contents, and he drew his body gradually erect. It was another of those mysterious missives from her. The texture of the paper was invariably the same, like this one. How had it come there? Collusion with the coat boy at the club? That was hardly probable. Perhaps it had been there before he had entered the club for dinner. He remembered now that there had been several people passing, and that he had been jostled slightly in crossing the sidewalk. What, however, did it matter? It was there mysteriously, as scores of others had come to him mysteriously, with never a clue to her identity, to the identity of his, he smiled a little grimly, accomplice in crime. He took the envelope from his pocket and stared at it. His fingers had not been at fault. It was one of hers. The faint, elusive, exquisite fragrance of some rare perfume came to him as he held it. I'd give, said Jimmy Dale wistfully to himself, I'd give everything I own to know who you are, and some day please God I will know. Jimmy Dale tore the envelope very gently, as though the tearing almost were an act of desecration, and extracted the letter from within. He began to read aloud hurriedly and in snatches. Dear philanthropic crook. Charlton Park Manor, Markle's house, is the second one from the gates on the right hand side. Library leads off Reception Hall on left, door opposite staircase. Telephone in Reception Hall near vestibule entrance, left hand side. Safe is one of your father's make. Number 14321. Close closet behind the desk. Probably will be kept in cash box. Five servants, two men, three maids. Quarters on top story. Markle and wife occupy room over library. French windows to dining room on opposite side of the house. Opening on the lawn. Get it to night, Jimmy. Tomorrow would be too late. Dispose of it. See fit. Henry Wilbur. Marshall Building. Broadway. Fifth story. Through the glass paneled front of the car, Jimmy Dale could see his chauffeur's back, and the hand that held the letter dropped down to his side, and Jimmy Dale stared at his chauffeur's back. Then presently he read the letter again, as though committing it to memory now, and then tearing the paper into tiny shreds as he did with every one of her communications. He reached out of the window and allowed the little pieces to filter gradually from his hand. The gray seal. He smiled in his whimsical way. If it were ever known. He, Jimmy Dale, with his social standing, his wealth, his position. The gray seal. Not a police official. Not a secret service borough, probably in the civilized world, but knew the name. Not a man, woman, or child. Certainly in this great city around him, but to whom it was as familiar as their own. Danger? Yes. A battle of wits? Yes. His against everybody's, even against Carruthers, his old college chum. For, even as a reporter, before he had risen to the editorial desk, and even now that he had, Carruthers had been one of the keenest on the scent of the gray seal. Danger? Yes. But it was worth it. Worth it a thousand times for the very lure of the danger itself. But worth it, most of all, for his association with her, who by some amazing means, verging indeed on the miraculous, came into touch with all these things, and supplied him with the data on which to work, that always some wrong might be righted, or gladness come where there had been gloom before, or hope where there had been to spare, that into some fellow human's heart should come a gleam of sunshine. Yes, in spite of the howls of the police, the virulent diet-tribes of the press, an angry public screaming for his arrest, conviction, and punishment, there were those perhaps who even on their bended knees at night asked God's blessing on the gray seal. Was it strange then, after all, that the police, seeking a clue through motive, should have been driven to frenzy on every occasion in finding themselves forever confronted with what, from every angle they were able to view it, was quite a purposeless crime? On one point only they were right. The old dogma, the old, old cry, old as the institution of police, older than that, older since time immemorial. Cherché le fum. Quite right, but also quite purposeless. Jimmy Dale's eyes grew wistful. He had been hunting for the woman in the case himself now for months and years, indefatigably, using every resource at his command, quite purposelessly. Jimmy Dale shrugged his shoulders. Why go over all this to-night? There were other things to do. She had come to him again, and this time with a matter that entailed more than ordinary difficulty, more than usual danger, that would tax his wits and his skill to the utmost, not only to succeed, but to get out of it himself with the whole skin. Markle, eh? Jimmy Dale leaned back in his seat, clasped his hands behind his head, and his eyes half closed now, were studying Benson's back again through the plate glass front. He was still sitting in that position as the car approached his residence on Riverside Drive, but as it came to a stop, and Benson opened the door, it was a very alert Jimmy Dale that stepped to the sidewalk. Benson, he said crisply, I am going downtown again later on, but I shall drive myself, bring the touring car around, and leave it in front of the house. I'll run it into the garage when I get back. You need not wait up. Very good, sir, said Benson. In the hallway, Jason, the butler who had been butler to Jimmy Dale's father before him, took Jimmy Dale's hat and coat. It's a fine evening, Master Jim, said the privileged old man affectionately. Jimmy Dale took out his silver cigarette case, selected a cigarette, tapped it daintily on the cover of the case, and accepted the match from the old man hastily produced. Yes, Jason, said Jimmy Dale, pleasantly facetious. It's a fine night, a glorious night, moon and stars, and a balmy breeze, quite too fine indeed to remain indoors. In fact, you might lay out my gray Ulster. I think I will go for a spin presently, when I have changed. Yes, sir, said Jason. Anything else, Master Jim? No, that's all, Jason. Don't sit up for me. You may go to bed now. Thank you, sir, said the old man. Jimmy Dale went upstairs, opened the door of his own particular den on the right of the landing, stepped inside, closed the door, switched on the light, and Jimmy Dale's debonair nonchalance dropped from him as a mask instantly. And it was another Jimmy Dale, the professional Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The squat, barrel-shaped safe in the little alcove, opened the safe, took out that curious leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools, added to it a flashlight and an automatic revolver close to safe, and passed into his dressing room. Here he proceeded to divest himself rapidly of his evening clothes, selecting in their stead a suit of dark tweed. He heard Jason come up the stairs, pass along the hall, and mount the second flight to his own quarters, and presently came the sound of an automobile without. The dressing room fronted on the drive. Jimmy Dale looked out. Benson was just getting out of the touring car. Slipping the leather girdle then around his waist, Jimmy Dale put on his vest, then his coat, and walked briskly downstairs. Jason had laid out a gray ulster on the hall stand. Jimmy Dale put it on, selected a leather cap with motor-goggle attachment that pulled down almost to the tip of his nose, tucked a slouch hat into the pocket of the ulster, and leaving the house climbed into his car. He glanced at his watch as he started. It was a quarter of eleven. Jimmy Dale's lips pursed a little. I guess it'll make a night of it, and a tight squeeze at that to get back under cover before daylight. He muttered, I'll have to do some tall speeding. But at first, across the city and through Brooklyn, for all his impatience, it was necessarily slow. After that Jimmy Dale took chances, and once on the country roads of Long Island, the big, powerful car tore through the night like a greyhound whose leash is slipped. A half hour passed, Jimmy Dale's eyes shifting occasionally from the grey thread of road ahead of him, under the glare of the dancing lamps, to the road map spread out at his feet, upon which from time to time he focused his pocket flashlight. And then finally he slowed the car to a snail's pace. He should be very near his destination, that very ultra-exclusive subdivision of Charlton Park Manor. On either side of the road now was quite a thickly set stretch of wooded land, rising slightly on the right, and this Jimmy Dale scrutinized sharply. In fact, he stopped for an instant as he came opposite to a wagon-track. It seemed to be little more than that, that led in through the trees. If it's not too far from the seat of war, commented Jimmy Dale to himself as he went on again, it will do admirably. And then, a hundred yards farther on, Jimmy Dale nodded his head in satisfaction. He was passing the rather ornate stone pillars that marked the entrance to Charlton Park Manor, and on which the initial promoters of the subdivision, the real estate people, had evidently deemed it good advertising policy to expend a small fortune. Another hundred yards farther on, Jimmy Dale turned his car round, and returned past the gates to the wagon-track again. The road was deserted, not a car nor a vehicle of any description was in sight. Jimmy Dale made sure of that. And in another instant Jimmy Dale's own car, every light extinguished, had vanished. He had backed it up the wagon-track, just far enough in for the trees to screen it thoroughly from the main road. Nor did Jimmy Dale himself appear again on the main road, until just as he emerged close to the gates of Charlton Park Manor from a short cut through the woods. Also, he was without his ulster now, and the slouch hat had replaced the motor cap. Jimmy Dale, in the moonlight, took stock of his surroundings as he passed in at a business-like walk through the gates. It was a large park, if that name could properly be applied to it at all, and the houses he caught sight of one set back from the driveway on the right, were quite far apart, each in its own rather spacious grounds among the trees. The second house on the right, her letter had said. Jimmy Dale had already passed the first one. The next would be Markle's then, and it loomed ahead of him now, black and shadowy and unlighted. Jimmy Dale shot a glance around him. There was stillness, quiet everywhere, no sign of life, no sound. Jimmy Dale's face became tense, his lips tight, and he stepped suddenly from the sidewalk in among the trees. They were not thick here, of course, the trees, and the turf beneath his feet was well kept, and therefore soundless. He moved quickly now, but cautiously, from tree to tree, for the moonlight, flooding the lawn and house, threw all objects into bold relief. A minute, two, three went by, and a shadow flitted here and there, across the light-green sward, like the moving of the trees, swaying in the breeze. And then Jimmy Dale was standing close up against one side of the house, hidden by the protecting black shadows of the walls. But here, for a moment, Jimmy Dale seemed little occupied with the house itself. He was staring down past its length to where the woods made a heavy, dark background at the rear. Then he turned his head to face directly to the main road, then back again slowly, as though measuring an angle. Jimmy Dale had no intention of making his escape by the roundabout way in which he had been forced to come in order to make certain of locating the right house, the second one from the gates, and he was getting the bearings of his car and the wagon-track now. I guess that'll be about right, Jimmy Dale muttered finally, and now for—he slipped along the side of the house and halted, where, almost on a level with the ground, the French windows of the dining-room opened on the lawn. Jimmy Dale tried them gently. They were locked. An indulgent smile crept Jimmy Dale's lips, and his hand crept in under his vest. It came out again, not empty, and Jimmy Dale leaned close against the window. There was a faint, almost inaudible scratching sound, then a slight brittle crack, and Jimmy Dale laid a neat little four-inch square of glass on the ground at his feet. Through the aperture he reached in his hand, turned the key that was in the lock, turned the bolt-rod handle, pushed the door silently open, wide open, left them open, and stepped into the room. He could see quite well within, thanks to the moonlight. Jimmy Dale produced a black silk mask from one of the little leather pockets, adjusted it carefully over his face, and crossed the room to the hall door. He opened this, wide open, left it open, and entered the hall. Here it was dark, a pitch blackness. He stood for a moment, listening. Utter silence. And then, alert, strained, tense in an instant, Jimmy Dale crouched against the wall, and then he smiled a little grimly. It was only someone coughing upstairs, Markle, in his sleep perhaps, or perhaps in wakefulness. I'm a fool, confided Jimmy Dale to himself, as he recognized the cough that he had heard at the club. And yet, I don't know, once nerves get sort of taught, pretty stiff business, if I'm ever caught, the penitentiary sentence I get will be the smallest part of what's to pay. A round button of light played along the wall from the flashlight in his hand, just for an instant, and all was blackness again. But in that instant Jimmy Dale was across the hall, and his fingers were tracing the telephone connection from the instrument to where the wires disappeared in the baseboard of the floor. Another instant, and he had severed the wires with a pair of nippers. Then the quick firefly gleam of light to locate the staircase and the library door opposite to it, and moving without the slightest noise, Jimmy Dale's hand was on the door itself. Again he paused to listen. All was silence now. The door swung under his hand, and left open behind him, he was in the room. The flashlight winked once, suspiciously. Then he snapped its little switch, keeping the current on, and the ray dodged impudently here and there, all over the apartment. The safe was set in a sort of clothes closet behind the desk, she had said. Yes, there it was, the door at least. Jimmy Dale moved toward it, and paused as his lights swept the top of the intervening desk. A mass of papers, books, and correspondence littered it untidily. The yellow sheet of a telegram caught Jimmy Dale's eye. He picked it up and glanced at it. It read, Vain uncovered today, undoubtedly mother-load, enormously rich, put the screws on at once, thorough. Under the mask Jimmy Dale's lips twitched. I think, Markle, you miserable hound, said he softly, that God will forgive me for depriving you of a share of the profits. Two hundred and ten thousand, I think it was, you said the sparkler's cost. A curious little sound came from Jimmy Dale's lips like a chuckle. Jimmy Dale tossed the telegram back on the desk, moved on behind the desk, opened the door of the closet that had been metamorphosed into a vault, and the white light traveled slowly, searchingly, critically over the shining black enameled steel, the nickled knobs and dials of a safe that confronted him. Jimmy Dale nodded at it, familiarly, grimly. It's a number one, four, three, two, one, all right, he murmured, and one of the best we ever made. Pretty tough, but I've done it before. Say, half an hour of gentle persuasion, it would be too bad to crack it with soup. Besides, that's crude, Carothers would never forgive the gray seal for that. The light went out, blackness fell, Jimmy Dale's slim, sensitive fingers closed on the dial snob, his head touched the steel front of the safe as he pressed his ear against it for the tumbler's fall, and then silence. It seemed to grow heavier, that silence, with each second, to palpitate through the quiet house, to grow pregnant, premonitory of dread, of fear. It seemed to throb in long undulations, and the stillness grew loud. A moonbeam filtered in between the edge of the drawn shade and the edge of the window. It struggled across the floor in a wavering path, straight over the desk, and died away, shadowy and formless, against the blackness of the open, precessed door, against the blackness of the great steel safe, the blackness of a huddled form crouched against it. Only now and then, in a strange, projected, wraith-like effect, the moon ray glinted timidly on the tip of a nickel dial, and ghost-like, disclosed a human hand. Upstairs, Markle coughed again, then from the safe a whisper, heavy-breathed as from great exertion, missed it. The dial hurled with faint musical, little metallic clicks, then began to move slowly again, very, very slowly. The moonbeam, as though petulant at its own abortive attempt to satisfy its curiosity, retreated back across the floor, and faded away, blackness. Time passed, then from the safe again, but now in a low gasp, a pant of relief. Ah! The ear might barely catch the sound. It was as of metal sliding in well-oiled grooves, of metal meeting metal in a padded thud. The massive door swung outward. Jimmy Dale stood up, easing his cramped muscles, and floored at the sweat beads from his forehead. After a moment he knelt again. There was still the inner door, but that was a minor matter to Jimmy Dale, compared with what had gone before. Stillness once more, a long period of it, and then again that cough from above, a prolonged paroxysm of it this time, that went fracketing through the house. Jimmy Dale, in the act of swinging back the inner door of the safe, paused to listen, and little furrows under his mask gathered on his forehead. The coughing stopped. Jimmy Dale waited a moment, still listening. Then his flashlight bored into the interior of the safe. The cash box, probably, quoted Jimmy Dale, beneath his breath, and picked it up from where it lay in the bottom compartment of the safe. The lock snipped under the insistent probe of a delicate little blue-stealed instrument, and Jimmy Dale lifted the cover. There was a package of papers and documents on top, held together with plastic bands. Jimmy Dale spent a moment or two examining these. Then his fingers dived down underneath, and the next minute under the flashlight, the Morocco leather case open, the diamond necklace was sparkling and flashing on its white satin bed. Attempting little thing, isn't it? said Jimmy Dale gently. It was really thoughtful of you, Markle, to buy that this afternoon. Jimmy Dale replaced the necklace in the cash box, set the cash box on the floor, closed the inner door of the safe, and swung the outer door a little inward, but left it flauntingly ajar. Then, from a pocket of the leather girdle beneath his vest, he produced his small, thin, flat metal case. From this, from between sheets of oil paper, with the aid of a pair of tweezers, he lifted out a grey, diamond-shaped seal. Jimmy Dale was apparently fastidious. He held the seal with the tweezers as he moistened the adhesive side with his tongue, laid the seal on his handkerchief, and pressed the handkerchief firmly against the safe. As usual, Jimmy Dale's insignia bore no fingerprints as it lay neatly capping the knob of the dial. He reached down, picked up the cash box, and then, for the second time that night, held suddenly tense, alert, listening, his every muscle taught. A door opened upstairs. There came a murmur of voices, then a momentary lull. Jimmy Dale listened. Like a statue he stood there in the black, absolutely motionless, his head a little forward and to one side. Nothing, not a sound. Then a very low, curious, swishing noise, and a faint creak. Somebody was coming down the stairs. Jimmy Dale moved stealthily from the recess and noiselessly to the desk. Very faintly, but distinctly now, came a pad of either slippered or bare feet on the stairway carpet. Like a cat, soundless in his movements, Jimmy Dale crept toward the door of the room. Down the stairs came that pad of feet. Occasionally came that swishing sound. Nearer the door crept Jimmy Dale, and his lips were thinned now, his jaws clamped. How near were they together, he and this night parlor? At times he could not hear the other at all, and besides, the heavy carpet made the judgment of distance an impossibility. If he could gain the hall, and in the darkness elute the other, the way of escape through the dining room was open. And then, within a few feet of the door, Jimmy Dale halted abruptly, as a woman's voice rose queererlessly from the hallway above. You are making a perfect fool of yourself, Theodore Markle. Come back here to bed. Jimmy Dale's face hardened like stone. The answer came almost from the very threshold in front of him. I can't sleep, I tell you. It was Markle's voice in a disgruntled snarl. I was a fool to bring the confounded thing home. I'm going to take the library couch for the rest of the night. It happened quick then, quick as the winking of an eye, two sharp, almost simultaneous clicks of the electric light buttons pressed by Markle, and the hall and library were a flood of light. And Jimmy Dale leaped forward to where, in dressing gown and pajamas, blankets and bedding over one arm, a revolver dangling in the other hand, Markle stood full before the door in the hallway without. There was a wild yell of terror and surprise from Markle, then a deafening roar and a spit of flame from his revolver, a bitter, smothered exclamation from Jimmy Dale, as the cash box crashed to the floor from his left hand, and he was upon the other like a tiger. With the impact both men went to the floor, grappled and rolled over and over. Half mad with fear, shock and surprise, Markle fought like a maniac, and his voice in gasping shouts rang through the house. A minute too passed, and the men rolled about the whole floor. Markle, over middle age and unhealthily fat, against Jimmy Dale's six feet of muscle, only Jimmy Dale's left hand, dripping a red stream now, was almost useless. From above came wild confusion, women's voices and little shrieks, men's voices shouting in excitement, doors opening, running feet, and then Jimmy Dale had snatched the revolver from the floor where Markle had dropped it in the scuffle and was pressing it against Markle's forehead, and Markle, terror-stricken, had collapsed in a flabby, plyant heap. Jimmy Dale, still covering Markle with the weapon, stood up, the frightened faces of women protruded from the banisters above. The two man servants, at best none too enthusiastically on the way down, stopped as though stunned as Jimmy Dale swung the revolver upon them. Then Jimmy Dale spoke to Markle, pointing the weapon at Markle again. I don't like you, Markle, he said, with cold impudence. The only decent thing you'll ever do will be to die. If those men of yours on the stairs move another step, it will be your death warrant. Do you understand? I would suggest that you request them to stay where they are. Cold sweat was on Markle's face as he stared into the muzzle of the revolver, and his teeth chattered. Go back! He screamed hysterically at the servants. Go back! Sit down! Don't move! Do what he tells you! Thank you! said Jimmy Dale grimly. Now get up yourself! Markle got up. Jimmy Dale, back to the library door, picked up the cash-box, tucked it under his left armpit, and faced those on the stairs. Mr. Markle and I are going out for a little walk, he announced, coolly. If one of you make a move or raise an alarm before your master comes back, I shall be obliged in self-defense to shoot Mr. Markle. Mr. Markle quite understands that, I am sure. Do you not, Mr. Markle? Helen screamed Markle to his wife. Don't let him move! For God's sake, do as he says! Jimmy Dale slips, just showing beneath the edge of his mask, broadened in a pleasant little smile. Will you lead the way, Mr. Markle? He requested with an ironic deference. Through the dining-room, please? Yes, that's right. Markle walked weakly into the dining-room, and Jimmy Dale followed. A prod in the back from the revolver muzzle, and Markle stepped through the French windows and out on the lawn. Jimmy Dale faced the other toward the woods at the rear of the house. Go on! Jimmy Dale's voice was curt now, on compromising. And step lively! End of Part 1, Chapter 3B Part 1, Chapter 3C of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Reading by Mary Rody. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 3C, The Motherload. Concluded. They passed on along the side of the house and in among the trees. Fifty yards or so more, and Jimmy Dale halted. He backed Markle up against a large tree, not over gently. I say, Markle's teeth were going like castignettes, I— You'll oblige me by keeping your mouth shut, observed Jimmy Dale politely. And he whipped the cord of Markle's dressing gown loose and began to tie the man to the tree. You have many unpleasant characteristics, Markle. Your voice is one of them. Shall I repeat that I do not like you? He stepped to the back of the tree. Pardon me if I draw this uncomfortably tight. I don't think you can reach around to the nut. No? The trunk is too large? Quite so. He stepped around to face Markle again. The man was thoroughly frightened. His face was livid, his jaw sagged weakly, and his eyes followed every movement of the revolver in Jimmy Dale's hand in a sort of miserable fascination. Jimmy Dale smiled unhappily. I am going to do something, Markle, that I should advise no other man to do. I am going to put you on your honor. For the next fifteen minutes you are not to utter a sound. Do you understand? Yes, said Markle hoarsely. No, said Jimmy Dale sadly. I don't think you do. Let me be painfully explicit. If you break your vow of silence by so much as a second, then tomorrow or the next day or the day after, at my convenience, Markle, you and I will meet again for the last time. There can be no possible misapprehension on your part now, Markle. No, Markle could scarcely chatter out the word. Quite so, said Jimmy Dale, in velvet tones, he stood for an instant looking at the other with cool insolence. Then, good night, Markle. And five minutes later a great touring car was tearing New Yorkward over the Long Island roads at express speed. It was one o'clock in the morning as Jimmy Dale swung the car into a cross street off Lower Broadway and drew up at the curb beside a large office building. He got out, snuggled a cash box under his ulster, went around to the Broadway entrance, glanced up to note that a light burned in a fifth-story window, and entered the building. The hallway was practically in darkness, one or two incandescents only through a dim light about. Jimmy Dale stopped for a moment at the foot of the stairs beside the elevator well to listen. If the watchman was making rounds, in another part of the building Jimmy Dale began to climb. He reached the fifth floor, turned down the corridor, and halted in front of a door through the ground glass panel of which a light glowed faintly, as though coming from an inner office beyond. Jimmy Dale drew the black silk mask from his pocket, adjusted it, tried the door, found it unlocked, opened it noiselessly, and stepped inside. Across the room, through another door, half-open, the light streamed into the outer office where Jimmy Dale stood. Jimmy Dale stole across the room, crouched by the door to look into the inner office, and his face went suddenly rigid. Good God, he whispered, as bad as that! But it was a nonchalant Jimmy Dale to all outward appearances that, on the instant, stepped unconcernedly over the threshold. An elderly man, white-haired, kindly faced, kindly eyed, saved now that the face was drawn and haggard, the eyes full of weariness, was standing behind a flat-top desk, his fingers twitching nervously on a revolver in his hand. He whirled with a startled cry at Jimmy Dale's entrance, and the revolver clattered from his fingers to the floor. I am afraid, said Jimmy Dale, smiling pleasantly, that you were going to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur, Henry Wilbur, isn't it? Unmanned, trembling, the other stood, and nodded mechanically. It's really not a nice thing to do, said Jimmy Dale confidentially. Makes a mess, you see, too. He was pulling off his motor gauntlet, his ulster, his jacket, and having set the cash-box on the desk, was rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. Had a little experience myself this evening, he held out his hand that, with the forearm, was covered with blood. A little above the wrist, fortunately only a flesh wound, a little memento from a chap named Markle, the word burst quivering from the other's lips. Yes, said Jimmy Dale impeterably, do you mind if I wash a bit, and could you oblige me with a towel or something that would do for a bandage? The man seemed dazed. In a subconscious way he walked from the desk to a little cupboard and took out two towels. Jimmy Dale stooped while the other's back was turned, picked up the revolver from the floor, and slipped it into his trousers pocket. Markle, said Wilbur again, the same trembling anxiety in his voice as he handed Jimmy Dale the towels and motioned toward a wash-stand in the corner of the room. Did you say Markle, Theodore Markle? Yes, said Jimmy Dale, examining his wound critically. You had trouble? A fight with him? Is he dead? No, said Jimmy Dale, smiling a little grimly. He's pretty badly hurt, though, I imagine, but not in a physical way. Strange, whispered Wilbur, in a numb tone to himself, and he went back and sank down in his desk chair. Strange that you should speak of Markle. Strange that you should have come here tonight. Jimmy Dale did not answer. He glanced now and then at the other as he deftly dressed his wrist. The man seemed on the verge of collapse, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Jimmy Dale swore softly to himself. Wilbur was too old a man to be called upon to stand against the trouble and anxiety that was mirrored in the misery in his face that had brought him to the point of taking his own life. Jimmy Dale put on his coat again, walked over to the desk, and picked up the phone. By May he inquired courteously and confided a number to the mouthpiece of the instrument. There was a moment's wait during which Wilbur, in a desperate sort of way, seemed to be trying to rally himself to piece together a puzzle, as it were, and for the first time he appeared to take a personal interest in the masked figure that leaned against his desk. He kept passing his hands across his eyes, staring at Jimmy Dale. Then Jimmy Dale spoke into the phone. Morning News Argus Office. Mr. Carruthers, please. Thank you. Another wait. Then Jimmy Dale's voice changed its pitch and registered to a pleasant and natural, though quite unrecognizable bass. Mr. Carruthers, yes. I thought it might interest you to know that Mr. Theodore Markle purchased a very valuable diamond necklace this afternoon. Oh, you knew that, did you? Well, so much the better. You'll be all the more keenly interested to know that it is no longer in his possession. I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I quite forgot. This is the gray seal speaking. Yes, the gray seal. I have just come from Mr. Markle's country house, and if you hurry a man out there, you ought to be able to give the public an exclusive bit of news. A scoop, I believe you call it. You see, Mr. Carruthers, I am not ungrateful for. I might say the eulogistic manner in which the Morning News Argus treated me in that last affair. And I trust I shall be able to do you many more favors. I am deeply in your debt. And oh, yes, tell your reporter not to overlook the detail of Mr. Markle in his pajamas and dressing gown tied to a tree in his park. Mr. Markle might be inclined to be reticent on that point, and it would be a pity to deprive the public of any err atmosphere in the store, you know? What? No, I am afraid Mr. Markle's phone is err out of order. Yes, and by the way, speaking of phones, Mr. Carruthers, between gentlemen I know you will make no effort under the circumstances to discover the number I am calling from. Good night, Mr. Carruthers. Jimmie Dale hung the receiver abruptly on the hook. You see, said Jimmie Dale, turning to Wilbur, and then he stopped. The man was on his feet, swaying there, his face positively gray. My God will reverse that! What have you done? A thousand times better if I had shot myself as I would have done in another moment if you had not come in. I was only ruined then. I am disgraced now. You have robbed Markle safe. I am the one man in the world who would have a reason above all others for doing that, and Markle knows it. He will accuse me of it. He can prove I had a motive. I have not been home tonight. Nobody knows I am here. I cannot prove an alibi. What have you done?" Really, said Jimmie Dale almost plaintively, swaying himself up on the corner of the desk and taking the cash-box on his knee. Really, you are alarming yourself unnecessarily. I—but Wilbur stopped him. You don't know what you are talking about, Wilbur cried out in a choked way. Then his voice steadying, he rushed on. Listen, I am a ruined man, absolutely ruined. And Markle has ruined me. I did not see through his trick until too late. Listen, for years as a mining engineer I made a good salary and I saved it. Two years ago I had nearly seventy thousand dollars. It represented my life work. I bought an abandoned mine in Alaska for next to nothing. I was certain it was rich. A man by the name of Thurl, Jason T. Thurl, another mining engineer, a steamer acquaintance, was out there at the time. He was a partner of Markle's, though I didn't know it then. I started to work the mine. It didn't pan out. I dropped nearly every cent. Then I struck a small vein that temporarily recouped me and supplied the necessary funds with which to go ahead for a while. Thurl, who had tried to buy the mine out from under my option in the first place, repeatedly then tried to buy it from me at a ridiculous figure. I refused. He persisted. I refused. I was confident. I knew I had one of the richest properties in Alaska. Wilbur paused. A little row of glistening drops had gathered on his forehead. Jimmy Dale, balancing Markle's cash-box on one knee, drummed softly with his fingertips on the cover. The vein petered out, Wilbur went on, but I was still confident. I sank all the proceeds of the first strike and sank them fast for unaccountable accidents that crippled me both financially and in the progress of the work began to happen. Wilbur flung out his hands impotently. Oh, it's a long story, too long to tell. Thurl was at the bottom of those accidents. He knew as well as I did that the mine was rich. Better than I did, for that matter, for we discovered before we ran him out of Alaska that he had made secret borings on the property. But what I did not know until a few hours ago was that he had actually uncovered what we uncovered only yesterday—the mother-load. He was driving me as fast as he could into the last ditch, for Markle. I didn't know until yesterday that Markle had anything to do with it. I struggled on out there, hoping every day to open a new vein. I raised money on everything I had, except my insurance and the mine, and sank it in the mine. No one out there would advance me anything on a property that looked like a failure that had once already been abandoned. I have always kept an office here, and I came back east with the idea of raising something on my insurance. Markle, quite by haphazard, as I then thought, was introduced to me just before we left San Francisco on our way to New York. On the run across the continent, we became very friendly. Naturally, I told him my story. He played sympathetic good fellow and offered to lend me fifty thousand dollars on a demand note. I did not want to be involved for ascent more than was necessary, and as I said, I hoped from day to day to make another strike. I refused to take more than ten thousand. I remember now that he seemed strangely disappointed. Again Wilbur stopped. He swept the moisture from his forehead, and his fists clenched, came down upon the desk. You see the game? There was bitter anger in his voice now. You see the game? He wanted to get me in deep enough so that I couldn't wriggle out, deeper than ten thousand, that I could get at any time on my insurance. He wanted me where I couldn't get away, and he got me. The first ten thousand wasn't enough. I went to him for a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth, hoping always that each would be the last. Each time a new note, a demand note for the total amount was made, cancelling the former one, I didn't know his game, didn't suspect it, I blessed God for giving me such a friend. Until this, or rather yesterday afternoon when I received a telegram from my manager at the mine, saying that he had struck what looked like a very rich vein, the mother-load, and Wilbur's fists curled until the knuckles were like ivory in their whiteness. He added in the telegram that Thurl had wired the news of the strike to a man in New York by the name of Markle. Do you see? I hadn't had the telegram five minutes when a messenger brought me a letter from Markle, curtly informing me that I would have to meet my note tomorrow morning. I can't meet it. He knew I couldn't. With wealth in sight, I'm wiped out, a demand note, a call loan. Do you understand? And with a few months in which to develop the new vein I could pay it readily. As it is, I default the note, Markle attaches all I have left, which is the mine. The mine is sold to satisfy my indebtedness. Markle buys it illegally, upheld by the law, and acquires, robs me of it, and so, sit to me dail musingly, you were going to shoot yourself? Wilbur straightened up, and there was something akin to pathetic grandeur in the set of the old shoulders as they squared back. Yes, he said in a low voice, and shall I tell you why? Even if, which is not likely, there was something reverting to me over the purchase price, it would be a paltry thing compared with the mine. I have a wife and children. If I have worked for them all my life, could I stand back now at the last and see them robbed of their inheritance by a black-hearted scoundrel when I could still lift a hand to prevent it? I had one way left. What is my life? I am too old a man to cling to it where they are concerned. I have referred to my insurance several times. I have always carried heavy insurance. He smiled a little curious, Merthless smile, that has no suicide clause. He swept his hand over the desk, indicating the papers scattered there. I have worked late tonight getting my affairs in order. My total insurance is $52,000, though I couldn't borrow anywhere near the full amount on it. But at my death, paid in full, it would satisfy the note. My executors, by instruction, would pay the note and no dollar from the mine, no single grain of gold, not an ounce of quartz would Markle ever get his hands on and my wife and children would be saved. That is, his words ended abruptly with a little gasp. Jimmy Dale had opened the cash box and was dangling the necklace under the light, a stream of fiery flashing sparkling gems. Then Wilbur spoke again, a hard, bitter note in his voice pointing his hand at the necklace. But now, on top of everything, you have brought me disgrace, because you broke into his safe tonight for that? He would and will accuse me. I have heard of you, the gray seal. You have done a pitiful night's work in your greed for that thing there. For this, Jimmy Dale smiled ironically, holding the necklace up. Then he shook his head. I didn't break into Markle's safe for this. It wouldn't have been worthwhile. It's only paced. Paced! exclaimed Wilbur in a slow way. Paced! said Jimmy Dale placidly, dropping the necklace back into its case. Quite in keeping with Markle, isn't it? To make a sensation on the cheap. But that doesn't change matters, Wilbur cried out sharply after a numbed instance pause. You still broke into the safe, even if you didn't know then that the necklace was paced. Ah, but you see, I did know then, said Jimmy Dale softly. I am really—you must take my word for it— a very good judge of stones, and I had seen these before. Wilbur stared bewildered, confused. Then why—what was it that a paper, said Jimmy Dale with a little chuckle, and produced it from the cash box? It read like this. On demand, I promised to pay. My note! It came in a great surging cry from Wilbur, and he strained forward to read it. Of course, said Jimmy Dale, of course, your note. Did you think that I had just happened to drop in on you? Now then, see here, you just buck up and smile. There isn't even a possibility of you being accused of the theft. In the first place, Markle saw quite enough of me to know that it wasn't you. Secondly, neither Markle nor anyone else would ever dream that the break was made for anything else but the necklace, with which you have no connection. The papers were in the cash box, and were just taken along with it. Don't you see? And besides, the police with my very good friend Carruthers at their elbows will see very thoroughly to it that the grey seal gets full and ample credit for the crime. But Jimmy Dale pulled out his watch and yawned under his mask. It's getting to be an unconscionable hour, and you still a letter to write. A letter, Wilbur's voice was broken, his lips quivering. To Markle, said Jimmy Dale pleasantly, write him in reply to his letter of the afternoon and post it before you leave here, just as though you had written it at once promptly on receipt of his. He will still get it on the morning delivery. State that you will take up the note immediately on presentation at whatever bank he chooses to name. That's all. Seeing that he hasn't got it, he can't very well present it, can he? Eventually, having no use for the fake diamonds, I shall return the necklace together with the papers in his cash-box here, including your note. Eventually, uncomprehendingly, stumblingly, Wilbur repeated the word. In a month or two or three, as the case may be, explained Jimmy Dale brightly, whenever you insert a personal in the news argous to the effect that the mother-load has given you the cash to meet it, he replaced the note in the cash-box, slipped down to his feet from the desk and then he choked a little. Wilbur, the tear streaming down his face, unable to speak, was holding out his hands to Jimmy Dale. I, uh, good night, said Jimmy Dale hurriedly and stepped quickly from the room. Halfway down the first flight of stairs he paused, steps running after him sounded along the corridor above and then Wilbur's voice. Don't go, not yet, cried the old man. I don't understand. How did you know? Who told you about the note? Jimmy Dale did not answer. He went on noiselessly down the stairs. His mask was off now and his lips curved into a strange little smile. I wish I knew, said Jimmy Dale, wistfully to himself. End of part one, chapter three, C. Chapter four A. of The Adventures of Jimmy Dale This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard Reading by Mary Rody. Part one, The Man in the Case. Chapter four A. The Counterfeit Five It was still early in the evening, but a little after nine o'clock. The Fifth Avenue bus wended its way, jouncing its patrons, particularly those on the top seats, across town and turned into Riverside Drive. A short distance behind the bus, a limousine rolled down the cross street leisurely, silently. As the lights of passing craft on the Hudson and a myriad scintillating, luminous points leading the west shore came into view. Jimmy Dale rose impulsively from his seat on the top of the bus, descended the little circular iron ladder at the rear, and dropped off into the street. It was only a few blocks farther to his residence on the drive, and the night was well worth the walk. Besides restless, disturbed and perplexed in mind, the walk appealed to him. He stepped across the sidewalk and proceeded slowly along. A month had gone by, and he had not heard a word from her. The break on West Broadway, the murder of Metzer in Moriarty's Gambling Hill, the theft of Markel's diamond necklace, had followed each other in quick succession, and then this month of utter silence with no sign of her as though, indeed, she had never existed. But it was not this temporary silence on her part that troubled Jimmy Dale now, in the years that he had worked with this unknown, mysterious accomplice of his, whom he had never seen, there had been longer intervals than a bare month in which he had heard nothing from her. It was not that. It was the failure, total, absolute and complete. That was the only result for the month of ceaseless, unremitting, extremely expended effort, even as it had been the result many times before, in an attempt to solve the enigma that was so intimate and vital a factor in his own life. If he might lay any claims to cleverness, his resourcefulness, at least he was forced to admit was no match for hers. She came, she went without being seen, and behind her remained, instead of clues to her identity, only an amazing, intangible mystery that left him at times appalled and dismayed. How did she know about those conditions in West Broadway? How did she know about Metzor's murder? How did she know about Markle and Wilbur? How did she know about a hundred other affairs of the same sort that had happened since that night, years ago now, when out of pure adventure he had tampered with Texas, the jeweler's strong-room in Maiden Lane, and she had mysteriously then, too, solved his identity, discovered him to be the grey seal. Jimmy Dale, wrapped up in his own thoughts, entirely oblivious to his surroundings, traversed another block. There had never been since the world began, and there would never be again so singular and bizarre a partnership as this of hers and his. He, Jimmy Dale, with his strange double life, one of New York's young bachelor millionaires, one whose social status was unquestioned, and she, who, who, what? That was just it, who, what? What was she? What was her name? What one personal, intimate thing did he know about her? And what was to be the end? Not that he would have severed his association with her, not for worlds, though every time that by some new and curious method one of her letters found its way into his hands, outlining some fresh coup for him to execute, his peril and danger of discovery was increased in staggering ratio. Today the police hunted the grey seal as they hunted a mad dog. The paper stormed and raved against him in every detective bureau of two continents he was catalogued as the most notorious criminal of the age, and yet, strangely paradox, no single crime had ever been committed. Jimmy Dale's strong, fine-featured face lighted up. Crime, thanks to her there were those who blessed the name of the grey seal, those into whose lives had come joy, of misery, escaped from death even, and their blessings were worth a thousand fold the risk and peril of disaster that threatened him at every minute of the day. Thank God for her, murmured Jimmy Dale softly, but if I could only find her, see her, know who she is, talk to her and hear her voice. Then he smiled a little wanly. It's been a pretty tough month, and nothing to show for it. It had. It had been one of the hardest months through which Jimmy Dale had ever lived. The St. James, that most exclusive club, his favorite haunt, had seen nothing of him. The easel in his den that was his hobby had been untouched. There had been days even when he had not crossed the threshold of his home. Every resource at his command he called into play in an effort to solve the mystery. For nearly the entire month, following first this lead and then that, he had lived in the one disguise that he felt confident she knew nothing of. That was sanctuary, that miserable and disreputable room in a tenement on the east side, a tenement that had three separate means of entrance and exit. He had emerged day after day as Larry the Bat, a character as well known and as well liked in the exclusive circles of the Underworld, as was Jimmy Dale in the most exclusive strata of New York's society and fashion. It had been useless, all useless. Through his own endeavors, through the help of his friends of the Underworld, the lives of half a dozen men, Burt Hagans on West Broadway, for instance, Markles and others, had been laid bare to the last shred, but nowhere could be found the one vital point that linked their lives with hers, that would account for her intimate knowledge of them, and so furnish him with the clue that would then with certainty lead him to a solution of her identity. It was baffling, puzzling, unbelievable, bordering indeed on the miraculous. Herself, everything about her, her acts, her methods, her cleverness, intangible in one sense, were terrifically real in another. Jimmy Dale shook his head. The miraculous, and this practical, everyday life were wide and far apart. There was nothing miraculous about it. It was only that the key to it was so far beyond his reach. And then suddenly Jimmy Dale shrugged his shoulders in consonance with a whimsical change in both mood and thought. Larry the Bat is a hard taskmaster, he muttered facetiously. I'm afraid I'm not very presentable this evening, no bath this morning, and no shave, and after nearly a month of makeup, that beastly grease paint gets into the skin-creases in a most intimate way. He chuckled as the thought of old Jason his butler came to him. I saw Jason, torn between two conflicting emotions, shaking his head over the black circles under my eyes last night. He didn't know whether to worry over the first signs of a galloping decline, or break his heart at witnessing the young master he had dandled on his knees, going to the damn nation bow-wows and turning into a confirmed rue. I guess I'll have to mind myself, though. Even Carruthers detached his mind far enough from his editorial desk and the hope of exclusively publishing the news of the grey seals' capture in the morning news-argus to tell me I was looking seedy. It's wonderful the way a little paint will metamorphose a man. Well, anyway, here's for a good hot tub to-night and a fresh start. He quickened his pace. There were still three blocks to go, and here was no hurrying, jostling crowd to impede his progress. Indeed, as far as he could see up the drive, there was not a pedestrian in sight. And then, as he walked involuntarily, insistently, his mind harked back into the old groove again. I've tried to picture her, said Jimmy Dale softly to himself. I've tried to picture her a hundred, yes a thousand times, and a bus rumbling cityward went by him, squeaking, creaking, and rattling in its uneasy joints, and out of the noise almost at his elbow it seemed. A voice spoke his name, and in that instant intuitively he knew, and it thrilled him. Stopped the beat of his heart as dulcet soft, clear as the note of a silver bell it fell, and only one word. Jimmy? He whirled around. A limousine, wheels just grazing the curb, was gliding slowly and silently past him, and from the window a woman's arm, white gloved and dainty, was extended, and from the fingers to the pavement fluttered an envelope, and the car leaped forward. For the fraction of a second Jimmy Dale stood dazed, immovable, a gamut of emotions, surprise, fierce exultation, amazement, a strange joy, a mighty uplift swirling upon him. And then snatching up the envelope from the ground he sprang out into the road after the car. It was the one chance he had ever had, the one chance he had ever given him, and he had seen a white gloved arm. He could not reach the car, it was speeding away from him like an arrow now, but there was something else that would do just as well, something that with all her cleverness she had overlooked, the car's number dangling on the rear axle, the rays of the little lamp playing on the enameled surface of the plate. He held his own for a yard or more, and there floated back to him a little silvery laugh from the body of the limousine, and then Jimmy Dale laughed too and stopped. It was number fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six. He stood and watched the car disappear up the drive. What delicious irony! A month of grueling ceaseless toil that had been vain, futile, useless, and the key, when he was not looking for it, unexpectedly, through no effort of his, was thrust into his hand, number fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six. Jimmy Dale, the gently ironic smile still on his lips, though slim super-sensitive fingers of his, subconsciously noting that the texture of the envelope was the same as she always used, retraced his steps to the sidewalk. Number fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six said Jimmy Dale aloud, and halted at the curb as though rooted to the spot. It sounded strangely familiar, that number. He repeated it over again slowly. One, five, eight, three, six. And the smile left his lips, and upon his face came the look of a chastened child. She had used a duplicate plate. Fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six was the number of one of his own cars, his own particular runabout. For a moment longer he stood there, undecided whether to laugh or swear, and then his eyes fastened mechanically on the envelope he was twirling in his fingers. Here at least was something that was not that, on the contrary, as a hundred others in the past had done, outlined probably a grim night's work ahead for the gray seal, and if it were as those others had been, every minute from the moment of its receipt was precious time. He stepped under the nearest streetlight and tore the envelope open. Dear philanthropic crook it began, and then followed two closely written pages. Jimmy Dell read them, his lips growing gradually tighter, a smoldering light creeping into his dark eyes, and once he emitted a short, low whistle of consternation. That was at the end, as he read the post-script that was heavily underscored. Work quickly they will raid tonight. Be careful. Look out for Klein. He is the sharpest man in the Secret Service. For a brief instant longer Jimmy Dell stood under the streetlamp, his mind in a lightning quick way cataloging every point in her letter, viewing every point from a myriad angles, constructing, devising, mapping out a plan to dovetail into them. And then Jimmy Dell swung on a downtown bus. There was neither time nor occasion to go home now. That marvelous little kit of burglar's tools that peeped from their tiny pockets in that curious leather undervest, and that reposed now in the safe in his den would be useless to him tonight. Besides, in the breast pocket of his coat neatly folded was a black silk mask, and relics of his role of Larry the Bat, an automatic revolver, an electric flashlight, a steel Jimmy, and a bunch of skeleton keys were distributed among the other pockets of his smart tweed suit. Jimmy Dell changed from the bus to the subway, leaving behind him, strewn over many blocks, the tiny and minute fragments into which he had torn her letter. At Astor Place he left the subway, walked to Broadway, turned uptown for a block to 8th Street, then along 8th to 6th Avenue, and stopped. A rather shabby shop, a pitiful sort of a place, displaying in its window a heterogeneous conglomeration of cheap odds and ends, ink bottles, candy, pencils, cigarettes, pens, toys, writing pads, marbles, and a multitude of other small wares confronted him. Within a little old, sweet-faced grey-haired woman stood behind the counter, pottering over the rearrangement of some articles on the shelves. My word! said Jimmy Dell softly to himself. You wouldn't believe it, would you? And I've always wondered how these little stores managed to make both ends meet. Think of that old soul making fifteen or twenty thousand dollars from a layout like this, even if it has taken her time. Jimmy Dell had halted nonchalantly and unconcernedly by the curb, not too near the window, busied apparently in an effort to light a refractory cigarette, and then, about to enter the store, he gazed aimlessly across the street for a moment instead. A man came briskly around the corner from 6th Avenue, opened the store door, and went in. Jimmy Dell drew back a little and turned his head again as the door closed, and a sudden quick alert and startled look spread over his face. The man who had entered bent over the counter and spoke to the old lady. She seemed to listen with the dawning terror creeping over her features, and then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears. The man motioned toward a door at the rear of the store. She hesitated, then came out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though her limbs would not support her weight. Jimmy Dell slipped thin. I'm afraid, he muttered slowly, I'm afraid that I'm too late even now. And then as she came to the door and turned the key on the inside, pray heaven she doesn't turn the light out, or somebody might think I was trying to break in. But in that respect Jimmy Dell's fears were groundless. She did not turn out either of the gas jets that lighted the little shop. Instead, in a faltering, reluctant sort of manner, she led the way directly through the door in the rear, and the man followed her. The shop was empty, and Jimmy Dell was standing against the door on the outside. His position was perfectly natural. A hundred passersby would have noted nothing but a most commonplace occurrence. A man in the act of entering a store. And if he appeared to fumble and have trouble with the latch, what of it? Jimmy Dell, however, was not fumbling, hidden by his back that was turned to the street, those wonderful fingers of his, in whose tips seemed embodied and concentrated every one of the human senses, were working quickly, surely, accurately, without so much as the wasted movement of a single muscle. A faint tinkle and the key within fell from the lock to the floor. A faint click and the bolt of the lock slipped back. Jimmy Dell restored the skeleton keys and a little steel instrument that had accompanied them to his pocket, and quietly opened the door. He stepped inside, picked up the key from the floor, inserted it into the lock, closed the door behind him, and locked it again. To guard against interruption, observed Jimmy Dell a little quizzically. He was perhaps thirty seconds behind the others. He crossed the shop noiselessly, cautiously, and passed through the door at the rear. It opened into a short of passage that, after a few feet, gave on a sort of corridor at right angles. And down this ladder, facing him at the end, the door lighted room was open and he could see the figure of the man who had entered the shop, back turned, standing on the threshold. Voices, indistinct, came to him. The corridor itself was dark, and Jimmy Dell satisfied that he was fairly safe from observation, stole softly forward. He passed two doors on his left and the curious arrangement of the building that had puzzled him for a moment, became clear. The store made the front of an old tenement building with apartments above, and the rear of the store was a sort of apartment, too. The old lady's living quarters. End of Part 1, Chapter 4A Part 1, Chapter 4B of the Adventures of Jimmy Dell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org The Adventures of Jimmy Dell by Frank L. Packard Reading by Mary Rody Part 1, The Man in the Case Chapter 4B The Counterfeit Five Continued Step by step, testing each one against the possible creaking of the floor, Jimmy Dell moved forward, keeping close up against one wall. The man passed on into the room and now Jimmy Dell could distinguish every word that was being spoken and, crouched up in the dark corridor, in the angle of the wall and the door jam itself, could see plainly enough into the room beyond. Jimmy Dell's jaw crept out a little. A young man, gaunt, pale, wrapped in blankets, half sat, half reclined in an invalid's chair. The old lady on her knees, the tears streaming down her face, had her arms around the sick man's neck, while the other man, apparently upset at the scene, tugged vigorously at long gray mustaches. Sammy, Sammy! sobbed the woman piteously. Say you didn't do it, Sammy! Say you didn't do it! Look here, Mrs. Matthews, set the man with the gray mustaches gently. Now don't you go to make things any harder. I've got to do my duty just the same and take your son. The young man, a hectic flush beginning to burn on his cheeks, gazed wildly from one to the other. What! what is it? he cried out. The man threw back his coat and displayed a badge on his vest. I'm Klein of the Secret Service, he said gravely. I'm sorry, Sammy, but I want you for that little job in Washington at the Bureau, before you left on sick leave. Sammy Matthews struggled away from his mother's arms, pulled himself forward in his chair, and his tongue licked dry lips. What! what job! he whispered thickly. You know, don't you? The other answered steadily. He took a large, flat pocket-book from his pocket, opened it, and took out a five-dollar bill. He held this before the sick man's eyes, but just out of reach, one finger silently indicating the lower left-hand corner. Matthew stared at it for a moment, and the hectic flush faded to a grayish pallor and a queer, impotent sound gurgled in his throat. I see you recognize it, said the other quietly. It's open and shut, Sammy. That little imperfection in the plates got you, my boy. Sammy, Sammy, sobbed the woman again. Sammy, say you didn't do it. It's a lie, said Matthews Horsley. It's a lie. That plate was condemned in the burrow for that imperfection, condemned and destroyed. Condemned to be destroyed, corrected the other without raising his voice. There's a little difference there, Sammy. About twenty years difference in the Federal Pen. But it wasn't destroyed. This note was printed from it by one of the slickest gangs of counterfeiters in the United States. But I don't need to tell you that. I guess you know who they are. I've been after them a long time, and I've got them now just as tight as I've got you. Instead of destroying that plate, you stole it and disposed of it to the gang. How much did they give you? Matthews' face seemed to hold a dumb horror, and his fingers picked at the arms of the chair. His mother had moved from beside him now, and both hands were patting at the man's sleeve in a pitiful way, while again and again she tried to speak, but no words would come. It's a lie, said Matthews again in a colorless, mechanical way. The man glanced at Mrs. Matthews as he put the five-dollar note back into his pocket. Seemed to choke a little, shook his head, and all trace of the official sternness that had crept into his voice disappeared. It's no good, he said in a low tone. Don't do that, Mrs. Matthews. I've got to do my duty. He leaned a little toward the chair. It's dead to right, Sammy. You might as well lean breast of it. It was up to you and Al Gregor to see that the plate was destroyed. It wasn't destroyed. Instead, it shows up in the hands of a gang of counterfeiters that I've been watching for months. Furthermore, I've got the plate itself. And finally, though I haven't placed him under arrest yet, for fear you might hear of it before I wanted you to, and make a getaway, put my hands on him, and I've got his confession that you and he worked the game between you to get that plate out of the burrow and disposed of it to the gang. Oh, my God! It came a while, cry from the sick man, and in a desperate, lurching way he struggled up to his feet. Al Gregor said that. Then—then I'm done. He clutched at his temples. But it's not true. It's not true. If the plate was stolen, and it must have been stolen, or that note wouldn't have been found, it was Al Gregor who stole it. I didn't, I tell you. I knew nothing of it, except that he and I were responsible for it, and—and I left it to him. That's the only way I'm to blame. He's caught, and he's trying to get out of it with a light sentence, by pretending to turn state's evidence, but—but I'll fight him. I can't prove it. It's only his word against mine, and—the other shook his head again. It's no good, Sammy, he said, a touch of sternness back in his tones again. I told you it was open and shut. It's not only Al Gregor. One of the gang got weak knees when I got him where I wanted him the other night, and he swears that you are the one who delivered the plate to them. Between him and Gregor, myself, I've got evidence enough for any jury against every one of the rest of you. Horror, fear, helplessness seem to mingle in the sick man's staring eyes, and he swayed unsteadily upon his feet. I'm innocent," he screamed out, but I'm caught, I'm caught in a net, and I can't get out. They lied to you. But no one will believe it any more than you do, and—and it means years for me, oh God, twenty years—and his hands went wriggling to his temples again, and he toppled back in a faint into the chair. You've killed him! You've killed my boy!" The old lady shrieked out piteously and flung herself toward the senseless figure. The man jumped from the table across the room, on which was a row of bottles, snatched one up, drew the cork, smelled it, and ran back with the bottle. He poured a little of the contents into his cupped hand, held it under young Matthew's nostrils, and pushed the bottle into Mrs. Matthew's hands. Bathe his forehead with this, Mrs. Matthews. He directed reassuringly. He'll be all right again in a moment. There, see, he's coming around now. There was a long, fluttering sigh, and Matthews opened his eyes. Then a moment's silence. And then he spoke with an effort, with long pauses between the words. Am I to go now? The words seemed to bring absolute terror in the old lady's ears. She turned and dropped to her knees on the floor. Mr. Klein, Mr. Klein! She sobbed out, oh, for God's love, don't take him. Let him off, let him go. Boy, all I've got. You've got a mother, haven't you? You know? The tears were streaming down the sweet, old face again. Oh, won't you, for God's dear name, won't you let him go? Won't— Stop! The man cried huskily. He was mopping at his face with his handkerchief. I thought I was case-hardened. I ought to be. But I guess I'm not. But I've got to do my duty. You're only making it worse for Sammy there, as well as me. Her arms were around his knees now, clinging there. Why can't you let him off? She pleaded hysterically. Why can't you, why can't you? Nobody would know. And I'd do anything. I'd pay anything, anything. I'll give you ten, fifteen thousand dollars. My poor woman, he said kindly placing his hand on her head. You are talking wildly, a part altogether from the question of duty, even if I succeeded in hushing the matter up. I would probably at least be suspected and certainly discharged. And I have a family to support. And if I were caught, I'd get ten years in the federal prison for it. I'm sorry for this. I believe it's your boy's first offence. And if I could let him off, I would. But you can, you can— she burst out rocking on her knees, clinging tighter still to him, as though in a paroxysm of fear that he might somehow elude her. It will kill him. It will kill my boy. And you can save him. And even if they discharged you, what would that mean against my boy's life? You wouldn't suffer. Your family wouldn't suffer. I'll—I'll take care of that. Perhaps I could raise a little more than fifteen thousand. But oh, have pity, have mercy, don't take him away. The man stared at her for a moment, stared at the white face on the reclining chair, and passed his hand heavily across his eyes. You will, you will! It came in a great surging cry of joy from the old lady. You will—oh, thank God, thank God, I can see it in your face. I—I guess I'm soft, he said huskily, and stooped and raised Mrs. Matthews to her feet. Don't cry any more. It'll be all right. It'll be all right. I'll—I'll fix it up somehow. I haven't made any arrests yet. And well, I'll take my chances. I'll get the plate and turn it over to you to-morrow. Only—only it's got to be destroyed in my presence. Yes, yes! I'm going to smile through her tears, and then she flung her arms around her son's neck again. And when you come to-morrow, I'll be ready with the money to do my share, too, and— but Sammy Matthews shook his head. You're wrong, both of you, he said weakly. You're a white man, Klein, but destroying that plate won't save me. The minute a single note printed from it shows up, they'll know back there in Washington that the plate was stolen, no, you're safe enough there, the other were interposed heavily. Knowing what was up, you don't think I'd give the gang a chance to get them into circulation, do you? I got them all when I got the plate, and—he smiled a little anxiously— I'll bring them here to be destroyed with the plate. It would finish me now, as well as you, if one of them ever showed up. Say, he said suddenly, with the catch in his breath, I—I don't think I know what I'm doing. Mrs. Matthews reached out her hands to him. What can I say to you, she said brokenly, what—Jimmy Dale drew back along the wall. A little away from the door he quickened his pace, still moving, however, with extreme caution. They were still talking behind him as he turned from the corridor into the passageway leading to the store, and from there into the store itself. And then suddenly, in spite of caution, his foot slipped on the bare floor. It was not much, just enough to cause his other foot, poised tentatively in the air, to come heavily down, and a loud and complaining creak echoed from the floor. Jimmy Dale's jaw snapped like a steel trap. From down the corridor came a sudden, excited exclamation in the little old lady's voice, and then her step-sounded running toward the store. In the fraction of a second Jimmy Dale was at the front door. Clumsy, blundering, fool, he whispered fiercely to himself as he turned the key, opened the door noiselessly until it was just a jar, and turned the key in the lock again, leaving the bolt protruding out. One step backward, and he was rapping on the counter with his knuckles. Isn't anybody here? He called out loudly. Isn't any—oh, as Mrs. Matthews appeared in the back doorway. A package of cigarettes, please. She stared at him, a little frightened, her eyes red and swollen with recent crying. How—how did you get in here? She asked tremendously. I beg your pardon? Inquired Jimmy in polite surprise. I—I locked the door. I'm sure I did. She said more to herself than to Jimmy Dale, and hurried across the floor to the door as she spoke. Jimmy Dale, still politely curious, turned to watch her. For a moment bewilderment and a puzzled look were in her face, and then a sort of surprised relief. I must have turned the key in the lock without shutting the door tight, she explained, for I knew I turned the key. Jimmy Dale bent forward to examine the lock, and nodded. Yes, he agreed with the smile. I should say so. Then gravely courteous. I'm sorry to have intruded. It is nothing, she answered, and evidently anxious to be rid of him, moved quickly around behind the counter. What kind of cigarettes do you want? Egyptian—any kind—said Jimmy Dale, laying a bill on the counter. He pocketed the cigarettes, and his change, and turned to the door. Good evening! he said pleasantly, and went out. Jimmy Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly. As he started along the street, he heard the door of the little shop close with the sort of super-careful bang. The key turned, and the latch rattled to try the door. The little old lady was bent on making no mistake a second time. And then the smile left Jimmy Dale's lips. The face grew strained and serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue. Here he paused for an instant. There was the elevated, the surface cars, which would be the quicker. He looked up the avenue. There was no train coming. The nearest surface car was blocks away. He bit his lips in mixation, and then, with a jump, he was across the street nailing a passing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on. Got a fare? called Jimmy Dale. No, sir, answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt. Good! Jimmy Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open. Do you know where the palace saloon on the Bowery is? Yes, sir, replied the man. Jimmy Dale held a ten-dollar banknote up before the chauffeur's eyes. Earned that in four minutes, then, he snapped, and sprang into the cab. The taxicab swerved around on a little better than two wheels, started on a mad dash down the avenue, and Jimmy Dale braced himself grimly in his seat. The cab swerved again, tore across Waverly Place, circuited Washington Square, crossed Broadway, and hurled finally into the upper end of the Bowery. Jimmy Dale spoke once to himself, plaintively. It's too bad I can't let old Carruthers in on this, for a scoop with his precious morning-news-argus. But if I get out of it alive myself, I'll do well. Wonder if the Dale ever come, when he finds out that his very dear friend, an old college pal, Jimmy Dale, is the gray seal that he's turned himself inside out for about four years now to catch, and that he'd trade his soul with the devil any time to lay hands on. Good old Carruthers! The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime. Am I? The cab drew up at the curb. Jimmy Dale sprang out, shoved the bill into the chauffeur's hand, stepped quickly across the sidewalk, and pushed his way through the swinging doors of the palace saloon. Inside, leisurely and nonchalantly, he walked down past the length of the bar to adorn at the rear. This opened into a passageway that led to the side entrance of the saloon on the cross street. The Dale emerged from the side entrance, crossed the street, retraced his steps to the bowery, crossed over, and walked rapidly down that thoroughfare for two blocks. Here he turned east into the cross street, and here, once more, his pace became leisurely and unhurried. It's a strange coincidence, though possibly a very happy one, said Jimmy Dale as he walked along, that it should be on the same street as the sanctuary. Ah, this ought to be the place. An alleyway corresponding to the one that flanked the tenement, where, as Larry the Bat, he had paid room rent as a tenant for several years, in fact, the alleyway next above it, and but a short block away, intersected the street, narrow, black, and uninviting. Jimmy Dale, as he passed, peered down its length. No light, that's good, commented Jimmy Dale to himself. Then, window opens on alleyway ten feet from ground, shoe store, Russian Jew, in basement, go in front door, straight hallway, room at end, Russian Jew probably accomplice. Be careful that he does not hear you moving overhead. Jimmy Dale's mind, with that curious faculty of his, was subconsciously repeating snatches from her letter word for word. Even as he noted the dimly-lighted, untidy, and disorderly interior of what, from strings of leather slippers that decorated the cellar-like entrance, was evidently a cheap and shoddy shoe store in the basement of the building. The building itself was frickety and tumbled down, three stories high, and given over undoubtedly to gregarious foreigners of the poorer class, a rabbit burrow, as it were, having a multitude of rumours and lodgers. There was nothing ominous or even secretive about it, up the short flight of steps to the entrance, even the door hung carelessly half-open. Jimmy Dale's slouch hat was pulled a little farther down over his eyes, as he mounted the steps and entered the hallway. He listened a moment. A sort of subdued, quarrelous hubbub seemed to hum through the place, as voices, men's, women's, and children's, echoing out from their various rooms above, mingled together, and floated down the stairways in a discordant medley. Jimmy Dale stepped lightly down the length of the hall, and listened again, this time intently, with his ear to the keyhole of the door that made the end of the passage. There was not a sound from within. He tried the door, smiled a little as he reached for his keys, worked over the lock, and straightened up suddenly as his ear caught a descending step on the stairs. It was two flights up, however, and the door was unlocked now. Jimmy Dale opened it, and, like a shadow, slipped inside. And as he locked the door behind him, smiled once more. The door lock was but a paltry makeshift at best, but inside his fingers had touched a massive steel bolt that, when shot home, would yield when the door itself yielded, and not before. Without moving the bolt, he turned, and his flashlight, for a moment, swept the room. Not much like the way they describe this sort of place in storybooks, murmured Jimmy Dale capriciously, but I get the idea. Mr. Russian Jew downstairs makes a bluff at using it for a storeroom. Again the flashlight made a circuit. Here, there, and everywhere, seemingly without any attempt at order, were piles of wooden shipping cases. Only the center of the room was clear and empty, that and a vacant space against the wall by the window. Jimmy Dale, moving without a sound, went to the window. There was a shade on it, and it was pulled down. He reached up underneath it, felt for the window fastening, and unlocked it. Then cautiously tested the window itself by lifting it an inch or two. It slid easily in its grooves. He stood then for a moment, hard-faced, a frown gathering his forehead into heavy furrows, as the flashlight's ray again and again darted hither and tither. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in the room, but wooden packing-cases. He lifted the cover of the one nearest to him and looked inside. It was quite empty except for some pieces of heavy cord and a few cardboard shoe-boxes that in turn were empty too. It's here, of course, that Jimmy Dale thoughtfully to himself. Clever work, too, but I can't move half a hundred packing-cases without that chap below hearing me. And I can't do it in ten minutes, either, which I imagine is the outside limit of time. Fortunately, though, these cases are not without their compensation. A dozen men could hide here. He began to move about the room, and now he stewed before one pile of boxes and then another, curiously attempting to lift up the entire pile from the bottom. Some he could not move, others, by exerting all his strength, gave a little, and then, finally, over in one corner he found a pile that appeared to answer his purpose. These are certainly empty, he muttered. There was just room to squeeze through between them and the next stack of cases alongside, but once through, by the simple expedient of moving the cases out a little to take advantage of the angle made by the corner of the room, he obtained ample space to stand comfortably upright against the wall, but Jimmy Dale was not satisfied yet. Could he see out into the room? He experimented with his flashlight, and carefully shifted the screen of cases before him a little to one side, and yet still he was not satisfied with the sort of ironical droop at the corners of his lips, as though suddenly there had flashed upon him the inspiration that fathered one of those whimsical ideas and fancies that were so essentially a characteristic of Jimmy Dale. He came out from behind the cases, went across the room to the case he had opened when he first entered, took out the cord and the cover of one of the cardboard shoeboxes, and with these returned to his hiding place once more. The sounds from the upper stories of the tenement now reached him hardly at all, but from below, directly under his feet almost, he could hear someone, the proprietor of the shoe store probably, walking about. Tense, every faculty now on the alert, his head turned in a strained, attentive attitude. Jimmy Dale threw on the flashlight's tiny switch, took that intimate and thin metal case from his pocket, extracted a diamond-shaped gray paper seal with the little tweezers, moistened the adhesive side, and stuck it in the center of the white cardboard box cover, then tore the edges of the cardboard down until the hole was just small enough to slip into his pocket. Through the cardboard he looped a piece of cord, placard fashion, and with his pencil printed the four words, with the compliments of, above the gray seal. He surveyed the result with a grim, mirthless chuckle, and put the piece of cardboard in his pocket. I'm taking the longest chances I ever took in my life, said Jimmy Dale very seriously to himself, as his fingers twisted and doubled, and tied the remaining pieces of cord together, and finally fashioned a running noose in one end. The cord in the flashlight went into his pocket, the room was in darkness, the black mask was whipped from his breast pocket and adjusted to his face, and his automatic was in his hand. Came the creak of a footstep, as though on a ladder exactly below him, another and another, receding curiously in its direction, yet at the same time growing louder in sound, as if nearer the floor, then a crack of light showed in the floor in the center of the room. This held for an instant, then expanded suddenly into a great luminous square, and through a trapped door, opened wide now, a man's head appeared.