
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Jimmie Dale and the Blue Envelope Murder
Author: Packard, Frank Lucius (1877-1942)
Date of first publication: 1930
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Garden City and New York: Doubleday, Doran, 1930
   (first edition)
Date first posted: 10 November 2009
Date last updated: 10 November 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #412

This ebook was produced by:
Iona Vaughan, woodie4, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




  JIMMIE DALE AND
  THE BLUE ENVELOPE MURDER


  BOOKS BY
  FRANK L. PACKARD

  JIMMIE DALE AND
  THE BLUE ENVELOPE MURDER

  THE BIG SHOT

  TIGER CLAWS

  SHANGHAI JIM

  THE DEVIL'S MANTLE

  TWO STOLEN IDOLS

  THE RED LEDGER

  BROKEN WATERS

  RUNNING SPECIAL

  THE LOCKED BOOK

  THE FOUR STRAGGLERS

  JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE

  DOORS OF THE NIGHT

  PAWNED

  THE WHITE MOLL

  FROM NOW ON

  THE NIGHT OPERATOR

  THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

  THE WIRE DEVILS

  THE SIN THAT WAS HIS

  THE BELOVED TRAITOR

  GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN

  THE MIRACLE MAN




  FRANK L. PACKARD

  JIMMIE DALE AND

  THE BLUE ENVELOPE MURDER



  DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.

  GARDEN CITY    1930    NEW YORK

  PRINTED AT THE _Country Life Press_, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A.


  COPYRIGHT, 1930
  BY FRANK L. PACKARD
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  FIRST EDITION




           TO

  BIG AND LITTLE M. P. P.




                 CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                           PAGE

      I     ALIAS THE GRAY SEAL        1

     II    THE ONLY WAY               10

    III   THE BREAK                   19

     IV    DRAWN BLINDS               27

      V     DETECTIVE SERGEANT WAUD   36

     VI    SMARLINGHUE                53

    VII   CROOKS KNOWN OF OLD         63

   VIII  THE COUNCIL ENDS             80

     IX    TWISTY MUNN                92

      X     THE FERRET               111

     XI    FRAYED THREADS            129

    XII   THE SECOND VISITOR         140

   XIII  THE TWO OAKS                162

    XIV   MEN IN MASKS               175

     XV    INSIDE INFORMATION        188

    XVI   WITHOUT REHEARSAL          200

   XVII  AT MIDNIGHT                 208

  XVIII THE TOCSIN'S STORY           215

    XIX   THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY       226

     XX    THE TWO VOICES            238

    XXI   THE TRAP                   261

   XXII  THE FINAL ROUND             269




JIMMIE DALE AND
THE BLUE ENVELOPE MURDER




CHAPTER I

ALIAS THE GRAY SEAL


The lounge windows of the St. James Club, that club of clubs, looked out
on Fifth Avenue. Jimmie Dale, ensconced in a deep armchair, turned
slightly away from his two companions, and stared out introspectively at
the lighted thoroughfare, now comparatively deserted in the late evening
hour. He was suddenly conscious that once upon a time he had lived and
taken part in the same scene, or one whose similarity was so marked as
to make it almost identical, that was being enacted around him now. He
had had experiences of this sort before at rare and unexpected
intervals--just as most people had, he supposed--but there always seemed
to be something portending, something almost eerie and supernatural
about such happenings which affected him unpleasantly.

Herman Carruthers, the managing editor of the _Morning News-Argus_, had
begun reminiscing about the Gray Seal, and had just made the statement
that, since the Gray Seal had not been heard of for so long, the Gray
Seal was therefore indubitably dead. It was precisely the same statement
Carruthers had made one evening in this same club years ago in the early
days of the Gray Seal's career. There had been only two present on that
occasion, Carruthers and himself; to-night there was a third, Ray
Thorne--and out of Thorne's mouth, startlingly, in instant reply, had
come to all intents and purposes the very words that he, Jimmie Dale,
had used on that other night.

"Why not give him the benefit of the doubt and say that he has
reformed?" Thorne had asked.

Jimmie Dale drew deep on his cigarette. The sequel to that other
occasion had been the sudden reappearance of the Gray Seal. And
to-night? Ridiculous, of course! Impossible! So far as anybody in this
world would ever know, with the one exception of the Tocsin, the Gray
Seal _was_ dead. Why, then, should there be any sense of portent?
To-night was staging a rather curious coincidence, of course--but that
was all. He swung around in his chair again with a quizzical smile as
Carruthers addressed him:

"What do you say about it, Jimmie?"

"Good Lord," complained Jimmie Dale whimsically, "how should I know?"

"Well, I'll tell you then," reiterated Carruthers stubbornly. "He's
dead!"

Jimmie Dale laughed slyly.

"You know, really, Carruthers, old chap, you rather amuse me. I have
just recalled that we were on the same topic here in this same club some
years ago and you made the same statement. And you were wrong--oh, quite
wrong! If the Gray Seal had ever been dead, he certainly came to life
again that night with a wallop!"

"Yes, I was wrong in an actual sense," Carruthers admitted; "but I was
right in another--and that's why I am so positive that he has now passed
on to the great beyond. You will also remember that, at the time, I said
he couldn't stop being a crook--and live? Well, he couldn't--and didn't.
But that period of inactivity to which we are referring had endured
only about a year; whereas now it is quite a different proposition, so
different that I repeat without hesitation that it is a certainty he is
dead. You know that since the beginning of the war down to to-night, a
year after the war is over, nothing during all that time has ever been
heard of him and his filthy, murderous tricks."

"Filthy, murderous tricks!" Jimmie Dale whistled plaintively. "Oh,
Carruthers! What apostasy! It somehow sticks in my memory that you used
to call him the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the
annals of crime."

"So I did," said Carruthers a little gruffly. "And so he was--up to a
certain point in his career. Teasing the public and the police with his
diamond-shaped gray-paper seals every time he pulled one of his
apparently purposeless breaks, was one thing; but when it came to the
brutal and cold-blooded murders that he committed afterward--more than
one of them, mind you--that was quite another. It is my firm conviction
that if he had ever been caught, the mob would have taken justice into
its own hands and torn him to pieces--and he Would have deserved it! He
became a blood-drunk monster with no single thing to be said in his
favor."

Jimmie Dale chuckled.

"Ingrate!" he murmured accusingly. "Have you forgotten what he was worth
to you as front-page copy? Didn't you tell me once that he used to sell
out the whole edition of your beastly sheet every time he broke loose?"

Thorne, joining in the conversation, laughed outright.

"And I guess that's right, too!" he said. "I wasn't living in New York
then, but if even the papers abroad featured him, I can imagine the
gold mine he must have been to the press here. However, I don't suppose
Carruthers has any regrets to-day over the loss of his one-time
headliner. Eh, Carruthers--in these piping days of joyous crime? Plenty
of stuff, continuous performance--what? How many gang murders on the
menu in to-morrow morning's edition?"

"Yes; it's pretty fierce!" Carruthers nodded. "New York is about as safe
to-day as a front-line trench was in the war. The days when we ran the
Gray Seal in red ink were zephyr-like compared with these--but there was
never but one Gray Seal, and there'll never be anything like him again.
He'd still own the 'desk.'"

"Which gives me a thought," observed Thorne. "Suppose, granting he's
dead, that he got ferried back across the Styx and came to life again
here, he'd get an awful jolt, wouldn't he? Crime is Big Business to-day.
Things have changed."

Carruthers growled grimly.

"Yes, things have changed with a vengeance," he said; "but I wouldn't
care to turn him loose under the _improved_ conditions--he'd only have a
wider field to work. He'd find the saloons gone, but he'd find
thirty-two thousand speakeasies and then some in their place. He
probably wouldn't recognize the Bowery. The old deadline that popularly
marked the confines of the Bad Lands is no more; to-day the underworld
extends from the Bloody Angle in Chinatown up to Harlem, and from the
East River to the Hudson--and I'm not saying anything about Brooklyn!
The dance halls have become night clubs. The gang leaders have become
millionaires. And besides all this, of course, there still remain some
of the old dens and dives that he knew so well as Larry the Bat. No, I
wouldn't care to see _him_ back again--God knows it's bad enough as it
is! You agree, Jimmie?"

"Heaven forbid!" breathed Jimmie Dale piously.

"Well, that's that--_requiescat_, you know," said Thorne with a cheery
grin. "And I've got to be going! When's Marie coming back, Jimmie?"

"She's leaving Paris to-morrow, and sailing from Liverpool on Saturday,"
Jimmie Dale answered.

"And the Big Event scarcely a month off!" Thorne's grin broadened.
"Who's writing your speech for you, Jimmie? Carruthers, the scribe?"

"I am not!" declared Carruthers sternly. "That is always the duty of the
best man."

"Wow!" grimaced Thorne. "I'm sorry I spoke! I leave it to you,
Jimmie--that wasn't specified when I graciously consented to take on the
job!" He rose to his feet. "Are you fellows sticking around?"

"No," said Carruthers; "I'm on my way, too."

"I've got a letter to write," said Jimmie Dale, "and I might as well do
it here. Good-night, you chaps!"

"Good-night," they answered--and left the room.

Jimmie Dale looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. He turned and frowned
out of the window. Queer business! What the devil had started Carruthers
harping on the Gray Seal? It didn't matter, of course, not in the
slightest; but nevertheless he couldn't get out of his mind the
startling analogy between to-night and that night when, after that
little affair in Isaac Brolsky's second-hand store on West Broadway,
Carruthers had excitedly telephoned him that the Gray Seal had come to
life again. But Carruthers wasn't going to telephone any such similar
message again to-night, was he? Absurd! A call to arms? One of those
old notes again? Still more absurd! Why, Marie, the Tocsin, wasn't even
on this side of the water! The Tocsin! Memory flooded back upon him. The
night he had found her gold signet ring in the finger of her glove,
which latter, in her haste to escape unseen, she had inadvertently
dropped in his car![1] He had not known who she was then, but from that
night he had called her the Tocsin because, on examining the ring, the
motto in the scroll had seemed so strangely apt: _Sonnez le Tocsin_.
Ring the Tocsin! Sound the alarm! He had never, up to that time,
received a communication from her that had not sounded a new alarm--that
had not been another "call to arms" for the Gray Seal! Singular that all
this should come crowding back on him to-night!

Still frowning, he strolled into the writing room and wrote his
letter--but it was mechanically written, his mind refusing to
concentrate on the matter in hand. Then he left the club--and fifteen
minutes later, having ridden uptown on the top of a bus, he was mounting
the steps of his home on Riverside Drive.

But halfway up the steps Jimmie Dale stood suddenly still. Intuitively
he knew what was coming. The impossible was about to happen. To-night
_was_ going to duplicate that other night. Faithful old Jason, who
always insisted on sitting up for him--and usually went to sleep in the
hall chair--wasn't nodding over his self-imposed vigil to-night. Jason
already had the door open, and the old man's face in the light from the
vestibule lamp was white and strained.

Jimmie Dale took the remaining steps at a bound.

"Yes, Jason?" he asked quickly. "What is it?"

"Master Jim," quavered the old butler, who had been in the household
even before Jimmie Dale was born, "I--I am afraid, sir, it's one of
those--those strange----"

"Letters," supplied Jimmie Dale, a sudden quiet in his voice. "It's
utterly and wholly impossible, of course--but so none the less, eh?
Where is it?"

Jason closed the door, and picking up a silver tray from the hall stand,
extended it to his master.

Wonderful fingers were those slim, tapering fingers of Jimmie Dale, and
now, as he took a plain, sealed envelope from the tray, their
supersensitive tips were telegraphing to his brain the message that the
paper was unquestionably of the same texture as of old.

"Who brought this, Jason?" he demanded.

"I don't know, Master Jim," Jason answered heavily. "I--I am afraid I
was nodding in the chair there, sir, when I became aware that the
doorbell was ringing; but when I opened the door nobody was there. There
was only that envelope, Master Jim, lying on the doorstep; but the bell
was still ringing--you see, sir, whoever it was had wedged a little
sliver of wood, a piece of a match, sir, I should say, into the
bell-push."

"How long ago was this?" queried Jimmie Dale tersely.

"Not more than ten minutes ago, sir," Jason replied. "I at once rang up
the club, Master Jim, but you had already left."

"I see," said Jimmie Dale slowly; then briskly: "All right, Jason,
there's nothing else you could have done. I'm home now, anyhow, so lock
up, will you, and get away to bed? Good-night, Jason!" He turned to go
upstairs--only to pause abruptly and lay his hand in kindly reassurance
on the old man's shoulder. Jason was twisting his hands nervously
together, and there were sudden tears in the old, dim eyes. "What is it,
Jason?" he questioned cheerily.

"Master Jim, sir," said the old man tremulously. "I am afraid--not for
myself, sir, but for you, Master Jim, that, as I've taken the liberty of
saying many times, I dandled on my knee when you were a baby, and
afterwards too, sir, when you were a bit of a lad after your mother
died. I was frightened, sir, when I saw that letter on the doorstep.
There haven't been any for years now--letters coming in a strange way
like this. I never knew what it all meant when they used to come
frequently, and it wasn't for me to ask; but, Master Jim, I haven't
forgotten the time you took Benson and me enough into your confidence to
tell us that the telephone wires were tapped and the house here watched,
and that it meant life and death to you, Master Jim, to get away from
the house without it being known. And I remember the night, too, sir,
when you were shot, and just managed to get home, and pitched to the
floor unconscious right where you're standing now, Master Jim."

"Jason," said Jimmie Dale with mock severity, "you go to bed! You are
supposed to have forgotten those little episodes--everybody else has
long ago. But just to ease your mind, I'll assure you now that in spite
of this"--he held up the envelope--"shall we call it ghostly
visitation?--nothing such as happened in the past can ever happen again.
That is all over with definitely and finally."

"Thank God for that, then!" said the old man fervently. "It's a relief
to hear you say so, sir. I'll sleep the sounder for it."

"All right," said Jimmie Dale, "away with you, then! And, Jason----"

"Yes, sir?"

Jimmie Dale's hand had found the old man's shoulder again.

"Thank you for what you said. Good-night, Jason."

"God bless you, Master Jim, sir, good-night," the old man answered.




CHAPTER II

THE ONLY WAY


Jimmie Dale mounted the stairs, opened a door on the first landing,
switched on the lights and closed the door behind him. Outwardly calm,
his brain was seething. Almost down to the most minute details, to-night
was becoming more and more the counterpart of that "other night." It was
here in his "den" even that he had then read the Tocsin's sudden call to
arms which had again set the Gray Seal to work. Everything was the
same--except, of course, that the old Crime Club was no more; and that,
instead of the Tocsin being a mystery to him any longer, he and Marie
were to be married next month after her return from Europe where she now
was.

He was quick, decisive now in his movements as he crossed the room and
dropped into a chair before the flat-topped rosewood desk; but his brain
outraced his physical actions. In Europe? In Paris? The texture of this
envelope! Impossible! She couldn't have got this envelope there. There
was no mistake about the texture. There was only one place where she
could have got it, and that was where she had procured the same kind of
envelopes and paper in the years gone by when she was living under cover
in the underworld--somewhere here in New York. She was _here_ then, and
almost certainly in hiding--and in danger. Danger! It seemed as though
the clutch of icy fingers was suddenly upon his heart.

Tight-lipped, his dark eyes narrowed, Jimmie Dale tore open the
envelope, and, extracting a letter in the Tocsin's handwriting, began to
read:

DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK:

It seems incredible that I should write those three words. I never
thought I should call you that again except in just the same dear
intimate way that you still so often call me the Tocsin. But to-night it
is in the old way, with all its old meaning, that those words are
written, and I am afraid I am going to shock and alarm you with a
statement that will seem almost unbelievable. _Ray Thorne's life is in
grave danger._

The story, even what little I know of it, is too long to tell you here,
and I would hardly know where to begin anyway. But, at least, and before
I say anything further about Ray, I must not let the receipt of one of
these old-time letters bring added anxiety to you because of me.

I am supposed by my friends in Paris to have changed my plans slightly
and to have gone to England earlier than I had arranged. They believe I
am there now, and that I will sail for home as I originally intended on
Saturday. I am, however, as I am sure you have already surmised, in New
York at the present moment. But not as Marie LaSalle, for--but, oh, if I
start to explain, I shall never end, and you would be little the wiser,
for I myself do not know just what it all means, except that there is
some miserable and cowardly criminal work afoot, the scene of which has
recently shifted from Paris to New York. I know just enough to make me
feel absolutely confident that in three or four days--and Jimmie, you
must not shake your head and frown so, for I am not going to be in the
slightest danger--that in three or four days I will be able to verify
certain suspicions which will enable me to supply the police with enough
information to put an end to the whole affair. By the time the ship on
which I am supposed to be sailing arrives, everything will be all over,
you can meet me at the pier as though I really _had_ just arrived, and
no one will ever know the difference.

But meanwhile, as I have said, I could not act as Marie LaSalle, for,
besides the necessity of remaining unknown for my own sake, I dared not,
as the fiance of Ray Thorne's closest friend, risk the remotest chance
of Marie LaSalle being suspected of knowing anything, for then you too
would naturally be suspected as well, and would be in equal peril.

I know you do not understand. How could you? I understand so little
myself! But when you meet me at the pier next week I will be able to
tell you everything.

And now, Jimmie, I come to to-night. Enclosed in a letter, Ray received
a plain, blue envelope to-day, and at the present moment that blue
envelope is in his safe at his home. I do not know what the envelope
contains. I do not know how Ray ever came to be involved in this affair
or what his connection with it is, but I do know that so long as he is
in possession of the blue envelope he is in constant danger of his life.
He would not give it up of his own accord--therefore it must be _stolen_
from him. But it must be stolen in such a way that the theft not only
becomes quickly and widely known, but, above all, in such a way that
there could be no question that it was anything other than a _bona-fide_
theft; so that, in other words, it will be instantly apparent, even to
those concerned in the affair, that Ray has not so much as a suspicion
of the "thief's" identity, and hence is obviously ignorant of what has
become of the blue envelope itself. In that way he is safe. Otherwise it
might be construed as a theft engineered by himself, a trick on Ray's
own part--and that would only hasten his death. And there is only one
way to accomplish this end, isn't there, Jimmie? You understand what I
mean. I know that this will create a furor; I know what the result will
be; I know that every newspaper in New York will flare with vicious
headlines--but it is that very furor which will stamp the theft as
genuine, and it is the only way I know to save Ray. You will do it, of
course; I am sure that long before you have read this far your mind has
already been made up--but you must act at once, to-night, Jimmie. And
when you have secured the blue envelope, oh, be very sure, be very
careful that it does not under any circumstances pass out of your hands
until you have heard from me.

That is everything, Jimmie--except all, _all_ my love.

THE TOCSIN.

     P. S. Oh, I want to see you so much, Jimmie--and I will in a few
     days now. And then, just think of it, Jimmie, our wedding is next
     month! M.

Jimmie Dale read the letter over again; then, rising from his chair,
began to pace up and down the length of that rather unique but
luxuriously furnished den of his, which, with its matched panels, its
cozy fireplace, its queer little curtained alcove, ran the entire depth
of the house. His footsteps made no sound on the rich velvet rug, and,
as he walked, the old habit mechanically asserting itself, he began to
tear the letter into fragments, and the fragments into smaller pieces.

Confusion, perplexity, and anxiety were in his mind; the past, the years
that were gone, came crowding upon him with their myriad memories. The
Call to Arms again! Another "crime" for the Gray Seal to commit! Crime!
Not one in the decalogue but was already charged to the Gray Seal.
Crime! Where there had been no crime! And he had thought those days were
over forever. But that was what she meant by "the only way." She was
right, of course. No one would ever for an instant imagine that it was
anything but a _bona-fide_ theft if the Gray Seal committed it. Ray's
life! Ray--who was to be his best man! She never wrote idle words.
Obviously he would go.

He paced up and down, tearing the paper into bits.

That old slogan of police and underworld alike was suddenly ringing in
his ears once more to-night: "Death to the Gray Seal!" He could already
see to-morrow's papers--the virulent diatribes, the hectic
denunciations. Anathema! He could hear the blasphemous whispers of the
underworld. He could see the furtive looks, the glances cast askance at
one another by those who lived outside the law and preyed upon society.
Who was the Gray Seal? Larry the Bat! Yes, they knew that--but they had
never been able to find Larry the Bat since the day when the old
Sanctuary had burned down, and when like ravening wolves they had
watched the fire and howled for the Gray Seal's death. Under what other
guise had Larry the Bat hidden himself? Who was the traitor amongst
them? Whose turn would it be next to make, through the instrumentality
of the Gray Seal, a trip to the Big House--and perhaps to the chair?

Fury on the part of the police and populace--fear-goaded fury on the
part of the underworld!

The past was back again--to be lived again, to be reenacted. If he were
ever caught! A murderous roar of voices hoarse with blood lust was in
his ears. Headlines blazed before his eyes:

CRIME MONSTER CAUGHT AT LAST

MILLIONAIRE CLUBMAN
LEADS DOUBLE LIFE

JIMMIE DALE UNMASKED AS THE
GRAY SEAL

He passed his hand across his eyes. This sudden resurrection of the
buried past, this change in the twinkling of an eye from the security
of years to the ever-present menace of exposure again had left him a
little jumpy, hadn't it? Well, why shouldn't it? He was no superman.

What time was it? He glanced at his watch. Not quite midnight. Too early
yet to go to Ray's. Jason would hardly have got to bed; and Ray's
household would not likely have settled down for the night.

Halting abruptly he placed the shreds of paper in the fireplace, touched
a match to them, and watched them burn--and was immediately conscious
that this, too, was precisely what he had done on that "other night." He
forced a short laugh. It _was_ a bit eerie--and almost as though it
actually _were_ that "other night." And presently there would be other
little things he already knew he was going to do which would strengthen
that illusion. Well, did it make any difference? Let it carry through
that way. If there was any significance attached to these constant
little reminders, it was at least one of good omen. On that "other
night" there had been two fellow humans who had been the happier for the
Gray Seal's call to arms, and to-night--there was Ray!

He flung himself into a chair and lighted a cigarette. How had Marie
become mixed up in the affair, the aspects of which, to say the least,
were obviously sinister in the extreme? He did not know, of course--nor
could he even guess. He could, on the other hand, perfectly understand
that she would act exactly as she had done, for it was the way that, as
"Silver Mag" and "Mother Margot," she had acted in the years gone
by--but that only served to put a still more serious complexion on the
whole matter. She was living under cover, playing some rle, her
identity hidden; and, in spite of her light words and the statement that
it was merely a question of a few days, she certainly would not have
gone to any such extreme had she not realized that every move she made
would involve great danger. And, too, she was trying to protect _him_,
Jimmie Dale--as she had so often done in the past. She had admitted that
in her letter.

Jimmie Dale's lips firmed. Anxiety was growing upon him. Her danger was
so great that she would not share it with him! Bluntly, that was what it
meant.

He sank his chin in his hands. His mind went back over the years. Her
love, her courage, her marvelous resourcefulness, her steadfastness, her
sacrifice. And then, with the Crime Club destroyed and her normal life
restored to her, they were to have been married--but the war had
intervened. They had both gone. That had been like her. That was just
what she would do, and nothing would have deterred her. She could not
have been herself and have done anything else. She had gone as a nurse.
Wisely or unwisely, selfishly or unselfishly, they had both agreed to
postpone their marriage until after the war was over.

He wished now with all his soul they had not done so, for then she would
not have made this recent trip alone to Paris to visit some of her
wartime friends, and incidentally, womanlike, to buy her trousseau. He
shook his head suddenly. He did not quite mean that, did he? She would
in those circumstances never have been in a position to write that
letter, which obviously had its genesis in something that had happened
in Paris--and if she had not written it, what then of Ray? She would
never have known that Ray's life was threatened, and the result would
probably have been Ray's death.

Jimmie Dale's dark eyes traveled unseeingly around the room. Fate
indulged in strange vagaries, didn't it? And Ray! The same question in
respect of Ray that he could neither answer nor guess at! How had Ray
become involved in any such affair as this? She had said she did not
know--and he, Jimmie Dale, certainly had no clue to the key of it.

He had come to know Ray in the war, and they had grown close to each
other--as those men do who have linked arms together with death, not
once but often; as men do when one, sore wounded himself, has crawled,
dragging the other, worse wounded still, over bullet-sprayed terrain--to
safety and life. One man's love for another--that was what Ray meant to
him.

And yet he did not _know_ Ray. There were things in Ray's life that Ray
had, as it were, sidetracked, that were locked up within the man
himself--a sort of closed book. He, Jimmie Dale, had sensed that; and,
naturally, had never attempted to intrude or question where confidences
were not volunteered. He knew that from childhood Ray had traveled far
and wide, and had lived long in strange, out-of-the-way places. He knew
practically nothing of Ray's family, except that Ray had a brother
living in Sydney, Australia. He did know that Ray was a bachelor, and
obviously a man of independent means.

More or less unsatisfactory in view of that letter! It left the field of
supposition wide open. It was not at all improbable that out of Ray's
wandering past had been laid the foundation of this present murderous
attitude toward him. Not that Ray was in any way culpable--he would not
believe that. Ray was too clean, too much the man, too much the
straightforward, open-minded gentleman for that.

To dispossess Ray of that blue envelope! And merely by so doing to
render Ray immune from all personal danger! That in itself was
queer--very queer indeed. It invited so many questions. Who had brought
or sent Ray that envelope? Through what single act, or through what
chain of circumstances, had Ray become the necessary or logical
recipient of it, and yet at the same time would have no further
connection with it from the standpoint of the past if it were taken away
from him?--and this in spite of the fact that the envelope contained
something of so much value to someone that murder would unhesitatingly
be resorted to, if necessary, to obtain it! The pieces did not fit! What
did it mean?

Jimmie Dale sat almost immovable in his chair, lost to his surroundings,
his mind groping and probing for some explanation of this cataclysmic
situation that was now, suddenly and without warning, thrusting upon him
the old dual life again. The quarters and the half-hours passed. When he
looked at his watch again, it was after one o'clock. He shrugged his
shoulders philosophically. His mental delvings had got him nowhere. But,
after all, for the moment, that was not essential. He had been asked to
do only one thing.

It was time to go.




CHAPTER III

THE BREAK


He rose from his chair, crossed the room, and, drawing aside the
portire that hung before the alcove, disclosed the squat, barrel-shaped
safe that he had designed himself in the days when he had been
associated in business with his father--who had owned and operated one
of the largest safe manufacturing plants in the United States until just
prior to his death, when he had sold out to a combine. His fingers
played for a moment deftly over the several knobs and dials that
confronted him--and the door swung open. An inner door, no less
complicated in its mechanism, followed suit. And then, from a secret
compartment within, Jimmie Dale took out what looked like a little
bundle of leather that was rolled up and tied with thongs; then he
closed and locked the doors of the safe, and carried the bundle over to
the desk. Here he unrolled it, laying it out at full length--and stood
for a moment regarding it while a grim smile gathered in his eyes and
played around his lips. It was the belt with its stout-sewn upright
pockets containing those blued-steel, finely tempered tools, that
compact, powerful burglar's kit, which had stood him so often in good
stead in the days gone by--and which, until scarcely more than an hour
ago, he had never dreamed he would use again.

He began to examine the tools critically, taking them one by one from
their respective pockets, and, as he replaced them, nodded his head in
approval of the condition in which he found them. There remained two
pockets still uninspected. From one he took out a black silk mask, and
from the other a thin, flat metal case much like a cigarette case. The
mask after inspection went back into its pocket, and then he opened the
metal case. On the top reposed a tiny pair of tweezers; and beneath,
between sheets of oil-paper, lay row upon row of gray, diamond-shaped,
adhesive-paper seals.

And now a minute passed, and still another, as Jimmie Dale stood there
with the metal case still open in his hand while he stared at the little
gray seals within--and the years seemed suddenly to come rushing back
upon him out of the past. It had been in the spirit of fun and adventure
that he had originally pitted his brains against the police, but in
order that no one else by mischance should suffer or be accused of the
apparent "crimes" he committed, he had adopted these gray paper seals as
his insignia--and had thus launched the Gray Seal on his career. And he
had gone unknown and unsuspected until that night when, having opened a
safe in a jewelry establishment in Maiden Lane, he had just barely
managed to make his escape from the police--and the next morning had
received a letter in a woman's handwriting informing him that _she_ knew
who had opened Marx's safe even if the police did not. The letter had
taken the form of an ultimatum. He could choose between her and the
police. Thereafter she would plan the coups and the Gray Seal would
execute them, or else Jimmie Dale would be exposed. He was to answer
"yes" or "no" through the personal column of the _News-Argus_. He had
had no choice. He had answered "yes"--but with the mental reservation
that he would always in some way speciously manage to render abortive,
rather than perpetrate, any crime in which she endeavored to make him an
accomplice. How little he had known! How little need there had been for
any mental reservation of that sort! There was many a man and many a
woman to-day who was the happier because of the "crimes" that she, as
the Tocsin, or Silver Mag, or Mother Margot, and he, as the Gray Seal,
or Larry the Bat, or Smarlinghue,[2] had committed--and no man or woman
who had suffered save those who had outraged the law and had richly
merited their punishment.

And he had thought those days over forever!

He closed the metal case abruptly, returned it to its pocket, and,
taking off his coat and vest, put on the belt, making use of the thongs
as shoulder straps. Then he got into his coat and vest again; but now
his eyes were suddenly wistful. Where was the Tocsin to-night? Here in
New York--yes! But where? _Was_ she safe? Was this really to be like
those other days, or would to-night, if he were successful in the task
she had set him, bring the end in sight as she believed?

Who knew? Jimmie Dale shook his head. Speculation would get him nowhere.
It was a question of action now. From a drawer in his desk he
transferred to his pockets a flashlight and an automatic; then,
switching off the light, he left the room, descended the stairs--and the
front door closed noiselessly behind him.

At that hour in the morning the streets in his neighborhood were empty
and deserted. Jimmie Dale walked swiftly, and some fifteen minutes
later, no more than a blotch in the darkness, he was crouched beneath
the stoop at the basement entrance of Ray Thorne's home.

And now the Gray Seal was at work. From a pocket in the belt around his
waist he took out and slipped over his face his black silk mask; while
from another pocket came a delicate little steel instrument which he
inserted in the doorlock.

But for once the Gray Seal's deft sureness seemed to have deserted him.
A minute passed, perhaps two--fruitlessly.

"I am afraid I am a little out of practice," explained Jimmie Dale to
himself whimsically, "and--ah, that's better!"

The door opened and shut behind him--without a sound. For a moment he
stood listening; and then, with that tread of almost uncanny silence
acquired through long practice as a defense against the rickety stairs
of the old Sanctuary, he stepped swiftly forward. It was inky black, but
he had no need of light, and his flashlight for the moment was an
unnecessary risk. He knew Ray Thorne's home almost as well as he knew
his own. He moved unerringly.

The safe was in a small room on the first floor off the living room that
Ray called his sanctum. Jimmie Dale made his way through the silent
house to the room he sought, and dropped upon his knees in front of the
safe.

And then for the first time the round, white ray of his flashlight cut
through the darkness, playing long and inquisitively on the polished
nickel dial that glistened responsively now in front of him.

And under the mask Jimmie Dale's brows grew wrinkled.

He had never paid any particular attention to Ray's safe before; but
having designed and built so many himself, Jimmie Dale knew safes as few
men knew them, and what he saw now he did not like. It would take all he
knew, take all that was in him, to open this one; and besides, as he had
said a few minutes ago, he was out of practice.

"But anyway," he muttered optimistically, "it's a type that hasn't got
an inner door."

The light went out.

Jimmie Dale's ear was pressed against the face of the safe; the slim
sensitive fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody all the human
senses, crept to the dial knob.

A long time passed with no sound at first save a faint musical tinkle as
the dial whirled. And then there came another sound--the sound of
labored breathing, of a man panting almost, as though in distress.

Beneath the mask the sweat was pouring now down Jimmie Dale's face.
Again and again he frictioned his moist finger tips on the rug upon
which he knelt; again and again he returned to the attack, giving, as he
had known he would have to give, all that was in him to the task.

And then suddenly Jimmie Dale whispered out into the darkness.

"Thank God!" he breathed fervently.

The safe stood open.

The flashlight's ray bored into the interior. The safe contained what
appeared to be a number of account books, and an innumerable number of
documents and papers. He began to remove these from the safe and toss
them quite callously on the floor around him. Why not? A thief would
have little regard for another's property, and less for what did not
interest the thief himself!

Jimmie Dale's lips twitched in grim humor. The blue envelope was all the
time in that little locked drawer, of course. But one must do one's job
as artistically as one could!

A blued-steel instrument was at work. A ratchet gnawed. The drawer came
open--and the blue envelope lay in Jimmie Dale's hand. He examined it
curiously under the flashlight's ray. It was just slightly larger than
the ordinary size of commercial envelope; and was so far from being
bulky that one might almost imagine that it contained nothing at all. It
was sealed and bore neither address nor mark of any kind upon it.

With a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders Jimmie Dale placed the
envelope in his inside coat pocket, and from his belt took out the thin
metal case. Propping the flashlight against the edge of the safe, he
opened the case, and with the tweezers lifted out one of the
diamond-shaped gray paper seals. He moistened the adhesive side of this
with his tongue, took his handkerchief from his pocket, placed the gray
seal upon it--and pressed it against the face of the safe. Headquarters
had yet to discover the trace of a fingerprint on the insignia of the
Gray Seal! Or anywhere else for that matter!

He wiped the dial and knob of the safe carefully with his handkerchief,
picked up the flashlight, stood for a moment surveying his handiwork
critically--then the room was in darkness, and, as silently as he had
entered, Jimmie Dale left the house.

As he rentered his own house, he consulted his watch. It was twenty
minutes after two. He smiled a little cryptically as he mounted the
staircase, entered his den, and, divesting himself of his belt, rolled
it up and locked it away with the blue envelope in his safe. This new
dbut of the Gray Seal had been without any misadventure and had taken
approximately only an hour and twenty minutes--but what of the
afterwards? The repercussion was still to come! To-morrow's papers!

He crossed the hall, entered his dressing room, began to remove his
clothes--and suddenly, as his eyes lighted on the telephone on the
table, a sense of the analogy between this night and that "other night"
which had once in the long ago witnessed the reappearance of the Gray
Seal intruded itself forcibly again upon him. So far, in detail after
detail, to-night had run true to form. All that was needed to put the
finishing touch upon it was to have Carruthers call up at some such
ungodly hour as this and bombshell his news about the Gray Seal's
return!

Jimmie Dale shook his head as he got into bed. Even to contemplate such
a possibility was to verge on the fantastic! He certainly need have no
fear that his slumbers would be disturbed, for on this occasion he had
had no run-in with the police to bring the consequent inevitable
newspaper man immediately on the job; so, until Ray's household awoke in
the morning, nothing obviously would be known about the "break."

For a time Jimmie Dale lay staring into the darkness, his mind too
active to permit of sleep--anxiety on the Tocsin's account, this
unexplained connection of Ray with the affair, and the intriguing nature
of the blue envelope itself, all conspired to keep him wakeful. But
finally he drowsed off into restless slumber.

He was awakened by the ringing of a bell near at hand. He sat bolt
upright in bed and for a moment listened incredulously. It _was_ the
telephone!

"Well, I'm damned!" ejaculated Jimmie Dale heavily.

He got out of bed, switched on the light, and lifted the receiver from
the hook.

Carruthers' voice came instantly and tensely over the wire:

"Hello! Hello! Jimmie, is that you?"

"Look here, Carruthers," complained Jimmie Dale, "if this is your idea
of a brilliant joke, I must say it's not mine! It's a bit stiff to yank
a chap out of bed at this hour with the perverted hope of getting a rise
out of him, just because of what I said about an analogy at the club. I
suppose you're going to tell me, as you did once before, that the Gray
Seal has come to life again!"

"Joke!" cried Carruthers wildly. "My God, Jimmie, he has just killed Ray
Thorne."




CHAPTER IV

DRAWN BLINDS


White-faced, as rigid as a figure carved in stone, and as silent, Jimmie
Dale stood there while the seconds passed. Mentally stunned, he was
unconscious of his surroundings, unconscious that he was still holding
the telephone receiver to his ear. Then slowly his brain began to emerge
from torpor, and grief came--and then horror and fury swept in a surge
upon him. Dead! Ray Thorne murdered--_by the Gray Seal_! There was
something of abysmal mockery in that accusation which racked him to the
soul. His best friend! The man he had tried to save--and, instead, had
but furnished the murderer with an alias that practically defied
detection!

A voice came to him as though from some outside world:

"Jimmie! Jimmie! Are you there?"

Of course! It was Carruthers calling frantically over the wire.

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale mechanically; and then, with a strange hush in
his voice: "I've been taking the count, Carruthers. Now tell me about
it."

"I'm speaking from Ray's house"--Carruthers' tones were jerky and
shaken. "He was found on the floor of that little room he called his
sanctum--shot through the heart. The safe was open, with a gray seal
plastered on it, and the contents scattered all over the place--but
you'd better come over here yourself. I'm a bit in pieces, Jimmie. I
telephoned at once to Sergeant Waud of the Homicide Bureau, a friend of
mine, and he's on his way now. He'll be here by the time you arrive. You
won't be long, Jimmie?"

"Ten minutes," said Jimmie Dale tersely.

He hung up the receiver, and called Benson, his chauffeur of many years,
on the house telephone. After a moment Benson answered him.

"Benson," he said, an ominous quiet in his voice now, "this is an
emergency. Get into your clothes as quickly as you can. I want the light
car without an instant's loss of time."

"Right, sir!"

Jimmie Dale dressed hurriedly. In less than five minutes he was standing
on the sidewalk in front of his house. A minute later the car came out
of the drive--and Benson was holding the door open.

"I hope nothing is very seriously wrong, and that I haven't kept you
waiting, Mr. Dale," said Benson anxiously.

It was like Benson to say that. Benson was a second Jason, and in spite
of the mental strain under which he, Jimmie Dale, was laboring, the
thought of how rich he was in the service of these two men flashed
through his mind.

"Yes, Benson," he said in a low voice as he stepped into the car,
"something _is_ very seriously wrong. Mr. Thorne has been murdered in
his home. Drive there as fast as you can."

Benson, in the act of closing the door, drew back with a startled cry.

"Murdered, sir? Mr. Thorne!" He was stumbling out his words. "How, sir?
When?"

"I have no details," replied Jimmie Dale, "except that Mr. Carruthers
said it was the Gray Seal who committed the crime."

Benson closed the door--but red rage had flamed suddenly into his face.

"That swine! At work again! Damn him to the pit!" he burst out
impulsively; then, hoarsely: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Dale, but I--I
liked Mr. Thorne. He was a great gentleman."

Jimmie Dale made no answer. Benson expected none. The car leaped forward
from the curb.

There was a wan smile on Jimmie Dale's lips as he leaned back in his
seat. Benson had but voiced the popular sentiment. "That swine!" The
words repeated themselves. They were ugly words. "That swine!" Suppose
Benson ever came to _know_? What would even Benson, despite his years of
loyalty, do?

Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his eyes. His brain seemed fogged
to-night, his thoughts running off at tangents. "That swine!" There was
ample justification in the public mind for the superlative in
opprobrious epithets. In the years gone by, to save the innocent, he had
deliberately made it appear that the Gray Seal had been guilty of crimes
without number--even the crime of murder. And, save for the warning they
conveyed, he had accepted in a sort of grim complacence the invectives
hurled against him. But to-night it was different. To-night those words
of Benson were like rapier thrusts. To-night there was cruel and bitter
irony in it all. To-night Ray Thorne was dead. And by morning the world
would proclaim the Gray Seal the murderer!

His hands clenched. He looked out of the window. Benson was covering
the few blocks that separated the two houses at a pace that ignored all
speed laws. They were nearly there.

Jimmie Dale's lips moved silently.

"If I live," he said under his breath, "I'll get the man or men who did
this! I promise you that, Ray! And I promise myself that, for once, the
Gray Seal shall be proven innocent!"

Benson drew up to the curb, and, as Jimmie Dale stepped out, he saw,
though the blinds were drawn, that the windows were everywhere alight,
and that there were already a number of cars standing in front of the
house, amongst them one that he recognized as belonging to Carruthers.
He nodded his head in understanding. There had been smart work here. He
knew fairly well the routine that had been followed. Carruthers had said
nothing about notifying anyone except his friend at the Homicide Bureau,
but someone must have notified Carruthers himself prior to that, and it
was a fair presumption, since it would be the most natural and obvious
thing to do, that Carruthers' informant would have sent in the first
alarm to police headquarters. That, at any rate, would account for the
several cars that were gathered here. Police headquarters would have at
once communicated with the precinct station, who would have flashed the
signal-box light to the patrolman on post and would also have sent over
one or two uniformed men, at the same time notifying the district
detective headquarters, who likewise would have sent men. And meanwhile,
quite irrespective of anything Carruthers might have done, police
headquarters would have notified the Homicide Bureau. There would be
quite a few men inside there--with probably a uniformed man at the
door, and, certainly, in accordance with the regulations, a uniformed
man would be on guard over the body until it had been viewed by the
medical examiner. And that little group of men there by the steps were
probably police headquarters reporters, who, for some reason or other,
had not yet been admitted to the house.

Something rose suddenly choking hot in Jimmie Dale's throat. All this
machinery was in motion because it was, not the murder of some
previously unheard-of person of whom one read daily and without personal
interest in the papers, but because it was Ray. Ray was in there--dead.
He turned abruptly to Benson.

"Wait for me, Benson," he directed tersely--and, crossing the sidewalk,
mounted the steps.

As he had expected, the door was opened by a policeman, who barred the
way--but Carruthers' voice came almost instantly from the lighted hall
within.

"That's all right, officer," he said. "This is Mr. Dale. Detective
Sergeant Waud is expecting him."

The man stood aside, and Jimmie Dale, stepping forward, clasped
Carruthers' outstretched hand in a long, hard grip, as, with set faces,
they stared into each other's eyes.

It was Carruthers who broke the pregnant silence.

"Jimmie, I"--his voice broke a little--"I can't believe it yet. It--it's
fierce!"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale hoarsely; then quietly: "I'd like to see him."

"He's lying just where he was," Carruthers answered. "The medical
examiner hasn't come yet, and nothing has been disturbed. Sergeant Waud
brought a photographer along from headquarters and they're going to
take some photographs, but I think we can go in first. I'll introduce
you to Waud. I don't know any of the others--and there must be four or
five of them, some from district detective headquarters. They're combing
the house now."

They stepped from the hall into the living room, and instinctively
Jimmie Dale's first glance went to the open doorway at the far end of
the room that led into Ray Thorne's "sanctum"; then his eyes traveled
around the living room and rested on the figure of a man, the sole
occupant of the room for the moment apart from Carruthers and himself,
who was slumped down in a dejected attitude in a chair, his elbows on
his knees, his face in his hands. He recognized Beaton, Thorne's valet.
The man made no attempt to rise, nor did he even lift his head. Also,
added to this rather strange behavior, Jimmie Dale noted that the man
presented a decidedly bedraggled appearance.

Jimmie Dale looked inquiringly at Carruthers.

Carruthers shook his head.

"I don't know," he said in an undertone, "except that he has been
drinking heavily. There's something queer about it. It was Beaton who
found Ray and telephoned the police and me. Waud's going to question the
household presently. The maids have been told to stay in their rooms
until they are wanted. There's Waud now--standing in the doorway of the
'sanctum.' Come along."

Jimmie Dale, as Carruthers introduced him to the Homicide Bureau man,
found himself looking into a pair of steel-gray eyes and a face that was
dominated by an almost abnormally square chin and aggressive jaw.

"Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mr. Dale," Sergeant Waud
said brusquely. "I understand from Mr. Carruthers that you and he were
Mr. Thorne's closest friends."

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale simply. "May I go in?"

"Sure! Go ahead," Sergeant Waud nodded; "but I'll want to talk to you
and Mr. Carruthers as well as everybody else here presently. As far as
is known, you and Mr. Carruthers were the last ones to see him alive."

Jimmie Dale shook his head.

"I'm afraid that won't help much," he said. "That was fairly early last
evening at the St. James Club."

"There's more than that to it," replied Sergeant Waud crisply. "You know
who pulled this job, don't you?"

"Carruthers told me over the phone that it was the Gray Seal."

"Yes! We thought we were through with that God..."--Detective Sergeant
Waud burst into fervent profanity--"forever. Hell will crack loose for
this, and if we don't get him this time there'll be some heads
falling--and mine'll probably be one of them. But I'm hoping that you
and Mr. Carruthers, being so intimate with the murdered man, may be able
to hand us a line on something that will give us a lead." He smiled
grimly. "We know who killed Thorne; and the only little question we have
to answer is the question we've been asking for years: _Who_ is the Gray
Seal?"

Again Jimmie Dale shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't help you there, either," he said.

Sergeant Waud shrugged his shoulders.

"We'll see," he grunted--and motioned Jimmie Dale through the doorway.

"I'll wait for you here with the sergeant, Jimmie," said Carruthers
huskily. "I--I've been in, you know."

Without answer, Jimmie Dale stepped over the threshold--and stood still.
Across the room near a second door that led into the hall, a crumpled
form lay upon the floor. Ray! A minute passed, and another--and then,
wet-eyed, Jimmie Dale looked around the room. The photographer was
setting up his camera, a uniformed man leaned against the wall, while
strewn all over the floor, as he, Jimmie Dale, had strewn them, were the
littered contents of the safe--and on the face of the safe itself that
diamond-shaped, gray paper seal. He stared at this as though he had
never seen it in his life before. For the first time in all the years
since he had adopted the gray seal as his insignia it assumed a
malignant and inimical aspect. There was something almost diabolical
about it now. It jeered at him and mocked him. Not a muscle of his face
moved, and yet upon him swept torrentially again that surge of mingled
emotions which finally resolved themselves into one of bitterest fury.
It had been bad enough before when Carruthers had telephoned; it was
immeasurably worse now in the presence of his murdered friend with that
thing on the safe flaunting him in the face. Ray lay here dead on the
floor just a few feet away from him, shot down in cold blood--and he,
Jimmie Dale, had thrown an impenetrable cloak over the murderer's
shoulders!

The police photographer, without pausing in his preparations,
volunteered a remark.

"It's the genuine goods, all right!" he stated. "It ain't the first time
I've seen it. I've photographed it before, too--the night he bumped off
Slimmy Jack at Malay John's; only that time he stuck his damned
advertisement on the dead man's sleeve. Some guy! But, sure as God, the
hot seat's waiting for him sooner or later up at the Big House!"

Jimmie Dale made no comment other than to nod mechanically. Then he
turned abruptly, and, crossing the room, dropped down on his knees
beside the still form on the floor--causing the uniformed man to make a
hurried forward movement.

Jimmie Dale shook his head.

"I know," he said quietly.

His eyes were dry and hard now. Minutely, critically, they searched over
the body of his pajama-clad friend, noting its position, imprinting on
his mind and memory the details of the scene around him. And then for
the second time that night his lips moved silently, and he spoke below
his breath.

"I promise, Ray," he said.

He rose to his feet, and turned away.

It was another Jimmie Dale now, a man implacable, the keen, virile brain
awake and on the alert. A clue to the actual murderer? Yes, if he could
find one in what was transpiring here; but there was also _danger_!
There was the _bona-fide_ Gray Seal to think of, too!




CHAPTER V

DETECTIVE SERGEANT WAUD


As Jimmie Dale rentered the living room, he saw that Beaton had lifted
a drawn face and was listening intently to the conversation that was
taking place between the little knot of men near him, consisting of
Carruthers, Sergeant Waud, and another plainclothesman. It was the
latter who was speaking as Jimmie Dale joined the group:

"Sure! That's the way he got in--the front basement window under the
stoop. Jimmied it. That let him into a sort of storeroom. So far there's
nothing to show that he went anywhere else except right to the safe--but
the boys are still digging around. Thorne was either lying awake or else
he was wakened by some noise the maids didn't hear--though, of course,
they were on the floor above him. Anyway he was in bed, for, besides
being found in pajamas, the bedclothes are flung back as though he had
jumped up in a hurry. Then he came downstairs--and got plugged. But what
gets me is why, if he was alarmed about anything, he didn't take his
service revolver with him. We found one loaded in the drawer of his
highboy up there."

Jimmie Dale's brows were suddenly knotted as the recollection of a
wartime incident flashed upon him. It might, or might not, be worth
investigation; but, certainly, it could in no wise put the Gray Seal in
jeopardy--and furthermost from his desires and intentions was the
thought of keeping anything from the police that he could possibly
avoid.

"Look here," he said quickly, "I hope you won't mind my interrupting,
but there is something in connection with what has just been said that I
think perhaps I should mention. I was at the front with Mr. Thorne, you
know, and I remember that one night we found him walking around our
billet--in his sleep."

"The hell you say!" ejaculated Sergeant Waud sharply.

"I am not suggesting that this is what has happened here," Jimmie Dale
hastened to add, "for it would seem almost too fortuitous that he should
be sleep-walking at exactly the psychological moment when the robbery
was being committed; but it would at least explain why the maids heard
nothing, as I understand from what this officer said was the case, and
why Mr. Thorne not only came downstairs, but came down unarmed."

Sergeant Waud swung abruptly around toward the valet in the chair.

"You, Beaton," he demanded curtly, "since you have been with Mr. Thorne,
have you ever known him to walk in his sleep?"

Beaton dragged his hand heavily across his eyes.

"No, sir," he answered; "I haven't."

"H'm!" grunted Sergeant Waud; then to the detective beside him: "All
right, Donnelly, bring the maids downstairs and put them in a room on
the other side of the hall there. I'll be ready to talk to them in a few
minutes. Is there anyone else connected with the household?"

"No," replied the other. "Just this man here and the two women. They're
mother and daughter--the mother's the cook, and the daughter's the
housemaid."

Sergeant Waud jerked his head toward the door in dismissal, and, as the
plainclothesman left the room, waved Carruthers and Jimmie Dale to
chairs.

"You might as well sit down, gentlemen," he said. "I've got a few
questions to ask you all, and I'll begin with you, Mr. Dale. When and
where did you last see Mr. Thorne alive?"

"Last night at the St. James Club," said Jimmie Dale, as he seated
himself. "Mr. Carruthers, Mr. Thorne, and I spent the evening there
together until about eleven; then Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Thorne left the
club together, and I stayed on for a few minutes to write a letter. Then
I went home. The first I knew of anything having happened to Mr. Thorne
was when Mr. Carruthers' telephone call woke me up."

"What time was that?"

Jimmie Dale took out his watch.

"I couldn't say exactly," he said. "Naturally, being in pajamas and
having just got out of bed, I didn't have my watch; but I think we can
check up with fair accuracy. I don't believe I was more than ten minutes
dressing and getting here. I suppose I have been here fifteen minutes.
That makes twenty-five. It is nearly half-past four now. I should say it
was just around four o'clock when Mr. Carruthers telephoned me."

"Perhaps Mr. Carruthers can place the hour exactly?" suggested Sergeant
Waud.

Carruthers shook his head.

"I'm sorry, if it's important," he said, "but, like Mr. Dale, I didn't
look at my watch. I agree with him, though, that it must have been just
about four o'clock; however, the police ought to be able to confirm
that, as I telephoned from here in their presence."

"So that, allowing you time to get over here, it was some fifteen or
twenty minutes after you telephoned me before you telephoned Mr. Dale?"

"Yes; I should say so," Carruthers agreed.

Sergeant Waud studied the toe of his boot attentively for an instant.

"Well, no matter," he said finally. "Now, last evening, Mr. Dale, did
you notice anything out of the ordinary in Mr. Thorne's behavior? Did he
seem to be worried or to be laboring under any excitement?"

"On the contrary," Jimmie Dale declared emphatically. "I had never seen
him in better spirits."

"Quite!" chimed in Carruthers.

Sergeant Waud nodded fretfully.

"I see!" he said. "Well, apart from just exactly _what_ this Gray Seal
killer was after in that safe, is there anything you know about Thorne's
family and private life that would help any? What did you know about him
in an intimate way?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid, in the sense you mean," said Jimmie Dale
frankly. "He rarely, if ever, talked about himself. I know that he had
traveled a great deal and had lived in all sorts of queer spots. I would
describe him as a man of a distinctly adventurous spirit. As a matter of
fact, travel off the beaten track and in out-of-the-way places was his
hobby. He was not in business. He had independent means--inherited, I
always understood. So far as I am aware, his only relative is a brother,
John, living in Sydney, Australia. That's about all I know, and I doubt
if Mr. Carruthers can add anything to it."

"No," said Carruthers; "that covers everything I know, too."

"All right!" Sergeant Waud frowned. "Now, your story, Mr. Carruthers."

"I left Mr. Thorne at the door of the club," stated Carruthers. "It was
then, as Mr. Dale has said, about eleven o'clock. Mr. Thorne took a
taxi, and I heard him give the driver this address, so I presume he went
directly home. I went down to the newspaper office. I got home about two
and went to bed. The telephone woke me up. It was Beaton there who told
me that Mr. Thorne had been murdered. Beaton said he had telephoned the
police. I immediately telephoned you and then I came right over here.
The police had already arrived. I telephoned Mr. Dale from here, as I
have already said. That's all."

As Carruthers ended the terse recital of his movements, Jimmie Dale
shifted his chair slightly. Unostentatiously, he had been watching
Beaton, and now Sergeant Waud had stepped almost between them. The valet
wasn't a pleasant sight. His hair was disheveled, and his bloodshot eyes
kept searching about the room now like a hunted animal's; also the man's
hands shook and his lips twitched perceptibly--probably as the result of
his recent debauch. And now, as Sergeant Waud addressed him, he circled
his lips feverishly with the tip of his tongue.

"You, now, Beaton!" said Sergeant Waud, all trace of smoothness gone
suddenly from his voice. "I understand you've been painting the town."

"It was my night out," muttered Beaton sullenly.

"Yes!" agreed Sergeant Waud caustically. "It looks like it! Where'd you
spend it?"

"In a night club. The White Caldron, if you want to know."

"Nice dump! Where else?"

"Nowhere else. I--I got soused there. I was pretty drunk--damned drunk,
if you want the truth. I had to be brought home."

"Yeh?" Sergeant Waud's jaw shot out truculently. "Well, you don't seem
so damned drunk now! For a jag like that, you've got over it quick! Some
fast worker, ain't you?"

Beaton's hand went shakily through his hair.

"Maybe if you'd seen what I saw here, and come on it suddenly, you'd
have sobered up too," he answered.

"Yeh?" inquired Sergeant Waud, with a chilly smile. "Well, we'll hear
about that in a minute. Who brought you home?"

"Two of the girls in a taxi. They opened the door for me."

"Which door?"

"The basement door under the stoop. I don't use the front door."

"Right alongside the window that was jimmied!" Sergeant Waud was purring
his words now. "But, of course, you were too drunk to notice it. And the
two dames didn't, neither! Ain't that too bad!"

"It's the truth anyhow," declared Beaton, as his hand went through his
hair again. "I don't know what you're driving at. You--you don't suspect
me, do you?"

"You bet your life I do!" snapped Sergeant Waud. "I suspect every man in
New York--except myself. I'm the only one I know that _ain't_ this Gray
Seal guy! So you didn't see anything wrong with the window?"

"No, I didn't," replied Beaton. "And what's more, if the window was
jimmied, that lets me out. I had a key. What would I want to force the
window for?"

Sergeant Waud's eyes narrowed and held on the man in the chair.

"Well, it wouldn't have been a bad idea, would it?" he asked softly.

Beaton came suddenly up from his chair, his face working, his fists
clenched.

"Damn you!" he burst out hoarsely. "You're riding me good and hard,
aren't you? You've all of you had it in for me ever since you got here.
You and your bright-eyed detectives don't know where you're at! That's
what's the matter. You're running around in circles like a lot of puppy
dogs chasing their tails. Only you've got to justify your jobs, eh? But
I'm not going to be the goat just because I was full! I won't stand
for----"

"Close your map!" Sergeant Waud took a step forward and pushed Beaton
unceremoniously back into his chair. "You spill any more of that sort of
stuff and I'll ride you plenty! You've got a lot of explaining yet to
do, my bucko! Did those two dolls come into the house with you?"

Beaton was still defiant.

"No," he said sourly.

"What did they do?"

"They drove off in the taxi."

"All right. Now tell us what _you_ did."

"I came upstairs, and"--Beaton nodded jerkily in the direction of the
smaller room--"and found him in there, and----"

"Wait a minute!" interposed Sergeant Waud gruffly. "I want to get this
straight. You mean that when you got up here the door of that room
leading into the hall was open, the room was lighted, and you could see
Mr. Thorne lying on the floor?"

"No; I don't!" exclaimed Beaton viciously. "What are you trying to put
words into my mouth for? There wasn't any light, and I didn't see in. If
there had been a light, I'd have thought Mr. Thorne was in there reading
or something, and I would have steered clear so that he wouldn't see me
in the condition I was in. I had enough of my senses left for that."

"So, then, when you got up on this floor everything was in darkness."

"Yes."

"Did you hear anything?"

"No."

"What made you think anything was wrong?"

"I didn't think anything was wrong."

"Perhaps you'll tell us, then"--Sergeant Waud's voice grew suddenly
silky again--"why you went into that room?"

Beaton swallowed hard.

"I'm not proud of it," he said. "I wanted another drink. Mr. Thorne's
got a liqueur stand in there as you've probably seen. That's why."

"I'm thinking of getting a valet myself, and I'd like to hire you," said
Sergeant Waud evenly. "Go on! What happened then?"

"I went into the room, and"--Beaton was twisting his hands nervously
together once more--"and I stumbled over something soft on the floor in
the dark. I couldn't see, but, drunk as I was, the _feel_ of it gave me
a scare. I turned on the light, and the shock of what I saw drove the
booze out of me. I was as weak as a kitten. I remember hanging onto the
desk. I saw what you've seen. The room was just like it is now."

"What did you do then?" demanded Sergeant Waud.

"I telephoned police headquarters, then I telephoned Mr. Carruthers, and
then I went upstairs and told Mrs. Caton and her daughter to get
dressed, that Mr. Thorne had been killed."

"Any reason why you telephoned Mr. Carruthers rather than Mr. Dale?"

"Yes. I knew there'd be a lot of publicity, and, Mr. Carruthers being a
newspaperman, I thought he'd know what ought to be done about it better
than Mr. Dale would. I didn't call up Mr. Dale because I knew Mr.
Carruthers would do that."

"How long was it after you turned on the light in that room before you
telephoned headquarters?"

Beaton shook his head.

"I don't know. It might have been one minute or it might have been
twenty for all I knew. I was hanging onto the desk there as I told you.
It was like I'd been stunned. I couldn't think straight at first. I
couldn't think at all."

"Got any idea what time all this happened?"

"Yes," said Beaton slowly, "I can answer that. At least, I know what
time it was when I got here in the taxi."

"Oh, you do!" Sergeant Waud eyed the other in cold speculation. "Drunk
and all, eh? And what time was that?"

"I don't like you!" snarled Beaton defiantly. "Yes, drunk and all, I
know that, and that's the only reason I do know it. It was twenty-five
minutes of four."

"Tell us how?" invited Sergeant Waud icily.

"Oh, all right," said Beaton, after an instant's morose silence. "When
the taxi stopped in front of the door, I was fumbling around in my
pockets to give the girls some money to pay for the taxi after it had
taken them home. I was so drunk that every time I'd coughed up at the
night club I'd been putting whatever cash I got back all over the lot. I
found some bills crammed into my watch pocket. When I pulled them out,
the watch came with them and dangled down on the end of my chain. One of
the girls lifted it up to put it back in my pocket, and I asked her what
time it was. She took her cigarette lighter so as to see. She said it
was twenty-five minutes to four."

Sergeant Waud turned abruptly to one of two other plainclothesmen who
had entered the room a few minutes previously.

"Logan," he said curtly, "ring up police headquarters and find out what
time Beaton's call came in."

The man nodded and left the room.

Sergeant Waud turned to Beaton again.

"Now let's see," he said almost suavely. "How long have you been in Mr.
Thorne's employ?"

"Nearly a year."

"You were pretty well acquainted with his habits, then?"

"I suppose so."

"Sure! Well, now, about that safe? You've seen him open it a good many
times, haven't you?"

"Yes. Often."

"Was it his habit to keep, say, a large sum of money there?"

"No, it wasn't," said Beaton decisively. "I'm sure he didn't, because I
know he never kept much money about him at any time. And the reason I
know that is because he used to draw checks in small amounts quite
frequently and send me to the bank to cash them."

"Anything else, then, of particular value, that he kept there?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, _somebody_ was after _something_. Ever hear Mr. Thorne say
anything that would give you an idea as to what it might be?"

"No."

"That's too bad! It's going to be pretty hard to check up what's
missing," mused Sergeant Waud regretfully; then blandly: "How long were
you with Mr. Thorne, Beaton, before he trusted you with the
combination?"

Beaton smiled pityingly.

"Try next door," he suggested. "You draw a blank!"

"Oh, that's all right," returned Sergeant Waud composedly. "Bound to
miss sometimes, you know. The safe was opened on the combination, but
the key of that little drawer evidently wasn't handy. Do you know where
Mr. Thorne kept the key?"

"I can't say--unless it was on his key chain."

"And, of course, Mr. Thorne couldn't be asked for it in the dead of
night," observed Sergeant Waud pleasantly. "I'd very much like to know
what was in that drawer. You said you've often seen the safe open, but
have you ever seen inside that drawer? Did Mr. Thorne ever open it in
your presence?"

Outwardly unmoved, inwardly Jimmie Dale smiled grimly as Beaton sat for
a moment in silence with his brows pulled together. He, Jimmie Dale,
couldn't volunteer the information, could he, that there had been a
certain blue envelope in the drawer, which envelope at the present
moment was reposing in _his_ safe?

"_Well_?" Sergeant Waud's voice sharpened, the single word was brittle
and imperative.

"Damn it!" exploded Beaton. "Cut it out, can't you? I'm doing my best to
answer you. I was trying to think. I certainly never saw inside that
drawer, and I'm positive now that Mr. Thorne never opened it when I was
around."

"Keep your temper," growled Sergeant Waud; "I'm keeping mine, and--ah,
Logan!"--as the plainclothesman came back into the room. "What do they
say down at headquarters?"

"Beaton's call was received there at three thirty-nine," Logan replied.

"H'm!" Sergeant Waud pulled at his lower lip. "That's four minutes after
Beaton got here in the taxi. H'm!" he muttered again; then suddenly:
"Let's see your watch, Beaton!"

Beaton, without comment, handed his watch to Sergeant Waud.

Sergeant Waud took his own watch from his pocket and compared the two.

"Well, I guess this lets you out all right," he said with a note of
gruff friendliness in his voice as he returned the watch. "No man, drunk
or sober, could have entered the house, cut the lock out of that steel
drawer, shot Thorne, and telephoned police headquarters all inside of
four minutes. I've been a bit rough with you, Beaton, but that's what
you get for booze-fighting. You're not going to show up any too well
over to-night's work as it is, but you're lucky to get off so easily. No
bad feelings, eh?"

Beaton's hands clenched.

"You go to hell!" he said relentlessly.

Sergeant Waud shrugged his shoulders.

"Atta boy! Nurse it!" he grinned; then to Logan: "Ask Donnelly to bring
the two maids in--and you can take Beaton along with you and get the
names of those two dolls he was with. Then get hold of them and see if
the stories fit. I guess it's all right, for he wouldn't have been fool
enough to spill it if it wasn't--but check it up anyway. See?"

"Sure!" said Logan--and, followed by Beaton, left the room.

A moment later the two maids entered. Jimmie Dale nodded to them
sympathetically. He knew them both through his frequent visits to the
house, and liked them. Both had been crying, both were frightened and in
an obviously overwrought state of nerves.

"I want to ask you a few questions," said Sergeant Waud reassuringly.
"What are your names?"

"I am Mrs. Caton," the elder answered; "and this is my daughter. Her
name is Netta."

"Well, Mrs. Caton, did you or your daughter go out last evening?"

"No, sir; neither of us did."

"So you were both in the house when Mr. Thorne returned?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time was it when he got in?"

"I couldn't say, sir. I didn't hear him come in, and Netta says she
didn't either. You see, we both sleep in the same room and had gone to
bed before he came in. We went to bed about half-past ten."

"And I understand that neither of you heard anything that would account
for Mr. Thorne getting out of bed and going downstairs?"

"No, sir; not a thing."

"Did you know that Mr. Thorne walked in his sleep?"

Mrs. Caton gave a gasp of surprise.

"Did he, sir?" she asked incredulously.

Sergeant Waud frowned.

"That's what I want to know. I'm asking you whether or not you ever knew
him to do such a thing?"

Mrs. Caton shook her head unequivocally.

"Good Lord, sir, no, never to my knowledge!" she exclaimed. "And I've
been with him ever since he got back from the war--and so's Netta."

"H'm!" grunted Sergeant Waud. "Well, then, when did you first know that
anything had happened here?"

"When Mr. Beaton knocked on the door of our room and told us Mr. Thorne
had been killed."

"And up to that time you say you did not hear a sound of any
description?"

"No, sir; not a sound."

Again Sergeant Waud frowned.

"That's very strange!" he said a little sharply. "There was a shot fired
in that room--the shot that killed Mr. Thorne. You should have heard
that."

Mrs. Caton bridled slightly.

"Well, if you say I should, sir, maybe I should," she answered. "Only I
didn't! And Netta says----"

"Never mind telling me what Netta says!" Sergeant Waud interrupted in
sudden impatience. "Netta can speak for herself. Well, Netta?"

Netta, evidently under the impression that her mother's veracity was
being impugned, tossed her head.

"It's just as Mother says," she replied tartly. "I didn't hear anything
at all until Mr. Beaton woke us up."

"All right!" said Sergeant Waud gruffly; then to Mrs. Caton again: "What
did you do after Beaton woke you up?"

"We got dressed and I came downstairs--I wouldn't let Netta come. I came
in here. Mr. Beaton had turned on the lights, and he told me that he had
sent for the police. I didn't go into that other room. I--I couldn't. I
just looked in. Then I went back upstairs to our room and stayed with
Netta until the police came."

Sergeant Waud rubbed his chin reflectively with his thumb and forefinger
for a moment; then he lunged swiftly:

"Mrs. Caton, what was it Mr. Thorne kept in his safe that the thief was
after?"

Mrs. Caton flushed angrily.

"I'm sure I don't know," she said stiffly. "I've no more idea what he
kept there than you have--far less, indeed, as I suppose you've been
rummaging around in it ever since you got here!"

"Sorry!" Sergeant Waud smiled disarmingly. "No offense meant. I only
thought that as one of the household you might at one time or another
have heard Mr. Thorne drop a word or two, say, or have seen something
yourself that would give us a lead."

Mrs. Caton was not altogether appeased.

"Well, I didn't!" she said thinly.

"And I didn't, either," asserted Netta combatively; "so you needn't ask
me!"

"All right," said Sergeant Waud--and waved his hand in dismissal toward
the door. "That'll be all for now. You can go back to your room." And
then, as the two women left the room, he faced Carruthers and Jimmie
Dale with a grim smile. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "that's the end of
the first round. What do you think of it?"

It was Carruthers who answered.

"It's all the Gray Seal's as usual," he flung out bitterly; "but the
bout isn't ended yet--and this time it's going to end in a different way
than it has ever ended before! This is going to be the Gray Seal's last
fight!"

Jimmie Dale made no comment.

Sergeant Waud thrust out his jaw pugnaciously.

"You said it!" he growled.

       *       *       *       *       *

Daylight had broken when Jimmie Dale returned to his home. He dismissed
Benson, let himself into the house, and, going immediately to his den,
locked the door behind him.

All that had transpired, all of Sergeant Waud's questionings, except
that perhaps by the process of elimination they had established certain
negative facts, had been futile. A queer, grim smile crept to the
corners of Jimmie Dale's mouth. Necessarily so! The clue to the crime
wasn't at the scene of the crime, it wasn't at Ray's house--it was here
in this room, in that barrel-shaped safe in the alcove.

The blue envelope!

He stepped swiftly over to the safe, opened it, took out the envelope,
and, crossing the room, sat down at his desk. Here was the answer, here
was the solution of the crime; and, since he could not turn it over to
the police, the very possession of the envelope laid him under an
irrepudiable moral obligation to go through to the end with it all
himself. The Gray Seal was doubly launched into the old life again! What
made him think of that? He pushed his hand through his hair. What did
that matter? It didn't bring any added or needed urge. He had seen Ray
dead there on the floor of that little room! And the world was saying
now that the Gray Seal was the murderer!

Jimmie Dale's dark eyes narrowed and his lips drew into a thin, straight
line. Well, they wouldn't say it long! Nor, with the key to the mystery
here in his hand, would the task he had set himself prove very hard!

He picked up a paper knife from the desk and carefully slit open the end
of the sealed and unaddressed envelope. From within he removed a folded
sheet of thin, blue, foreign notepaper--and then for a long time Jimmie
Dale sat there with a stunned look upon his face.

All that the envelope had contained was a blank piece of paper.




CHAPTER VI

SMARLINGHUE


There was a thin drizzle of rain, and a mist that was near to fog.
Jimmie Dale paused under a street light and consulted his watch. It was
half-past nine. Still plenty of time! There were only about another
three blocks to go.

He smiled grimly. It was a strange rendezvous that he was about to
keep--with his dual self of other days! He was on his way back into the
underworld. The Sanctuary again--and Smarlinghue! This was where the
trail of the blue envelope was leading him!

Under the wet brim of his hat he pushed his hand across his eyes. His
mind was in disquiet--restless. It was full of too many variant things
that insisted on intruding themselves one upon the other. Nor could he
dismiss or lay them aside. It had been that way all day since early
morning when he had opened the blue envelope on which he had counted so
much, and had found--nothing!

The blue envelope! That apparently blank piece of paper! A hoax? He
shook his head impatiently. How many times must he tell himself that
such a premise was absurd and untenable? One did not commit murder for
blank pieces of paper! He had never seriously considered that as a
solution. There was something too deadly, too far-reaching here to
permit of any such theory being entertained for a moment. True, it kept
on recurring in his mind in an insistent sort of way as at least a bare
possibility--but he would not admit it to be even that! That envelope
and that piece of paper meant something, contained some hidden message,
which, if discovered, would not only lay bare the motive for Ray
Thorne's murder, but would almost to a certainty disclose the identity
of the murderer himself. He was convinced of that.

But what was that message? How was it hidden? He had been unable to find
the trace of even a mark on either the envelope or the paper. What,
then? The obvious answer was almost too obvious; so much so, in fact,
that he had but little faith in it. But what else could it be?

Invisible ink! Faith in it or not, it was the only lead he had, and it
had to be probed to a sure conclusion one way or the other. And there at
the outset an ironic difficulty had faced him. He dared trust no one to
make the tests, for suppose the writing _did_ show up--then what? Unless
the wording proved to be meaningless to an outsider, how was he to
account for the possession of the envelope and paper?--to obtain which
would then obviously be known to have been the purpose of Ray Thorne's
murderer! He dared not risk the chance that it might prove to be
meaningless. But, on the other hand, those tests must be made, and his
own knowledge of chemistry was of the most meagre description, just the
ragged, remnant memories of college days. Still, the difficulty wasn't
quite so insurmountable as it had appeared to be at first glance. There
were books at the public library.

He had spent several hours there; and then, to Jason's disturbed
amazement, the den had taken on somewhat the aspect of an embryonic
chemical laboratory. All, however, that he had been able to do so far
had been to make a few simple experiments with the most common reagents,
and the results had been nil. But he was only on the fringe of his
experiments--to-morrow he would go on with them.

He had been interrupted in his work by a telephone call from Carruthers.
Carruthers had had little if anything new to report. With every
newspaper in New York dressed with blatant headlines, and the editorial
columns seething with the Gray Seal's reappearance, the police heads,
according to Carruthers, fearful for their jobs in the face of the storm
of denunciation hurled against them, were throwing every available man
into the fray. Exactly! He, Jimmie Dale, had expected no more nor less.
He had read a few of the papers. They were all alike--except that
perhaps Carruthers' own sheet had been, if that were possible, more
venomous than the rest. Carruthers over the phone had also stated that
Beaton's story, as had been expected, had been corroborated in every
detail by the two girls who had been with him in the taxi. That was
about all Carruthers had had to say.

And then, later on in the afternoon, there had come another
interruption--but this time one that had immediately caused him to lock
away his bottles and phials and turn his energies into quite another
channel. Smarlinghue could not be rehabilitated on the spur of the
moment without at least _some_ preparation!

All day he had been anxiously expecting and waiting for a message from
the Tocsin, but when at last it had come its tenor had been of a nature
drastically afield from anything he had even anticipated. It had come
in the shape of a note, left, Jason had said, by a messenger boy. It had
been very brief, but for that very reason, perhaps, its effect upon him
had been all the more dynamic. The words had danced before his eyes as
he had read them. They danced before his mental vision now as he walked
here along the murky street:


     This is terrible! This changes everything! My hope to have kept you
     from any further participation in the affair is no longer of any
     avail, for I know now that nothing will hold you back. Mother
     Margot has arranged that Smarlinghue is to have his old quarters
     again, and will meet him there at ten o'clock to-night.

Smarlinghue, the Sanctuary, Mother Margot! Names and scenes of the years
ago! His brain whirled with it all again. _She_ was Mother Margot once
more! He had suspected as much. And she had been quite right--nothing
would have held him back! Not even if Ray had not been murdered. That
she was again living under cover in the underworld would have been
enough. But whether he would have gone back as Smarlinghue or not, he
had not then decided, for he had hoped before making any definite move
in that direction that he would have wrung its secret from the blue
envelope. She had made the decision for him. Smarlinghue! The Sanctuary
was waiting for him! How had she managed to accomplish that?

But that wasn't all. There was Marie herself--the Tocsin! In a little
while now, in just a few minutes, he would be with her again. His pulse
quickened at the thought. Did it matter that she would be in the guise
of an old hag, and he in that of the down-at-the-heels, drug-wrecked
artist who had had the freedom of every dive in the underworld? Whatever
happened this time they would be together. There would not be the days
and weeks of ceaseless search for her, when he was constantly tortured
with fears for her safety, as there had been in the past!

And then unconsciously Jimmie Dale spoke aloud.

"Thank God for that!" he said.

He flung a swift glance around him. He had come abreast of a tenement of
the poorer class. The Sanctuary! The Sanctuary of Smarlinghue's
day--replacing the original one that had been burned down over Larry the
Bat's head! And here was the narrow, black lane that flanked it. It was
not a night for pedestrians. No one was in sight. Jimmie Dale vanished
from the street.

How many times in the past had this well-remembered lane stood him in
the same good stead! He could not enter the tenement as Jimmie Dale,
could he?--_Smarlinghue_ lived here!

He moved swiftly--without a sound. It was the Gray Seal of old at work
now. Was that board in the fence that bordered the rubbish-littered
courtyard at the rear of the tenement still loose? He reached the
spot--and smiled queerly to himself in the darkness. There was scarcely
_any_ fence left at all. Repairs were not an outstanding feature of the
neighborhood! Well, so much the better, perhaps!

He slipped through one of the gaping holes, and, hugging the shadows of
the tenement, reached the familiar little French window that gave on the
courtyard.

And now he stood for an instant listening intently. The clang of a
trolley bell came faintly from the Bowery a block away--there was no
other sound. He tried the window. It was unlocked, and opened without
effort under his hand. Perhaps it was the Tocsin who had arranged that!
In any case it saved him the delay of forcing it.

He stepped inside, stood for another instant listening, his eyes
searching through the blackness; then he closed and locked the French
window behind him. The French window, in the days of Smarlinghue's
former occupancy, was always equipped with a roller shade, a dilapidated
affair, so old even then that it was almost falling to pieces. _That_
certainly could not have lasted out the years! He felt out with his
hand. No--but it had been replaced by another! A miracle!

It was utterly dark. There were no stars, no moon, and the top light
over the French window was not even discernible. He stepped silently
across the room. The door now! He reached it and again felt out with his
hand. It was unlocked, and the key was in the lock on the inside.
Whoever it was who had vacated the premises in favor of Smarlinghue had
been very decent and considerate about it! Or was it the Tocsin? He
locked the door.

He was safe now from any sudden interruption. He could risk a light. It
was only a question now of that movable section of the baseboard here
near the door, though he had little or no concern about it. The chances
were not one in many thousand that the secret had been discovered; and,
besides, the Tocsin would have made sure of that before she brought him
back here, and would not have failed to warn him if it had been tampered
with. He had left "Smarlinghue" there when, as he then believed, he had
severed his ties with the underworld forever on that night so long ago
now when the Tocsin and he had made their escape from Blind Peter's
unholy dive. He had never come back; but his rent had been paid in
advance, so Smarlinghue, as a memory, was not in bad odor with the
landlord, who, being a crook of no mean order himself, was accustomed to
tenants of far less financial responsibility! The landlord would merely
have pinched the few belongings left around the place before renting the
room again! He wondered if the present landlord was the same smug Isaacs
of yore, and----

But the baseboard! His flashlight traced a line of light along the lower
edge of the wall close to where he stood--and stopped--and went out.
Jimmie Dale dropped down on his knees, and a moment later grunted in
satisfaction. He thrust his hand into the opening he had made. It was
quite all right--Smarlinghue's wardrobe and make-up were still there.

He rose to his feet, crossed the room again, and, striking a match,
lighted the gas. It was the same wheezy, air-choked gas jet of old that
sputtered asthmatically into a blue and yellow flame which only a
confirmed optimist would have called illumination, for, except in its
immediate neighborhood, it did little more than throw the room into
shadowy relief. Jimmie Dale's eyes swept his surroundings swiftly,
critically. There in one corner was the same cheap cot bed, and in
another the rickety washstand; here in the center was the deal table,
and, flanking it, he recognized the two familiar crippled chairs; while,
on the floor, the strip of carpet, already but a disreputable rag when
he had left it, was now frayed almost to strings. It was the same old
Sanctuary--just a little the worse for wear, that was all! Except, of
course, that the battered old easel, and the dirty canvases with their
appalling daubs, which were Smarlinghue's contribution to art, were
missing. He smiled whimsically, wondering how much old Isaacs had got
for them! Well, they would have to be replaced if Smarlinghue took up
his abode here for long!

The survey had taken but a second. Jimmie Dale was working quickly now.
In a few minutes--at ten o'clock--Mother Margot would be knocking at the
door, and she would expect that Smarlinghue would open it. Furthermore,
she had certainly not resurrected Smarlinghue without some definite
purpose in mind, and quite possibly one that would even call for action
in that rle before the night was out.

He took a small parcel from his pocket and hurriedly began to remove his
clothing. What the years had done to Smarlinghue's wardrobe in there
behind the baseboard, he could readily guess. The garments would
probably be moldy and wholly disreputable. But Smarlinghue had never
been anything else but disreputable. That did not matter--the clothes in
there would still be clothes. The contents of the make-up box, however,
would not have stood so well the ravages of time! The make-up box would
need to be replenished with certain accessories. That little parcel he
had just placed on the table, though it had taken him several hours to
make the purchases, was still not wholly complete--but it contained the
essentials.

From behind the baseboard now Jimmie Dale took out Smarlinghue's
clothes. They _were_ pretty bad; but at least they had held together,
and that was the one vital thing. He began to put them on. The patched
boots were dried and cracked. They made him wince. The shabby, faded
coat, spotted with grease and paint stains, and always a size too small
for him, seemed to have shrunk a little, causing the soiled and frayed
wristbands of his shirt to protrude more blatantly than ever. He felt
carefully over the back of his coat to satisfy himself that the leather
girdle which he had donned before leaving home left no telltale bulge.
He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps he would have no need for those
little blued-steel instruments to-night. Who knew? He could tell better
when he had talked with Mother Margot. Perhaps all he would need would
be, if anything, his automatic, his flashlight--and _this_! He had
thrust his hand into the pocket of the tattered coat. Smarlinghue, the
drug addict, without his hypodermic syringe might as well not exist at
all!

And now the make-up box, augmented by the contents of the parcel he had
brought with him, absorbed his attention. He sat down with it in front
of the cracked and streaked mirror that the washstand boasted. He worked
swiftly, deftly now--and with masterly touch the unhealthy pallor that
was Smarlinghue's chief characteristic overspread his face. His wrists
received the same attention; his hands became artistically unkempt; with
the aid of little distorting pieces of wax Smarlinghue's hollow cheeks,
distended lips, and widened nostrils came into being--and then with a
final, critical survey of himself in the mirror, he stood up. Down to
the last minute detail, the Smarlinghue known of old to the lite of
Crimeland and welcomed everywhere in the Bad Lands lived again.

The gas jet sputtered vociferously. Jimmie Dale bowed to it facetiously.

"I take that as applause!" he said.

He carefully folded the fashionably tailored tweeds of Jimmie Dale, the
millionaire clubman, and placed them in the aperture behind the
baseboard. The make-up box followed suit; but, as he replaced this
latter, he suddenly paused. The clothes had taken up more space than the
rags he had removed, and he had been obliged to reach further to one
side to find room for the make-up box. His hand had come into contact
with a paper-wrapped bundle.

For a moment he frowned--then a little twisted smile crossed his lips.
He had quite forgotten! Larry the Bat's clothes! He recalled now the
night that he had rehabilitated Larry the Bat, whom the underworld had
believed dead--the night that the Magpie had died unpleasantly. It had
taken him a great deal of time, and he had had infinite trouble in
matching the original clothing of Larry the Bat which had been
destroyed. That was what was in the bundle. Well, let it remain there!
He had not the slightest expectation of ever bringing Larry the Bat to
life again--but, up to less than twenty-four hours ago, he had never
thought that Smarlinghue would ever live again, either! One never knew!

He replaced the movable section of the baseboard, and, lighting a
cigarette, straddled one of the woebegone chairs. It was almost ten
o'clock.

Smarlinghue was "at home."




CHAPTER VII

CROOKS KNOWN OF OLD


Jimmie Dale had not long to wait. A footstep creaked on the bare boards
of the hall without. A knock sounded on the door.

The Tocsin! A wistful light sprang suddenly into Jimmie Dale's dark
eyes, but he was slow to the point of exaggeration in his movements as
he rose from his chair and scuffled across the room. A whimsical smile
came and vanished. The parts men play! This house that harbored the
Sanctuary was a house of many eyes and straining ears!

"Who's there?" demanded Smarlinghue gruffly.

"Smarly, is dat youse?" came the answer in the voice he knew so well.
"It's me, Smarly. It's Mother Margot."

He unlocked and opened the door. Mother Margot! Just an old hag who
stood there! The old hag he had not seen since the night he had carried
her unconscious from the gang fight at Blind Peter's before the war! She
had not changed any! The years had been kind to Mother Margot--and
Smarlinghue! Just the same bedraggled-looking creature that she had
always been--the threadbare black shawl pulled hoodlike over her head
and clasped tightly around her throat--the gray wisps of hair that
straggled over her eyes--the heavy-lensed spectacles--the pinched face
that was none too clean!

Smarlinghue became suddenly gracious.

"Hello, Mother! Come on in!" he invited.

He closed and locked the door behind her--and for a long minute, his
hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length, his soul in his
eyes, he stood looking at her--and then she was in his arms, held
tightly there as though he would never let her go again.

"Marie!" he whispered passionately. "Even to have you here! Even to have
you like this!"

She drew herself gently out of his arms, and shook her head at him
through sudden tears.

"Jimmie," she smiled tremulously, "I shan't look much like Mother
Margot, and you won't look much like Smarlinghue either, if you do that
again! It--it rubs off, you know!"

"Yes," he admitted ruefully. "Well, then, I won't!"--but her hand was in
his as he led her across the room to the chair he had just vacated at
the table.

For a moment there was silence between them as she seated herself and
his arm stole fondly around her shoulders--and then the Tocsin spoke
brokenly out of a full heart.

"Jimmie, there--there aren't any words that mean anything, are there?"
she asked piteously. "I--we tried to save him. Perhaps there _was_
something else I might have done; perhaps there was another way. Oh,
Jimmie, Ray is dead, and I--I----"

"Hush!" he said tenderly. "Ray knows. There is only one woman in the
world who could have done so much. I am sure of that even before I have
heard your story. What has happened was beyond your power or mine to
prevent. You mustn't grieve on that score."

She turned her head away.

"It's awful!" she said beneath her breath. "And--and we've made it so
almost _safe_ for the real murderer! Oh, Jimmie, the Gray Seal! What
cruel, cruel irony! The police will never find the man now!"

"That's why I'm Smarlinghue again, isn't it?" he returned meaningly.

She faced him, one small hand suddenly clenched.

"Yes!" she exclaimed almost fiercely; then hesitantly: "But even in
suggesting that, in taking it on myself to get this horrible place back
for you, I'm not sure I've----"

"Wait!" he smiled--and fetching the other chair, placed it opposite to
her. "Now," he invited, as he reached out across the table and took both
her hands in his, "tell me everything from the beginning--in Paris."

She nodded her head quickly.

"Yes, I will," she said. "Everything! That's what we are here for. But
as I told you in my letter last night, there are so many things that I
do not understand myself, and I think it would make it much clearer for
both of us if I asked you a few questions first."

"All right," he agreed. "Go ahead!"

"Well," she said hurriedly, "the first news I had of--of--that Ray had
been murdered was in the morning papers. The Gray Seal was accused of
the crime, so I knew of course that you had gone to the house for the
blue envelope, and that Ray must have been killed _afterwards_ or else
you would never have put that gray seal on the safe."

"Of course!" he said. "Also, I got the envelope, and took it away with
me. Nothing had happened in the house up to that time. Ray was then, so
far as I knew, asleep in his bedroom upstairs."

"Had the envelope been opened?"

"No," he replied, his brows knitting suddenly together; "and that's not
without significance, either, is it? It's been more or less in my mind
all day."

"Yes, perhaps; but"--she was plying her questions anxiously--"did you
open it?"

"Yes," he answered; "but not at once--and I wouldn't have opened it at
all under any other circumstances. Carruthers telephoned me what had
happened. I went over to Ray's house, and Carruthers and I spent
practically all the rest of the night there with the police. With the
Gray Seal accused of the crime"--he smiled mirthlessly--"I couldn't very
well say I had been there before and had taken a certain blue envelope
from the safe, could I? And yet on the face of it that envelope appeared
to be the key to the whole mystery. I do not need to tell you that long
before your second note came I had made up my mind to see this through.
I"--something seemed to rise up suddenly in Jimmie Dale's throat, and he
swallowed hard--"I promised Ray I would. When I got back home at
daylight this morning I opened the envelope."

"Then tell me, Jimmie"--she was leaning tensely across the table
now--"what _was_ in it?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing?" she echoed faintly.

"A blank piece of paper."

"But--but, Jimmie," she faltered, "that is impossible!"

"It's the bald fact," he stated tersely.

"But it can't be!" she protested wildly. "I know it can't! I'm positive
that envelope contained a message, and since you say it hadn't been
opened, it must be there yet. I'm sure, Jimmie! I'm sure! I can't
believe that paper is really blank!"

"I've started testing it for invisible ink," he observed quietly. "No
luck so far."

"You mean," she said eagerly, "that you think----"

"As you do?" he broke in. "Yes! Even with the little I know, which is
practically nothing of what has gone before, I could not logically think
otherwise. And while we're on that point, do you know of anything that
would lead you to believe there is any significance in the fact that the
envelope and paper are blue?"

"No," she replied quickly, "nothing that I know of. In fact, I did not
even know that the envelope _was_ blue until just a few minutes before I
wrote you that note last night. What made you think of that?"

Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.

"No particular reason. It just occurred to me several times to-day, and
I've wondered about it--that's all. Is there anything else you want to
ask before we take up your end of it?"

"No"--she shook her head--"but I had counted so much on knowing what was
in that envelope. And, as it is now, I'm almost as much in the dark as I
was when I left Paris."

"Tell me about it," Jimmie Dale invited reassuringly, "and we'll see."

She remained for a little while thoughtful.

"I hardly know how to begin," she said at last. "You've heard me speak
often of Pierre Vidon?"

"The Paris crook you nursed at the front? Yes!"

She nodded her head, smiling a little wanly.

"Yes, I'm afraid he was a crook," she said; "but the apaches did brave
things in the war, you know. I liked him. He was all patience and all
courage, and his sufferings were terrible. As you know, we came to be
friends, and he told me a lot about his life, and where he lived in
Paris. He was finally discharged, you will remember, with a leg and an
arm gone, and went back to Paris to live."

"I remember," nodded Jimmie Dale. "And I rather imagine from what you
are leading up to that he went back to the old apache life as well, eh?"

"I didn't ask him," she said; "but from the quarter in which he was
living, which was one of the vilest in Paris, I do not think there is
any doubt about it. Anyway, on my trip over this time, I looked him up
and found him very ill and practically unattended in hopelessly squalid
surroundings. I wanted to move him to a hospital, or some other place
where he would be more comfortable and have better care, but he refused
almost violently. He said he had 'reasons.' I thought I could guess what
those reasons were, so I did not press my offer. After that I visited
him several times, and it was on my last visit to him that--that all
this happened."

She paused, toying absently with the heavy-lensed spectacles which she
had removed from her eyes.

"Go on, dear!" prompted Jimmie Dale. "I think I'm beginning to see."

"No; I don't think you are." She shook her head. "Pierre Vidon was not
personally mixed up in it at all. You are going to hear a lot of
familiar names--names that we both knew well in the old Crime Club
days--the names of those who knew us too: you, either as Larry the Bat,
or Smarlinghue; and me, as either Silver Mag, or the Mother Margot of
to-night. Do you remember Boston Bob and Pinky John?"

"Yes, _and_ Connie Gowan, alias the Ferret!" Jimmie Dale appended
grimly. "The star triumvirate of safe-workers! But Connie was the
king-pin of the three!"

Again she nodded her head.

"And I need hardly ask you"--she smiled cheerlessly--"if you remember
Daddy Ratzler, who was called Old Pockface behind his back?"

Jimmie Dale whistled low under his breath.

He had known the Ferret's gang in the more recent days of Smarlinghue;
but his acquaintanceship with Old Pockface reached back into the years
beyond that. He had known and was known to Daddy Ratzler as Larry the
Bat. The man was little less than diabolical, and even in those days
comparatively rich. The underworld held him in awe--both because he was
fiendishly successful in his criminal activities and because they were
afraid of him. He had never been caught. He had paid his followers well.
Any rat in the Bad Lands would have snatched at any job he offered. Oh,
yes, he, Jimmie Dale, in the rle of Larry the Bat, yes, and in that of
Smarlinghue too, for that matter, had known the man quite intimately! A
musty and unpretentious real estate office just off the Bowery, which
actually did a certain amount of legitimate business, had camouflaged
Daddy Ratzler's worse than unscrupulous undertakings; and, whether or
not the police had ever had any deep-seated suspicions concerning him,
he had been too clever for them, and had got away with his double life
unscathed. Daddy Ratzler! In those days the established price for
bumping off anyone who, for whatever cause it might be, was in the way,
was from twenty-five to fifty dollars according to the status and
prominence of the victim--Daddy Ratzler always doubled the tariff!

Jimmie Dale's face under Smarlinghue's make-up was suddenly hard and
set.

"Is _he_ in this?" he demanded.

"There is no question about that," she asserted unhesitatingly; "though
I do not think that he or any of his parasites killed Ray. But you will
see in a minute. Let me get back to that last visit to Pierre Vidon. It
wasn't a nice locality, as you can imagine, and I had never gone there
before except in daylight; but this time I was delayed in starting out,
and, although it was then almost dusk, I decided to go on since I had
promised to see him that afternoon, and I did not want to disappoint
him--a sick person counts so much on promises, you know. When I got
there it was quite dark outside; and inside, with the passages
unlighted, I almost had to feel my way. Pierre's room was at the top of
the house--the garret, in fact. I paid my visit to him and started to go
downstairs again. I had almost reached the second floor when I heard a
man's footsteps coming up the first flight of stairs. I couldn't see him
in the darkness, but I didn't need to see him to know that he had been
drinking. He was stumbling, and the stair rail creaked as he clutched at
it. I very decidedly did not want to meet him, so I started to tiptoe
back up the second flight of stairs on which I was standing, with the
intention of going back to Pierre Vidon's room, if necessary, until the
man was out of the way. But I didn't have to do that as the man only
came as far as the second floor, and I stopped again as I heard him
pounding on a door. And then I heard him say: 'Heh, Pinky, are youse
dere? It's Boston Bob.'

"It came as a shock, Jimmie--I think you can well believe that. Boston
Bob and Pinky John! For a moment it seemed as though I was back in some
rat hole in New York and was living the old days over again as--well, as
Mother Margot--just as I am really doing now. But at that moment I never
dreamed that was what I actually would soon be doing once more, and that
I would have made up my mind to it within the next few hours.

"I leaned over the stair rail and saw the door open, and in the lighted
doorway I saw both men quite plainly for an instant. Boston Bob was a
little unsteady on his feet, but he appeared to be far more excited than
drunk.

"'Listen, big boy,' he told Pinky in a rush, 'I got somethin' dat'll
make yer mouth water. Old Pockface is pullin' de biggest game of his
life, an' he's got a high-hat guy named Ray Thorne workin' it wid him.'

"Jimmie, it seemed as though the whole staircase suddenly began to swirl
around. Subconsciously I was aware that the two men had gone into the
room, that the door had closed behind them, and that it was pitch black
around me again; but it was fully a minute, I am sure, and perhaps
longer, before I recovered my self-control. _Ray Thorne_, Jimmie! Ray
Thorne and Old Pockface--Daddy Ratzler! I think that even you would have
been thrown off your mental balance."

"I am now!" said Jimmie Dale through tight lips. "And then?"

"Then I crept down the stairs and listened at the door. Both because
Boston Bob had a few drinks in him and because they were speaking
English, which they probably thought wouldn't be understood even if they
were overheard, they weren't as cautious as they might have been; but,
even so, I couldn't hear everything, for every once in a while they
would instinctively resort to whispers.

"Boston Bob was talking again when I got to the door.

"'Say,' he was saying, 'dat guy wot told us we could call him anythin'
we liked so long as we didn't ask questions, de guy wot we did dat
little job fer last week, is Daddy Ratzler's plentypotenshurary, or
whatever youse calls it, to de Republic of France! Wot do youse knows
about dat? His name's Keane--moniker Cokey--Cokey Keane, an' he's one of
Old Pockface's gang! Sure! But dat ain't all--an' it ain't half! He got
shot up by de police a few hours ago an' ducked into my dump. Say, he
croaked dere in my arms. He was talkin' delirious before he cashed in,
an' he spilled his name an' all de beans in Europe right into my mitt!'

"I lost what was said consecutively after that; the rest came mostly in
snatches. I heard Boston Bob say: 'Sure, de dope's all in de letter dat
Cokey mailed to New York dis afternoon before he got plugged.' Then,
after a confused interchange of words between them: 'We'll have to duck
our own nuts on account of dat guy doin' de stiff act in my dump.' And
then I caught this from Pinky: 'Bo, dis is de swellest layout dat's ever
bust loose, an' if de goods is straight we're rich; but we ain't in New
York yet, an' mabbe Cokey being found in your dump'll slow us up some on
our travels.' 'No, we ain't dere yet,' Boston Bob answered; 'but de
Ferret is. All we got to do is wise him up to keep his eyes peeled while
we're on de way. Dere's enough for three in dis, ain't dere?'

"Of course, there was a lot more, but nothing that gave me any inkling
of what was in that letter, or what the nature of the scheme was that
Daddy Ratzler was engineering. You can piece that end of it together as
well as I can. I only knew that Daddy Ratzler was engaged in what was
apparently, from its international aspect, the biggest criminal
operation of his career; and that Boston Bob had stated that Ray
Thorne--_our_ Ray Thorne, Jimmie, for there couldn't be any other Ray
Thorne that Boston Bob would refer to as a 'high-hat guy', meaning a
gentleman--was one of Daddy Ratzler's accomplices.

"Jimmie, when I left that house my brain was whirling, and I was nearly
mad with anxiety and fear. What was I to do? What I knew was enough to
make me a moral accomplice myself if I did nothing, but I could not
communicate with the police because of Ray. I couldn't believe Ray was
guilty; but then I began to think how little we knew about him, in spite
of the fact that in the short time since you had first met him you had
grown so close together. It was possible that he wasn't what he
seemed--it was more than possible from what Boston Bob had said. I had
to be sure. To have cabled you and cast suspicion on him, which might
after all be unfounded, would have hurt you cruelly, and besides you
were the last person in the world I wanted to bring into this, if I
could possibly avoid it; and, as I said, my hands were tied in so far as
the police were concerned. But I had to act. I do not know whether I
meant to protect Ray if I found him guilty--I never quite got that far
in my own mind. I only knew that I must just make sure, and meanwhile
try my utmost to prevent the projected crime, whatever it was, from
being carried out. If I could do that, then, even if he were criminally
involved and we had to put him out of our lives, no harm would come to
Ray. I was very fond of Ray, too--like you, Jimmie. I did not want any
harm to come to him."

She paused and smiled a little wistfully. Jimmie Dale was frowning, and
there was no responsive smile.

"Yes, I know, Jimmie," she said; "you would never have permitted it for
a single instant. But then, you see, dear, you did not know. I think I
did what one who had lived so long as Silver Mag and Mother Margot would
naturally have done--and especially so since Mother Margot had
personally known Daddy Ratzler well enough to make her feel sure she
would not have much difficulty in renewing her acquaintanceship with him
without arousing any suspicions on his part. Anyway, I did it. I looked
up the sailings, made the specious excuses to my friends that I outlined
to you in my letter, chose the boat that would reach New York first, and
sailed at once. There was even a good chance of beating that letter to
New York, as it might easily have been routed some other way and on a
slower boat--and I did beat it by two days! I traveled second class to
avoid being mentioned amongst the 'notables arriving'"--she arched her
eyebrows navely--"and I kept to my stateroom all the way over on the
plea of illness as a precaution against meeting or being seen by anyone
who knew me. I am sure I arrived in New York without anyone knowing
anything about it."

"And became Mother Margot!" Jimmie Dale summed up a little severely--but
the admiration in his dark eyes as they played critically over the
haglike creature facing him belied the remonstrance in his voice.
"Certainly I would never have sanctioned it if I had known, and I would
never have let your courage and unselfishness expose you to any such
peril again, if I could have prevented it; but it is done now--and, at
least, please God, you will not face the risks and dangers alone this
time. But, quite apart from that, I do not altogether understand. You
knew, of course, that I had left Smarlinghue's togs hidden here; but you
never told me that you still had those old rags of Mother Margot stowed
away somewhere."

"And I didn't have them, either, Jimmie," she answered. "But it was much
more simple for me to become Mother Margot again than for you to
recreate Smarlinghue without anything to start with. An old black shawl
and a shabby black skirt--what is there to that? The gray hairs and the
make-up?--yes! But that was simple, too. I bought it all in Paris where
I was unknown and where I _wasn't_ going to use it. As soon as I had
decided what I was going to do, it was only a question of half an hour's
visit to a costumer--the pretext a fancy dress party. It was all in my
trunk when I landed in New York. After that I had little or no
difficulty. There are hundreds of rooms to be had, especially on the
lower East Side, as we both know, where not too many questions are asked
providing the rent is paid. After a little search I found just what I
wanted, a room with easy access to the street that I could get in and
out of, just as you can here, with little or no chance of being
observed. I moved in with my baggage and paid the rent a month in
advance. An hour after that I slipped out of the house as Mother Margot
without being seen."

"Where is this room?" Jimmie Dale demanded succinctly.

"You know Dink Moran's old place, don't you, where he combined a
so-called 'family' hotel with a saloon that used to be called the Big
Tent?"

"I do--very well!" said Jimmie Dale--and frowned again. "But Dink left
there in our time and went out to Chicago because New York had got too
hot for him."

"I know! Well, of course"--Mother Margot stuck her tongue in her
cheek--"it hasn't got a saloon any longer, because there aren't any more
saloons since prohibition came in and New York went dry; it's only used
as a rooming house now."

"And tougher than ever, I suppose!" exclaimed Jimmie Dale unhappily. "I
wish to God you were out of this, Marie!"

"Oh, it's all right, Jimmie," she said reassuringly. "You ought to know
by this time that I am quite able to take care of myself. And the place
is absolutely ideal for my purpose. Nobody would either know or care if
I were away for days at a stretch. And what appealed to me particularly
was that side entrance, for even if Mother Margot _were_ seen going in
there it wouldn't occasion any comment. Don't you see? My room's the
first one on the right--ground floor--side entrance."

"What's the use!" Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Well,
go on! What then?"

"Then I went down to see Daddy Ratzler."

Jimmie Dale showed sudden consternation.

"Daddy Ratzler!" he ejaculated. "Look here, Marie, wasn't that placing
too many cards on the table? Wouldn't it have been----"

"Wait a minute, Jimmie," she intervened. "I had thought it all out on
the way over. I crossed the ocean to get next to Daddy Ratzler, and this
seemed the best way to do it--to work in with him if I could. You must
remember that I was very much in the dark, and my best chance, I
believed, was to connect myself with him in some way as closely as I
could. I depended on Mother Margot's shady reputation of the past to
accomplish that--and it did, in the very luckiest kind of a way, Jimmie.

"That real estate office is in the same old dingy little house; and, I
might as well tell you now, I soon discovered that he keeps the whole
lower floor for himself, and sometimes sleeps there, though where he
actually _lives_ I haven't as yet found out. When I went in he was alone
there at that dirty old desk of his. He knew me at once, and in that
squeaky voice of his politely asked me what in hell had brought me
there. I told him that I'd beat it out of New York just before the war
and that I'd got into trouble out West--but that was all fixed up again,
only I was stony broke. He asked me where I was living, and I said
nowhere because I'd just blown into town that afternoon--but
incidentally, Jimmie, Mother Margot has since hired a room, in case
Daddy Ratzler got suspicious and started to check her up."

"Where?" inquired Jimmie Dale crisply.

She shook her head at him laughingly.

"You'll never have any occasion to go _there_, Jimmie, for it's only a
blind, and you're not very likely ever to find Mother Margot at home.
But I suppose you won't be satisfied until you know. It's the attic of
that hovel where Silver Mag used to live."

"I congratulate you on your two establishments!" commented Jimmie Dale
grimly.

"Now, Jimmie!" she chided. "You know that nothing could be better! But
to go on with Daddy Ratzler. He asked me why I'd come to him. I told him
that the whole layout had been changed so much since I was away that I
didn't even recognize the Bowery any more, that I hadn't been able to
find any of my old pals so far, and that he seemed to be the only one I
knew who was in the same old place. Then he asked me again what I
wanted, and I told him I wanted a job. He looked at me queerly for a
minute. 'What do you mean--_job_?' he said. 'I haven't got any jobs.'
'Aw, say,' I answered, 'dat's all right, I'm even willin' to do some
_work_ so's to get a few bucks to keep me goin'. Look at dem
windows'--the place was a pigsty, Jimmie, and I snatched at the
idea--'it don't look like any woman had been around here since de house
was built. I'll clean 'em for youse, Daddy, an' wash de floors an' do
all dat, an' den mabbe when dere's something wid a bit of a rake-off in
it like dere uster to be youse won't forget to give old Mother Margot a
chance.' Jimmie, he sat there for a minute or two without a word, just
staring at me through squinted eyes. He made me think of an ugly old
spider lurking in his web. I don't know what was passing in his mind,
but I am quite sure it wasn't pure philanthropy on his part that made
him fall in with my suggestion; in fact he intimated as much when he
said: 'All right, go to it! You can clean the whole place up. That'll
keep you going for a while, and after that perhaps you can make yourself
useful some other way.'

"That was the day before yesterday in the afternoon, Jimmie. What I was
hoping for, apart from what I might possibly overhear if he had any
visitors, was that he would go out and I would get a chance to search
the place, not only in the hope of unearthing something that would give
me a clue to what was going on, but there was also that letter, which at
that time I naturally supposed had been sent to Old Pockface, though,
of course, I didn't know whether it had arrived yet or not.

"But nothing happened that afternoon, and he didn't go out until about
six o'clock. He locked up the place and made me leave at the same time.
He said he wouldn't be there next morning, and told me bluntly enough
that he didn't want me hanging around there alone, so that I needn't
come back until he did the following afternoon. That wasn't so good,
Jimmie!

"The same thing happened yesterday afternoon. He made me leave when he
did at six o'clock. But I _had_ to get into the house alone just the
same! I had noticed on the previous day that he did not go near the
cellar when he locked up. I had been down with rubbish several
times--for I really was house-cleaning, Jimmie!--and so I knew there was
a small window there that opened on the back yard. During yesterday
afternoon I loosened the catches on that window.

"I suppose it was nearly nine o'clock when I went back there last night.
I did not know whether Daddy Ratzler intended to return or not, but the
place was in darkness so I knew that, at least, he wasn't there then. I
crawled in through the cellar window and went at once to his desk. I had
a small pencil flashlight which I shaded with my shawl. And then,
Jimmie, before I had hardly had time to begin my search, something else
happened."




CHAPTER VIII

THE COUNCIL ENDS


The Tocsin had paused for a moment as though debating how best to
express what she had to say; but now she went on again almost hurriedly:

"I heard the back door creak, and for a moment my heart stood still. I
thought it was Daddy Ratzler coming in secretively that way for some
reason or other. There was no way of escape for me. I could only hide.
In the hallway, just at the rear of the office and opposite the bedroom
which was the next room to the office, was a small clothes closet. I
darted into the clothes closet and closed the door. I heard someone pass
by and go into the office. Then I opened the door a crack. I could just
see about half the desk through the office doorway. A man was standing
there--but it wasn't Daddy Ratzler.

"He was turning over the papers on the desk and carefully replacing
them. He had a flashlight, but he was keeping the rays from flooding
around the room with his coat just as I had done with my shawl. His back
was toward me. I had been watching him for perhaps two or three minutes
when he half turned around, stooped over to open a drawer, and the light
fell full on his face. Jimmie, it was Connie Gowan, alias the Ferret!"

Jimmie Dale made a quick, impulsive motion with his hand.

"Yes?" he urged under his breath.

The Tocsin smiled mirthlessly.

"He was after the letter, of course," she said, "just as I was; but he
didn't get it any more than I did, because, as we know now, it was never
there at all. Jimmie, I think it was the Ferret who killed Ray."

"_What!_" Low-toned though it was, Jimmie Dale flung the exclamation
tensely, incredulously, across the table.

"Wait, Jimmie! Listen! Just as the Ferret had interrupted me in my
search, he was interrupted in turn. His flashlight went out suddenly. I
couldn't see anything then, of course, but I could hear him. He came
back into the hallway and stood for an instant just beside the
clothes-closet door, evidently listening for something which I hadn't
heard. Then he stepped into the bedroom. A moment after that the front
door of the house opened and closed, and someone came into the office.
Then the light went on. It was Daddy Ratzler.

"Jimmie, it was weird, the three of us in the house--I in the clothes
closet, the Ferret across the hall in the bedroom, and Old Pockface
sitting there at his desk! He seemed to be waiting for something and to
be impatient, for he constantly consulted his watch. I don't know how
long it was before the front door opened again, but I suppose it
couldn't have been more than five or ten minutes though it seemed ages
to me. I couldn't see who it was that came into the office then, for my
field of vision was very narrow, and the man--I could tell that, of
course, from his voice--did not go near the desk. I do not know yet who
it was except that, from what was said, he was obviously an intimate
member of Daddy Ratzler's gang.

"'I know I'm late,' the man said; 'but I only got your message a few
minutes ago. What's up?'

"'Something I couldn't spill over the telephone,' Daddy Ratzler
answered. 'The blue envelope's come!'

"I could hear the man sucking in his breath and swearing jubilantly.

"'So he got it off, then, before he croaked!' he exclaimed.

"'Sure!' said Daddy Ratzler.

"'Where is it now?' the man asked.

"'In Thorne's house-safe,' Daddy Ratzler replied. 'The Angel can doll up
and get it in the morning.'

"'Well, that's all right,' the other said, 'so long as you're sure you
can trust this bird Thorne.'

"'There's nothing to trust!' Daddy Ratzler snapped, 'Have you got to be
told that again? He doesn't know any of us, and he never will. He won't
even know who he delivers the envelope to. And even if he opened the
envelope, it wouldn't do any good, would it?'

"Jimmie, I----"

"Just a minute!" Jimmie Dale broke in, his voice suddenly buoyant and
eager. "This clears old Ray! I told you I had been puzzling all day as
to why Ray put that envelope in his safe unopened. The rather obvious
answer was, of course, that the envelope wasn't for him, and that he was
merely acting as an intermediary; but the serious question was whether
he was a wholly _innocent_ intermediary or not. This proves that he was,
thank God!"

"Yes!" she said. "And that was why I told you in my letter I was sure I
would be able to supply the police with enough information within two
or three days to put an end to the whole affair, for up to that time, as
I have explained to you, I had always the fear that Ray might be
criminally involved. But I still do not know how he ever came to be
mixed up in it at all."

Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped.

"That's one of many things Daddy Ratzler is going to explain!" he said
evenly. "What happened after that?"

"You've heard all of the conversation that really counts," she said. "I
won't detail the rest of it. They talked for another ten minutes. Daddy
Ratzler said something that I didn't understand about being worried
because there had been nothing in some newspaper and so he had
telephoned; and then they arranged that the Angel, whoever he or she is,
was to go to Ray for the letter next morning--that was this morning.
Meanwhile the boys were to be tipped off to get together the next
afternoon--that was this afternoon--to make the necessary plans to take
care of whatever the message in the envelope called for. So, you see, in
spite of that blank piece of paper, there _is_ a message there
somewhere. Of course, after what happened, the Angel never went to Ray;
and I imagine that any meeting which took place was an emergency one
held long before the time originally specified. I don't know where these
meetings are held--but at some accustomed place undoubtedly, as no
reference was made to any address. Anyway, Daddy Ratzler was at his desk
all this afternoon, and I can tell you, Jimmie, he's badly shaken up. He
was in a state of fury bordering on frenzy, and I think, too, he is not
a little frightened--of the Gray Seal."

"Perhaps he's right," said Jimmie Dale in a level voice. "There'll be a
showdown anyway--winner take all! Go on about last night."

"Daddy Ratzler's visitor went away; but Daddy Ratzler stayed at his desk
for another half-hour, sometimes writing, but poring mostly over what
looked like an account book of some sort. Then, after turning out the
light, he too left the house.

"There was still the Ferret, Jimmie. I heard him chuckling wickedly to
himself as he stepped out of the bedroom into the hall. 'Juicy pickings,
Daddy! Thanks for letting me know!' I heard him jeer. And then I heard
him retreat along the hallway and go out by the back door. I waited
until he was well away, then I got out of the house the way I had come
in--by the cellar window.

"It was then about ten o'clock. I was terribly anxious, Jimmie; and
terribly afraid--on Ray's account. Though I now knew him to be innocent
and that he was merely being used as a cat's-paw, I had not expected
that _he_ would have the envelope; and so, then, I did not dare
communicate with the police when I discovered it _was_ actually in his
possession, for I know Daddy Ratzler too well--nothing would have
convinced Old Pockface that Ray had not betrayed the trust, as it were,
that, even if it were wholly uninvited, had been thrust upon him. Who
else but Ray could have known of the envelope, who else but Ray, even if
the tip appeared to come from some outside source, could have put the
police on the trail! I know Daddy Ratzler. You know him. Nothing would
have prevented him from wreaking vengeance on Ray. But if I could not go
to the police, I equally could not afford to wait. It was obvious that
before morning the Ferret meant to steal the envelope. And there again
Ray was in danger. As I said in my letter, Daddy Ratzler might construe
it as a ruse on Ray's part. And, besides all this, it was imperative, in
order to prevent the crime that was brewing, that the envelope must not
be allowed to get into either Daddy Ratzler's or the Ferret's hands. Do
you see?"

"I see," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "And so the only thing left was the
old call to arms again--and have the Gray Seal 'steal' it."

"Yes," she said; "for that would safeguard Ray, and at the same time
give us possession of the envelope. I couldn't see any other way. I
hurried back to my room, wrote that letter, and then took it up to
Riverside Drive. I"--she smiled reminiscently--"knew Jason's habits!
Jason would give it to you in plenty of time, for the Ferret would
certainly not make his attempt until well on in the early morning
hours."

"Where did you get that paper and envelope?" demanded Jimmie Dale
abruptly.

The color came mounting through Mother Margot's make-up into the
Tocsin's cheeks.

"Yes," she said, a sudden shy confusion in her voice, "I knew you would
recognize it. I have always kept a little of it in my writing case, but
I never dreamed that I would ever use it under the same old
circumstances again. I--I suppose you will call me a little goose.
It--it was just a queer little conceit of mine. But this matter was of
such infinite importance, and the use of that paper would make you
understand at once how desperate the situation was! I--I had saved it to
write a note, Jimmie, on our wedding day to 'Dear Philanthropic Crook'
to tell him that he had all the--the Tocsin's love."

Jimmie Dale was across the table in an instant.

"The make-up, Jimmie! The make-up!" she warned.

"It still looks all right to me," pronounced Jimmie Dale with a critical
grin as he finally released her from his arms; and then, instantly
serious, as he perched himself on the table beside her: "Now let's see
where we stand. First, how did you get this room back for me?"

"There was far less difficulty about it than I had thought there might
be," she answered; "in fact, there really wasn't any at all. As I wrote
you in my second note, I realized that Ray's murder changed everything,
that nothing after that would hold you back; and under those
circumstances I, too, changed all my ideas, for I knew I could no longer
work alone, and that I could not hope to succeed without your help,
Jimmie. The first thing I thought of was the Sanctuary. I came here this
morning as Mother Margot. The lodger was a very shabby old man, a
musician, he called himself, who goes out fiddling on the streets for a
living. I explained that I was an old friend of yours, that you used to
have this room, that you had been away for a long time, but that you
were coming back. I told him that you were an artist, and that the light
here from that French window just suited you."

"Exquisite!" murmured Jimmie Dale modestly.

"Yes--wasn't it! I think he was already sadly behind in his rent, and on
the verge of being ejected anyway. He couldn't get away too quickly when
I offered to pay the rent and give him an extra ten dollars for himself.
Then I saw old Isaacs--and he was delighted. But, of course, prior to
all this and before Smarlinghue's name was mentioned, I had to make
certain that the secret of the baseboard over there had never been
discovered, as, otherwise, for you to come back as Smarlinghue would
have meant exposure and the end of everything. I found, as I expected,
that Smarlinghue's clothes were still there, and that nothing had ever
been touched! That took only a few moments--while the old fellow was out
of the room. I said I wanted to talk business with him, but maybe we
could talk better over a bottle of beer--if he knew where to get it. He
knew! So I gave him the money, and out he went. That's all there was to
it."

Jimmie Dale nodded approvingly--and then his brows drew together.

"That cable you sent me giving the name of the ship and the date you
would reach New York, and that I told all our friends about!" he said.
"You are supposed to be back in a few days; but it's almost a negligible
chance now that this will be cleared up in a few days! It's a case of
explaining that I've received another cable saying that you have been
unavoidably detained on the other side, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so," she admitted reluctantly.

"All right!" Jimmie Dale's voice was quick, incisive now. "Let's sum up!
First and foremost, in view of the fact that Ray apparently was
voluntarily going to deliver that envelope to one of Daddy Ratzler's
emissaries this morning, there is no reason why Daddy Ratzler or any of
his gang should have killed Ray, and they therefore would logically
appear to be innocent of any participation in the actual murder. On the
other hand, from what you saw and heard, we are morally certain that the
Ferret intended to go to Ray's house last night to steal that envelope.
That means he must have received a communication from those two
precious pals of his in Paris, and it seems almost a certainty that he
is the guilty man. That is what you said--and I have no more doubt about
it than you have. I just want to get all the points into clear focus.
Very well! We start with the assumption--more than the assumption: the
belief--that the Ferret, being surprised in the house, killed Ray in
order to escape--but it is another thing to _prove_ it."

"Yes," she said a little faintly.

"That will be my job," Jimmie Dale stated in quiet tones.

"How are you going to do it?"

The corners of Jimmie Dale's lips drooped into a hard smile.

"The Ferret used to know Smarlinghue more or less casually in the old
days," he answered; and then, with a whimsical lift of his shoulders:
"I'll _cultivate_ him! It's early yet, and if I can find him I'll begin
to-night."

"And I?" she asked. "What am I to do?"

"You keep on cultivating Daddy Ratzler," he replied, with a short laugh.
"The Ferret may be the murderer; but, even so, neither he nor his pals
may ever have imagined that the blue envelope contained apparently only
a blank sheet of paper, and it is quite a fair supposition that none of
them may know how to dig the secret out of it. Daddy Ratzler does. _I_
can't turn it over to the police--and the police might not be able to
solve it anyway. That cursed thing is responsible for Ray's murder, and
Daddy Ratzler and his crowd are as guilty as the man who fired the
shot--and they are going to pay too! But to make them pay, we've got to
know what game they're up to--and to know that we've got to know what
the message is that the blue envelope contains. I'm not through with it
myself; in fact, I've only begun the tests--but I'm neither an expert
nor a chemist, and I'm not at all optimistic that I shall get anywhere
along that line. Besides, I haven't got very much faith that there's any
invisible writing about it at all! But so far as that is concerned, I
think we've got a little time in our favor. Daddy Ratzler and his brood
were certainly waiting for that message--which they still haven't
got!--before making a move; but, even after they knew it was in New
York, it obviously did not demand immediate action or else they would
not have been content to allow it to remain in Ray's safe overnight. I
think that's worth something to us. Anyway, you stick to Daddy Ratzler."

"Yes," she said--and rose from her chair. "It must be close to eleven if
not later, and if you're going to try to find the Ferret to-night,
you'll need all the time there is. I'll go now."

He started with her toward the door--but as his arm went around her he
felt her shiver suddenly.

"What is it? What's the matter, Marie?" he asked anxiously.

She turned her head away.

"I'm afraid," she admitted in a whisper.

He halted her, staring incredulously into her face.

"_You_--afraid!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Jimmie, sometimes," she answered. "You--you _will_ be careful?"

He held her close to him.

"Afraid--for me, you mean!" he whispered back. "And yet, God knows, it
is you who are in the greater danger."

"Oh, no!" she answered. "You must remember that Daddy Ratzler knows the
Gray Seal has that blue envelope. It won't be the police alone who are
trying to track you down. Daddy Ratzler and his pack won't leave a stone
unturned to uncover the Gray Seal."

He laughed at her inspiritingly.

"Of course, they won't!" he said. "But hasn't it always been that way?
Was there ever a time when the Gray Seal wasn't the one and only link
that ever bound the police and underworld together in a common cause?
You know that, Marie. Of course, there's danger--only fools would shut
their eyes to that fact; but Daddy Ratzler isn't a bit more dangerous
than any of the others have been. You are not to worry, and you are not
even to think about it from that angle. There!"--his arms tightened
around her--"you are not frightened any more, are you?"

"I was just a little coward for a moment, Jimmie." She smiled up at him
tremulously as she drew herself away. "Sometimes it comes like
that--suddenly. It's all over now. Where are you going to look for the
Ferret? Everything in the underworld we once knew is all changed now."

"Not everything," he said with a queer smile. "There are some of the old
places that even prohibition, and the bootleggers, and the new breed of
crooks in evening-clothes will never change. I'll find him. But about
ourselves! How are we going to keep in touch with each other?"

"I know how to reach you, Jimmie," she said, as she moved on again
toward the door; "and there's a telephone in my 'hotel'--ask for Agnes
Watkins, and----" She had opened the door abruptly and stepped outside.
"'Night, Smarly! See youse again!" she called huskily from the hall, as
her footsteps scuffled hurriedly away.

He stood there a little dazed for a moment--and then mechanically he
shut the door as understanding came. That sudden confession of fear--for
him! She had been nearer to the breaking point than he had realized--and
flight had been her one way of escape.




CHAPTER IX

TWISTY MUNN


For a moment Jimmie Dale stood there staring at the door which he had
just closed, his mental vision following the disreputable figure of
Mother Margot as she went scuffling along out there on the street--to
God knew where, and to what ultimate fate! Fear! He, too, knew fear. The
past was full of that fear. It was upon him now. He told himself in
almost a panicky and frantic sort of way that he would give all he
possessed if she were out of this. Then he smiled thinly. The statement
was inane, futile, and the phrase was the most hackneyed in the English
language. Except one. The die was cast!

His mind snapped back to the immediate present, and he swung abruptly
away from the door. If he was to accomplish anything to-night there was
no time to indulge in vain wishings that things were other than they
were! Much more to the point was Connie Gowan, alias the Ferret!

Something implacable crept into Jimmie Dale's face. That it was the
Ferret whose trail the Gray Seal had so ironically disguised, that it
was the Ferret who had killed Ray, he, Jimmie Dale, had not the
slightest doubt--though to prove it, as he had told the Tocsin, was
another matter. But first he must find the man. After that, in some way
or another, the proof would come--it might take days or weeks--he meant
to get next to Connie Gowan--Smarlinghue would come to know the Ferret
_intimately_!

Jimmie Dale suddenly took off his coat and vest, removed the leather
girdle from around his waist, stored it away behind the baseboard, and
put on his coat and vest again. There would be no need for any burglar's
tools, or mask, or the gray seals in that little metal case to-night;
and, if they were not a necessity, Smarlinghue was _safer_ without them.
The police, goaded into unusual activity, would be combing the
underworld in their efforts to track down the Gray Seal, and raids on
dens and dives might very well be the feature of the night. He, Jimmie
Dale, did not know where his hunt for the Ferret would lead him before
morning, but quite probably into some of those selfsame dens and dives;
and it would be a very unhappy moment for Smarlinghue if unluckily there
were a raid and he was searched--and that girdle with its damning proof
that the police had at last run their quarry to earth was found upon
him! Decidedly, the Sanctuary was the place for it to-night!

True, upon his person he still had an automatic and a flashlight, but,
by comparison, they were articles of a most innocuous character; and,
besides, they could be quickly disposed of in an emergency. If they
proved to be embarrassing, it would take much less time to pitch them
away, into a corner, say, or under a table, or out of a window, than it
would take the police, no matter how "strong-armed" the squad might be,
to break down a door!--and then even if found who could prove their
ownership?

Was there anything else? Jimmie Dale glanced sharply around him,
answered his own question with a conclusive shake of his head, crossed
over to the wheezy gas jet, turned out the light--and a minute later,
with the Sanctuary door locked behind him, stepped out on the street.

Jimmie Dale traversed the intervening block quickly and reached the
Bowery. But here he halted abruptly, staring up and down that one-time
familiar thoroughfare in confusion and perplexity. He who had known it
so well!

He had not been on the Bowery since before the war. Where he now stood
had once been the very heart of it, swirling with life and activity--and
now it was like a place of the dead. The Tocsin had told him he would
not recognize it. He had expected changes. He had not expected a
metamorphosis!

Back into his memory flashed the scenes of bygone days--the jostling
crowds, the riotous noise, the glare of lights, the shouts of the
pushcart vendors hawking their wares under the hiss of their gasoline
banjo-torches, the squabbling of their customers; and here a "gape
wagon" disgorging its occupants before the door of some "notorious"
joint, the cold shivers almost visible as they ran down the passengers'
spines while the barker painted his epic picture of the "fearsome"
sights soon to meet their gaze; the confusion of tongues; the mixture of
races; rags and tatters; jewels and affluence. There had been no place
like it in all the world. And now it was gone. Where there had been
life, there was now almost desolation. Where there had been color, the
only tints remaining were cold and drab and forbidding. Even the street
itself was almost empty--there were very few pedestrians about.

Mechanically Jimmie Dale started forward along the Bowery, walking in a
downtown direction. He was conscious of a curious rush of emotions; a
sense of strange loneliness that was almost one of dejection, as though
something acutely intimate had gone out of his life; a yet stranger
sense of unreality, which still left him incredulous in spite of the
evidence of his own eyes; and, too, a sense of misgiving--like one who
walked in strange places and was not sure he could find his way.

And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders philosophically. Well, even
so! The passing of the Bowery, whether it was a matter for rejoicing or
regret, was of no vital moment in his search for Connie Gowan. He had
not expected to find the Ferret on the Bowery. There were still the
haunts that would never change, and to those Smarlinghue needed no
guide!

Jimmie Dale paused suddenly. A man sidling past him, a man who was
several degrees more disreputable in appearance than he, as Smarlinghue,
was, had opened a door on the street level and had disappeared inside.
Jimmie Dale whistled low under his breath. From the glimpse he had been
able to obtain of the interior, he had recognized the nature of the
place instantly--not that he had ever seen one of these establishments
before, for they were a product of the new and not of the old Bowery,
but Carruthers in his frequent dissertations on what he called the
shifting sands of crime in New York had spoken about them more than
once. Commonly known as shock joints, Carruthers had dubbed them the
Clubs of the Down-and-Outers.

Jimmie Dale stared speculatively at the door. Such places were as free
of access as the old-time saloons, Carruthers had said. There would be
no questions asked. It might be worth while to go in. Even in the old
days there had been plenty of down-and-outers amongst the lags and
crooks, and there was always a chance that some of these were still
eking out an existence in some such fashion as this. Who would be more
ready to gossip about their own faded glories and the comings and goings
of those who still were overlords in Crimeland's realm?--that is, to one
they knew and recognized as a kindred soul--such as Smarlinghue!

Jimmie Dale pushed the door open and stepped inside. The place was none
too well lighted and the tobacco smoke hung low; the atmosphere was
fetid; the only ventilation seemed to be supplied by the occasional
opening and closing of the street door. Smarlinghue coughed.

The room was long and narrow. On each side was a row of cheap chairs
with table arms, the chairs much the worse for wear--like their
occupants. There were perhaps twenty or twenty-five men seated or
sprawled in the chairs in all stages of intoxication, from those
relatively sober to those already in a comatose condition. At the far
end of the room was a small bar, its shining foot-rail testifying to its
constant patronage. On the floor was sawdust; everywhere was squalor.

"The passing of the Bowery," muttered Jimmie Dale to himself. "God save
the mark!"

He scuffled up to the bar--noting that there was an empty chair or two
from which presently he could unobtrusively scrutinize the faces around
him. A hard-visaged individual in an unclean collarless shirt, and whose
suspenders did duty for both coat and vest, confronted him from the
other side of the bar.

"Hell of a night!" mumbled Smarlinghue, as he produced a one-dollar
bill.

"It sure is!" agreed the bartender. He poured into a mug a drink of what
Jimmie Dale remembered Carruthers had said was usually three ounces of
raw, fifty-percent-proof alcohol, and pushed the mug across the bar.
"Want a chaser wid it?"

"Sure," said Smarlinghue, "that'll----"

"Hello, Smarly!"

Jimmie Dale swung around. Here, opposite the bar, the room made a sort
of recess in which two small tables were installed. One of them was
vacant; the other was occupied by an unshaven, gray-haired man of
slovenly appearance whose face was now distorted by a maudlin grin.
Jimmie Dale's mind pushed back the years. It was old Twisty Munn, the
"fence," a one-time well known receiver of stolen goods--old even in
those days, but infinitely older now and little more than a wreck of his
former self. It was in Twisty Munn's room that Bunty Myers, the
Phantom's unholy chief of staff, had shot and killed Kid Gregg in an
attempt to appropriate unto himself some thirty thousand dollars' worth
of jewels that Kid Gregg had stolen and was just then in the act of
"placing" with Twisty Munn![3] Yes, he had good reason to remember
Twisty Munn, for the Gray Seal had been present on that occasion and had
narrowly escaped with his life--and the jewels! Also, Twisty Munn ought
to prove a find!

"Hello, Twisty!" Smarlinghue grinned back.

"Come on over here!" invited the other.

"Gimme two!" Smarlinghue instructed the bartender--and with a mug in
each hand crossed to the table and seated himself beside Twisty Munn.

"Atta boy!" applauded Twisty Munn, as he reached eagerly for one of the
mugs. "Say, Smarly, youse're all right, an' youse always was! I'll tell
de world! Say, I couldn't believe me eyes when I seen youse walk up to
de soda fountain. Nobody ain't seen youse fer years. Where've youse
been?"

Jimmie Dale closed one eye confidentially.

"I've been away--for my health, Twisty," he answered. "I just blew in
to-day, but I'm still not sure I'm in the right town. The signs on the
street out there say it's the Bowery, but is this New York or isn't it?"

Twisty Munn imbibed deeply.

"Ain't it hell!" he said in lacrimose tones. "Dere ain't nothin' on de
Bowery now but dese joints an' de flop houses. De righteous has been
tryin' to mop up de whole works."

Jimmie Dale looked around the room. White, pinched faces--those that
were not hidden in stupor on outflung arms! Lusterless eyes--two rows of
them! Emaciation! Ghosts of Lost Hopes! And yet some laughed--or,
rather, the booze did!

"Well, they've made a bum job of it, then!" commented Smarlinghue
gruffly. "There was nothing that was even a patch on this before--and it
seems to run wide open. This is a new one on me. What's the big idea? I
heard someone say these dumps were called shock joints. What's the
answer to that?"

Twisty Munn pointed a shaky finger at Jimmie Dale's drink.

"Youse take a swig of dat, an' youse'll find out!" he grunted. "Dere
oughter be a skull an' crossbones on every mug! It's all made around de
corner."

"They should have used it in the war as a high explosive!" Smarlinghue
grimaced after a mouthful. "But say, I'm asking you, what's the big
idea? Don't the cops ever butt in?"

Twisty Munn shook his head.

"Nix!" he said. "Dere's more'n thirty of dese dumps on de Bowery all
runnin' just de same as dis one, an' some of 'em bigger. Wot's de cops
goin' to do wid us? Dey ain't buildin' no extensions on de coolers, an'
we ain't no place to go unless we got de price of a flop house, an' de
price of de flop houses has gone up too."

"I paid twenty cents apiece for these drinks," objected Smarlinghue,
"and the price of a bed hasn't gone up over that, has it?"

Twisty Munn sniffed.

"Well, den, mabbe we ain't got de price of _both_," he said. "Youse
ain't on yer uppers, Smarly! See?"

"No; I don't see," retorted Smarlinghue. "What do the cops do, and what
do you do when these joints close up for the night and you get thrown
out?"

"Smarly, youse've been a long time away!" said Twisty Munn pityingly.
"Dese joints don't never close, an' youse can stay as long as youse
likes--a week if youse wants to, an' youse don't have to buy nothin'
neither. De guys dat runs 'em ain't so bad, bo! Say, take a look at
dat"--he pointed to the half-open door of a small room that had been
partitioned off between the end of the bar and the rear wall of the
building. "Wot d'youse see?"

Jimmie Dale's eyes followed the direction indicated. The room, from what
he could glimpse of the interior, contained a stove, on the top of which
rested a huge metal boiler. He could also see a portion of a shelf on
which a large number of white bowls were stacked--and which suddenly
changed color as a swarm of cockroaches scurried across them.

"Mostly cockroaches," replied Smarlinghue facetiously.

"Sure!" said Twisty Munn. "Dat's wot some of us calls it--cockroach
stew."

Smarlinghue shook his head.

"I don't get you," he said.

"Soup!" explained Twisty Munn. "I ain't sayin' de vegetables is fresh,
or dat de bones ain't picked up in de discard, an' somebody slipped it
to me dat it didn't cost more'n a dollar fer de whole tubful, but it's
hot, an' dere ain't no charge for it. Twice a day, at noon an' five in
de afternoon, it's handed out as long as it lasts, an' no questions
asked. An', besides dat, every mornin' between five an' eight dere's a
free drink handed out to anyone wot wants it. It ain't a big one, just
an ounce, Smarly--a pick-up to start youse off on another day."

"Gawd!" said Smarlinghue. "How did you get down to this, Twisty?"

Twisty Munn shook his head dolefully.

"De toughest kind of luck," he said, "dat's wot! It wasn't my fault.
Youse remember hearin' about Kid Gregg gettin' bumped off in my room,
don't youse?"

"Everybody remembers that," nodded Smarlinghue.

Twisty Munn circled his lips with his tongue reminiscently.

"Well, dey never found out who handed de Kid de spot, but de cops rode
me hard 'cause dey thought I knew. Y'understand?"

Again Smarlinghue nodded. He understood very well. It was quite true
that Twisty Munn had never squealed, but that was because he had been
very much more afraid of Bunty Myers than he had been of the police!

"Go on, Twisty," he invited. "What's the rest?"

"I lost me job--dat's de rest," said Twisty Munn mournfully. "Youse
knows wot me line was, Smarly. Wid de cops nosin' all de time, dere
wouldn't nobody take a chance on me shovin' anythin' fer dem any more. I
went broke. I had ter do somethin'. I was de stall fer a wire on de
shorts--ridin' de ozone, an' doin' de rattlers an' de hole, youse
knows."

"Picking pockets in the subways, or street cars, or anywhere else,
doesn't sound much in your line!" observed Smarlinghue in genuine
surprise. "Where did you go to college?"

"Aw, say--not me!" protested Twisty Munn modestly. "Didn't I tell youse
I was only de stall? But de wire was good. I ain't mentionin' any names,
but he was good. I worked wid him for about a year, an' den I got
pinched. I got sent up for two spaces, an'--well, I guess dat's all.
Here I am, Smarly."

"Tough is right!" agreed Smarlinghue. "I'll say it was tough! Have
another, Twisty?"

Twisty Munn's face brightened.

"Smarly, youse're a real friend," he said eagerly.

Jimmie Dale replenished the other's mug at the bar. He had let Twisty
Munn talk, invited it, in fact, in order to probe now for the
information he was really after without arousing any suspicions in the
other's mind. He, Jimmie Dale, did not want it noised abroad that he was
_particularly_ interested in Connie Gowan, alias the Ferret. His
inquiries regarding old haunts and old acquaintances were merely the
casual and natural inquiries of a wanderer on his return! He went back
to the table with Twisty Munn's mug.

"I ain't taking any more myself, Twisty," said Smarlinghue
apologetically. "I feel now like I'd been kicked in the guts!"

"Dat's all right," said Twisty Munn graciously. "I guess youse've got to
get used to it. Dat's de way it hit me at first. Here's how!"

"Drink hearty!" returned Smarlinghue; and then anxiously: "Say, Twisty,
I'm glad I bumped into you. The way things have changed it looks like
I'd got to buy a guidebook. Wise me up a bit. All the old joints like
Malay John's, and Hoy Loo's, and Blind Peter's, and that sort, ain't out
too, are they?"

"No; they ain't," replied Twisty Munn. "None of de _real_ ones is.
Dey're still doin' business at de old stands."

"Well, that's good news anyway!" exclaimed Smarlinghue in well-simulated
relief. "I was afraid I was going to be lonely. Yours is the first face
I've seen since I got back that I knew. So the old crowd's still at the
same hangouts, eh?"

"Sure, as far as I knows; but"--Twisty Munn's voice grew suddenly
bitter--"dey doesn't let me into any of dem dumps now. I'm only a bum."

"Aw, forget it!" said Smarlinghue brightly. "Don't let that get your
goat! Tell us about some of the boys. Is Connie Gowan still around?"

"Youse means de Ferret? Sure, he's around--somewhere. But he ain't been
seen fer de last few days!" Twisty Munn indulged in a chuckle. "Anyone
wot wants to know where he is'd better go over to Nassau Joe's at de
Jungle an' ask Tony de Wop about him. Youse remembers Tony, an' de
Jungle, don't youse? Sure, youse does! Well, dat's where Tony hangs out
now most of de time. De Jungle--see? Dat's where dey say he runs his
fleet of booze wagons from."

"I don't know the answer to your riddle!" complained Smarlinghue. "I
ain't anxious about Connie or the Wop any more than any of the rest of
the boys that used to send me Christmas cards--but where does the laugh
come in?"

"It ain't no riddle," replied Twisty Munn; "an' I'll tell youse wot I
was laughin' at in a minute. Listen, Smarly. De racket's changed a lot
around here--and so's de gangs. Dere's a lot of de boys has given up
dere old perfeshuns an' gone in fer de booze game; an' de Ferret an' de
Wop is two of 'em."

"I'd hate to believe that!" There was pain in Smarlinghue's voice. "The
Wop maybe, for he never got on the front page anyhow; but not Connie
Gowan! Why, he was the slickest box-worker in the country, the best we
ever had. Say, why don't you tell me he's dead? It wouldn't make me feel
any worse!"

"Wot I'm tellin' youse is de straight goods," asserted Twisty Munn
earnestly. "Dere's more money in it--dat's de answer. Some of de guys
youse an' me uster know dat didn't have two nickels to rub together
between pinches is millionaires to-day. Dat's right, Smarly; an' dat's
de racket Connie an' de Wop is in now."

"Working together, you mean?"

Twisty Munn began to chuckle again.

"Nothin' like dat! An' dat's where de laugh comes in. I was laughin'
because de Wop thinks he's got Connie scared an' has made him duck his
nut, just because he's sayin' wot he's goin' to do to Connie. All de
guys down here is talkin' about wot happened, an' dat's how I got next
to it. Youse see, Smarly, de two of 'em gets into a row over a moll de
other night at a dump called de Rose Garden, an' de shootin' starts, but
nobody gets hurt 'cause de lights goes out an' everybody beats it wid de
cops gettin' dere on de jump. Den de Wop says he's goin' to hand Connie
de spot--an' Connie ain't been seen since. An' dat's why I says dat if
anybody wants to get a line on de Ferret, de Wop's de best bet 'cause
he's got his whole gang out lookin' fer Connie. But if youse asks me
it'll be de Wop wot gets his! All de world knows dat Connie's workin' a
booze run dat's got a secret to it dat nobody ain't found out, an' I'm
shovin' in all de chips I got dat dat's wot he's doin' now. When he gets
dat off his chest, de Wop'll get wot he's askin' fer. An' I ain't so
sure about dat moll stuff neither. Mabbe it's only a stall dat Tony's
pullin' as an excuse to get the low-down on Connie's layout. I dunno!
But youse can take it from me dat Connie ain't duckin' 'cause he's
scared. De Ferret'll just step around when he gets ready an' blow de
Wop's block off!"

Jimmie Dale's mind was working quickly. He was not at all pleased with
what he had heard. Connie Gowan wasn't going to be so easy to find after
all. He quite agreed that the Ferret's disappearance was not due to any
fears engendered by the threats of Tony the Wop; but he had a most
excellent reason for disagreeing very emphatically with Twisty Munn's
theory as to why Connie Gowan had taken cover. It was a certainty that
something far different from bootlegging had engaged the Ferret's
attention last night, as witness his spying on Daddy Ratzler; and it was
almost equally a certainty that last night the Ferret had shot and
killed Ray Thorne in Ray Thorne's home! And now--what? Tony the Wop and
the Jungle? He did not like that, either. But it seemed the best lead.

Smarlinghue grinned at Twisty Munn. He had obtained all the information
he could hope for from the other; but it was still not yet even
midnight, and he had no intention of leaving Twisty Munn with even so
much as a vague impression that the comings and goings of the Ferret
mattered a whit to Smarlinghue above those of anyone else in Yeggland.

"I believe you, Twisty!" he said. "Connie's the boy I'd put my own money
on every time. But there'll be something doing, that's sure, and I ain't
shedding any tears that I'm out of it. Tell us about some of the rest of
the bunch. Where's the Kitten?--no, I forgot, he got bumped off before I
went away. What's Parson Pete doing?"

"In stir!" said Twisty Munn. "He's chummin' wid de P.K. up de river. He
got ten spaces fer a bank job."

"Hell!" exclaimed Smarlinghue feelingly. "That's rough!" He got up
abruptly, and once more stepped over to the bar on Twisty Munn's behalf.
"Spill some more, Twisty," he urged as he returned to the table, "I'm
beginning to feel like I was really home again!"

Twisty Munn's blear eyes brightened. He was effusively grateful for the
re-replenished mug, and he was very glad to talk to a kindred soul--and
so he talked. But Twisty Munn, hardened as he was by long usage to the
shock joint's brew, was not superhuman. Articulation, as time went on,
became increasingly difficult, and at the end of another half hour
Jimmie Dale rose from his chair and made his way out to the street.
Twisty Munn was snoring raucously on the table.

"Poor devils--the lot of them!" muttered Jimmie Dale. "I can't say I
think the Bowery has improved!"

The night had grown worse; the drizzle had turned to rain and the fog
had thickened. Jimmie Dale turned up the collar of Smarlinghue's shabby
coat, and, with a philosophical shrug of his shoulders, swung off the
Bowery and headed into the East Side. Moralizing wouldn't find Connie
Gowan!

His brows drew together and his face clouded. The Jungle! One of the
worst and therefore one of the most carefully guarded dives in the Bad
Lands! Smarlinghue could get in there, of course--it was one of the old
haunts--but it did not sound very promising. What, after all, could he
expect from a visit there?

And then Jimmie Dale shook his head impatiently. Who knew! He might pick
up a word or two if Tony the Wop had learned anything new. Luck might
break for him. Anything might happen. Anyway, it was the logical
starting point and he was going there. Afterward, there were other
places; and if he got no trace of Connie Gowan anywhere to-night, there
was to-morrow night--and night after night thereafter! Tony the Wop
would not be alone in his efforts to unearth the Ferret!

Jimmie Dale, in spite of Smarlinghue's characteristic slouch, covered
the ground rapidly. He was in an uninviting neighborhood now, comprised
of cheap stores and cheap tenements, with a sprinkling here and there of
self-contained houses of woebegone appearance. The Jungle was one of the
latter and was in the next block. The front of the house, by way of
camouflaging the premises, presented itself to the eye of the passer-by
in the innocent guise of a somewhat dingy little tobacco store.

But the entrance to the Jungle was not through the tobacco store.
Between the house and the adjoining tenement there was an alleyway, and
by means of the alleyway one might reach the back door of the house
without attracting undue attention. Once there, if one had the entre,
one got in--otherwise one didn't! It was a sub-cellar dive of
unspeakable iniquity in which Nassau Joe, the proprietor of whom Twisty
Munn had spoken, a West Indian of mixed parentage, catered rapaciously
to every vicious taste.

Jimmie Dale passed the tobacco store--it was unlighted and obviously
closed for the night--and turned into the alleyway. He had no fear of
being observed. The street was never adequately lighted at best, and
to-night with the fog and rain the visibility was reduced to the radius
of a few yards. But the visibility in the alleyway was still less--it
was so black here that he had to feel his way.

The house had a small backyard, he remembered, that opened off the
alleyway. Yes, here it was! The back door was just a yard or so away,
and----

He halted suddenly, and instinctively drew back against the wall of the
house. Someone was not only coming from the street end of the alleyway,
but was coming as though in frantic haste, running and stumbling through
the darkness. And then whoever it was passed by so close that Jimmie
Dale could almost have reached out his hand and touched the other, but
in the blackness he could see no more than an indistinct blur. A moment
more, and he heard the newcomer knock upon the back door.

Jimmie Dale's lips tightened. He had got Smarlinghue into a rather
unenviable situation--if Smarlinghue were caught crouching here against
the wall, and apparently in the act of spying!

The door opened.

"Who's there?" demanded a voice.

"It's de Mole," came the answer in hurried and excited tones. "Tony's
here, ain't he?"

"Sure!"

"Is he alone?"

"What do you think he's doing--playing solitaire?"

"Well, I gotta see him alone, an' I gotta see him on de jump," stated
the Mole even more excitedly than before. "Tell him to come out here,
will youse?"

"Sure! I'll tell him."

The door closed. There was silence. Jimmie Dale's pulse quickened. The
errand that had brought the Mole here might have nothing whatever to do
with the Ferret, but a prescience that would not be denied told Jimmie
Dale that it had--that the something he had hoped might happen, plus the
luck that he had hoped might break, was happening for him now in
unbounded measure. And he had no further fear of being discovered
himself. All he could see of the Mole was a vague outline that would
have been meaningless if he had not actually known that the man was
standing there on the doorstep. A chance in a thousand, then, that he
would be seen himself!

The door opened once more.

"Dat youse, Tony?" demanded the Mole.

"Yeh! Got anything?"

"Got anything!" ejaculated the Mole boastfully. "I got de whole dope
from de cellar up! Say, shut dat door behind youse. Now, listen! I found
out where de Ferret is an' all about de whole of his racket. Some nifty
work, eh? I'll spill youse de story of how I done it when we has de
time. Dat don't cut no ice now. Dere's an old guy named Bilwitz wot's
got a wharf down on dis side of de East River. He's got a little lumber
business, an' he's supposed to be on de level--only he ain't. Lumber
barges ain't de only things dat's unloaded on dat wharf! Bilwitz an' de
Ferret has been workin' de booze racket together on de quiet fer de last
year. See?"

"Yeh!" Tony's voice was hoarse with excitement. "To hell with Bilwitz!
Is that where the Ferret is?"

"Dat's where he is, an', wot's more, he's all alone down dere right now.
An' dere's something else, too. De wharf's phoney. Dey got a big motor
boat hidden dere dat's got a hundred cases an' mabbe more in her now dat
dey didn't get no chance to unload--an' de Ferret's stayin' wid it. I
ain't so sure he's been hidin'; he's just been stayin' wid de booze
'cause two or three nights ago, comin' in from Rum Row, old Bilwitz, who
ain't no young chicken, caught a cold dat landed him up in de hospital
wid noomonia or something, an' dat left de Ferret up in de air, an' all
alone wid de booze to look after. See? I guess youse don't have to draw
no cards to dat hand, eh?"

Tony the Wop began to laugh in ugly glee; then his voice, sharp and
sibilant, cut through the darkness:

"A hundred cases--besides bumping the Ferret off! There's enough of the
boys hanging out over at Skilly's to-night to do the job. You go get
'em! That won't take long. I'll be waiting for you outside here on the
street. Bring a truck back with you to ride us over and ride the booze
back. The Ferret'll get _his_ ride in a glass wagon! Go on, beat
it--quick!"

And now, too, the Mole laughed in ugly fashion.

"I won't be long!" he promised.

The door opened and closed again. The Mole's retreating footsteps died
away--and, a minute later, Jimmie Dale had reached the street and was
racing along it.

But his brain raced the faster. Where was this wharf? The Mole had said
that Bilwitz carried on, or at least pretended to carry on, a legitimate
business. The answer was simple--a drug store and a city directory!
Luck! It was beyond anything he could have hoped for. Smarlinghue had
had only a passing and casual acquaintance with the Ferret--and here, to
hand, was the opening wedge that would lead to _intimacy_. The Ferret
would be grateful to Smarlinghue for the warning to-night! He had no
compunction in playing a double game with the Ferret, no pity and no
mercy where the man who had shot down Ray Thorne was concerned. The fact
that, in any case, he could not have stood idly by without doing
anything to prevent the Ferret from being murdered was a secondary
consideration. It was the proof of the Ferret's guilt he was after. It
might take days or weeks or months to get it, but he was on the sure
road to it now--if only he could reach the Ferret _in time_ to-night!




CHAPTER X

THE FERRET


The fog had settled on the river like a weird, gray smudge; and, few as
must be the passing craft at that hour, the unceasing discordance of
their fog sirens, some screaming shrilly, some bellowing hoarsely, but
all seized as though with a common panic which resulted in scarcely any
pause between their individual blasts, was as if the water were alive
with traffic.

But that was the only evidence of life!

Jimmie Dale experienced a growing feeling of uneasiness as he moved
swiftly, though cautiously, along. Well as he had once known the
locality he was now in he was not so sure of the landmarks--and the fog
did not help any, either! It was a section of the water front a little
away from the congested area. There were scarcely any lights--and these
of little avail on a night like this. The few scattered warehouses and
wharf sheds were black. It was not a neighborhood of dwellings, and he
had met no one, seen no one. He peered anxiously about him. Bilwitz's
wharf must be very near here now!

How much time had he left? Had he any? Or was he already too late? The
questions harassed him. He had no means of answering them. He did not
know where "Skilly's" was, and therefore how long it would have taken
the Mole to bring Tony's gangsters back to the rendezvous at the Jungle.
Both Tony and the Mole had said it wouldn't take long. But not every
place, drug store or otherwise, where a directory might be consulted,
was open after midnight! Had the Mole's errand taken longer than it had
taken him, Jimmie Dale, to find the address of one Bilwitz who was
supposed to be engaged in the lumber business? _That_ was the vital
point. Thereafter Tony and his murder crew would not take long in
reaching their objective--with a truck! But, against that, he, Jimmie
Dale, had come as far as he had dared in a taxi. He had just dismissed
the taxi three or four minutes ago.

Jimmie Dale came to a sudden halt and stood listening intently. Was this
the place? It should be; and, if so, then he was still in time. There
wasn't a sound from anywhere in the immediate vicinity; and however
quickly Tony and his hi-jackers might have got here they could not have
outdistanced him to such an extent that they could have completed their
work and gone away again. It might not take them long to surprise and
murder their victim, but a hundred cases of liquor could not be unloaded
from a boat and reloaded on a truck quite so expeditiously!

He stepped from the road across a narrow open space, deep with wheel
ruts, to where a small building loomed up before him, and beyond which,
extending out into the river to lose itself in that gray wall of fog, he
could just distinguish the outlines of a wharf. Like every other
building in the vicinity it was unlighted and showed no signs of
occupancy.

Jimmie Dale's flashlight played for an inquisitive second through the
darkness, disclosing what was obviously no more than a one-story office
shed; held for another instant on the lettering, scarcely discernible
for dirt and neglect, that was painted on one of the two windows--and
was extinguished again as he read the inscription:

H. BILWITZ & CO.,
LUMBER MERCHANTS.

A grim smile of relief pulled down the corners of Jimmie Dale's lips as
he knocked upon the door. The luck was holding!

Was it? There was no answer. He knocked again, more loudly and
insistently than before. There was still no answer. It was queer! Very
strange! Anybody anywhere in a rickety structure like this must have
heard the knocking unless he were stone deaf--and Connie Gowan was far
from being deaf in any degree! It was possible, of course, that the
Ferret was not here after all; that, like last night, for instance,
prompted by affairs of more ugly moment, he had again left his cargo
from Rum Row to take care of itself. And yet the Mole had been so sure!
Again Jimmie Dale began a tattoo with his knuckles on the panels--and
suddenly a voice came snarling viciously at him out of the blackness
from around the corner of the shed at the edge of the wharf.

"Cut out that row, curse you! What's the idea?"

"Is that you, Connie?" Smarlinghue called back eagerly.

"Who are you?" countered the other.

"I'm Smarlinghue," Jimmie Dale replied. "You remember Smarlinghue, don't
you?"

"Smarly, eh? Yes, I remember Smarly--but he's been gone a long time!
Come down here and let me get a look at your map--with your hands up!"

Jimmie Dale obeyed. He was quite well aware that the figure lurking
there at the edge of the wharf had him covered. As he reached the corner
of the shed, the ray of a flashlight, flung suddenly in his face,
blinded him; and then, the flashlight pointing the way, he was pushed
toward a side door in the shed.

"Yes; you're Smarly, all right!" growled the other. "Come on in, and
tell us about it!"

"There ain't no time to go in," protested Smarlinghue. "Say, you're
Connie Gowan, ain't you?"

"You've said a mouthful," admitted the other. "What about it?"

"Then there ain't no time to go in," reiterated Smarlinghue. "You've got
to beat it, Connie--and beat it quick!"

"Is that so?" inquired the Ferret casually. "And why?"

"Because," Smarlinghue blurted out wildly, "Tony the Wop and his gang
are on the way down here now to bump you off and pinch some booze that
they say you've got here in a motor boat."

"Is _that_ so!" repeated the Ferret--but this time in the form of a
menacing exclamation. "Well, I guess there's time to chew this over a
bit!" He pushed Jimmie Dale inside the shed and switched on a light, "I
don't get chased away from here as easy as that! Now, what's the steer?"

"For Gawd's sake put out that light!" pleaded Smarlinghue. "It ain't any
steer! It's on the level, Connie! I'm telling you, it's the straight
goods!"

But the Ferret refused to switch off the light. His little black eyes
were narrowed to slits, and the automatic in his hand still held a bead
on Smarlinghue.

"That's all right, Smarly," he grinned unamiably; "but this sounds fishy
to me. You and me ain't no blood relations, and you don't owe me
nothing. Why this brotherly-love stuff?"

"It ain't that," urged Smarlinghue in desperation. "But you and me ain't
never had anything against each other, either. If I was caught at this
they'd cut my throat, but I knew you'd never spill the beans on me no
matter what happened. I wasn't for seeing any man murdered--cold."

"That's all right!" The Ferret's tones were slightly mollified. "If
you're telling the truth, Smarly, you're safe with me. But you got to
show me first. See? How the hell did you know I was here? How did you
get next to all this?"

Smarlinghue did not disguise his agitation. He wet his lips with the tip
of his tongue. Were they going to be trapped in here? He was not sure,
but he thought he had caught the rumble of a truck.

"One of Tony's gang, called the Mole, found out about it"--Smarlinghue
was pouring out his words in frantic haste--"I don't know how. I heard
Tony and the Mole talking about it outside the Jungle, and Tony sent the
Mole for the rest of the gang--and I beat it for here to wise you up.
But I'm telling you again there ain't any time for talking. They can't
be more than a few minutes behind me, and----_Listen_! There's a truck
just stopped out there. That's the way they were coming--on a truck!"

For the fraction of a second the Ferret listened--and then red anger
flamed suddenly into his face.

"You're right, Smarly, I hear 'em!" he burst out hoarsely, and a string
of vicious oaths purled from working lips. "But they've got a long way
to come yet before they get me! The white-livered mongrels! And mabbe,
just to sweeten up the pot, I'll get one or two of 'em before they start
drawing any cards! See that trapdoor over in the far corner at the back
of the shed? Got it spotted? All right!" He switched off the light.
"They could see us through the front windows. Feel your way to it and
yank it up while I lock the side door here. I ain't going to let 'em
_walk_ in!"

"I get you!" It was Smarlinghue who spoke--but it was Jimmie Dale, lithe
and agile as a panther, who leaped swiftly across the floor, and,
locating the trapdoor, pulled it up.

The sense of touch told him that a flight of steep, ladderlike steps led
downward; and from below he could hear the _lap_ of water--but his ear
caught other sounds now--stealthy footsteps from several points outside!
The shed was being surrounded!

Jimmie Dale strained his eyes through the blackness. There was a dark
shadow out there against one of the front windowpanes--several of them.
And now someone was guardedly at work on the lock of the front door.

But Jimmie Dale was not alone in what he saw and heard, for the Ferret,
who had crept silently across the shed, and now stood almost at Jimmie
Dale's elbow, laughed suddenly, jeeringly--and the next instant the
flame tongue of the Ferret's automatic cut through the black. A scream
answered the shot from the other side of the shattered windowpane.

"I hope to Gawd it was the Wop!" gritted the Ferret--and fired again.
"I'll ..." His words were drowned out by what was obviously a concerted
rush upon the door, a crash, and the groan of sagging timbers.

Jimmie Dale's hand stole into the pocket of his coat and closed grimly
upon his own automatic. With their failure to enter the shed by stealth
and catch the Ferret unawares, the Wop and his followers had
incontinently thrown all caution to the winds. Fury at their
discomfiture would alone rule them now. The trapdoor led down under the
wharf, of course. But after that--what? Was there a way out? If not, it
became a question of the first law of nature, that was all--a fight to a
finish. Caught here, it was death to Smarlinghue as certainly as it was
death to the Ferret. His lips twitched in a wry grimace. Not a nice
place to die--with the murderer of Ray Thorne as his ally!

Another crash upon the door!

And then the Ferret spoke again--punctuating his words with the flashes
of his automatic.

"Go on, Smarly--quick!" he barked. "Beat it down the steps! They'll have
the door bust open in a minute!"

Jimmie Dale without answer swung himself through the trapdoor opening
and got his footing on the steps beneath. He felt the Ferret come
crowding after him.

"Look out for yourself!" warned the Ferret. "It ain't far! Stand still
when you get to the bottom or you'll fall off."

It was pitch black. Feeling out with his foot, Jimmie Dale discovered
that he had reached the bottom step. As the Ferret had said, he had not
had far to go--only a matter of some seven or eight feet, he judged,
below the level of the shed.

"I'm all right!" he answered.

Came again a crash upon the front door, louder than any that had gone
before--and then the pound of feet overhead, the snarl of voices, oaths,
a sudden succession of shots. The trapdoor above him banged shut, and
the clang of metal told him that the Ferret had shot a heavy bolt or
fastening of some kind into place. And now the Ferret, descending in
turn, pushed past him.

"D'ye hear them last shots?" he flung out. "Well, I got another of 'em!
There'll be some parking done in the morgue to-morrow! Yes, and some
more yet, mabbe! Didn't I tell you they'd got a long way to go before
they got the Ferret! Bump me off and pinch the booze, eh? They got a fat
chance--not! But they've spoiled my racket, damn 'em! I'd give the whole
boatload to get my claws into the neck of that greasy, knife-stabbing
Wop! Wait! We've got to have a light. It won't help them none, 'cause
they can't see us, and they couldn't fire through the planking anyway.
You stay here for a minute and don't let them try any monkey-work with
that trapdoor. I'll fix the rest."

There was the click of an electric-light switch--and Jimmie Dale stared
around him, his eyes blinking in the sudden transition from utter
darkness. A little string of incandescents disclosed the interior of the
wharf. He was standing on a narrow platform that extended the wharf's
entire length; and moored against the platform a few yards away was a
big motor boat, deep in the water, and loaded with something,
tarpaulin-covered, that was piled above the gunwales both fore and aft.
He had no need to ask what that "something" was. If he were any judge,
there were certainly many more than a hundred cases there. The Mole had
been conservative in his estimate!

Footsteps sounded suddenly on the wharf above his head, then the sound
of heavy blows, and the rending of wood--the Wop and his gang were
wasting no time! Not being able to fire through the planking, as the
Ferret had observed, they were now proceeding to tear it up! The Ferret,
for some reason or other, had dashed to the far end of the platform and
back again, and now, casting off the mooring lines, had jumped into the
cockpit of the boat, and was leaning over the engine.

"Come on, Smarly!" he whispered. "You get the idea, don't you?"

The front end of the wharf was apparently as solidly enclosed as were
the sides; but, as there was no other possible exit, the solution was
not far from the obvious.

"It opens like a door, don't it?" hazarded Smarlinghue, as he joined the
Ferret in the boat.

"You've said it!" nodded the Ferret. "From the outside it looks like the
boards went all the way down with the piles--but they don't! They don't
go down only just enough below low-water mark, so's nobody is wise to
it. I just unfastened it. All there is to do is start the boat, and the
boat pushes her own way out--easy! See?"

"Sure!" said Jimmie Dale readily--but his eyes were searching critically
about him as he weighed the Ferret's plan in his mind.

It was obvious that the moment the Ferret started up the engine, the
Wop's murder gang above there, who were ripping desperately at the
planking with the only too apparent object of raking the interior of the
wharf with a hail of bullets, would hear the roar of the exhaust and
have not the slightest misconception as to its meaning; and it was
equally obvious that the moment the boat poked her nose out into the
open they would be waiting at the end of the wharf to pour down into her
at most unpleasant range all the lead that they possessed! The boat was
an open one. He could quite understand why. Anything in the shape of a
cabin would have been waste space for a boat of the size of this one,
taking into consideration the purpose for which she was employed. She
did not carry _passengers_ from Rum Row! But, too, the protection of her
crew from attack when running her illicit cargo had not been altogether
overlooked. Just aft of the engine the cases had been piled in such a
way as to form a small roofed space under which one might crouch in
safety from any pursuing shots. The Ferret's plan was entirely feasible,
and, furthermore, did not appear to involve much risk, for on top of
everything else the dense fog out there would blanket the boat almost
from the moment she was clear of the wharf.

His eyes traveled back to the Ferret. The Ferret's attention had been
diverted from the engine to his automatic, which he was now in the act
of reloading hurriedly.

"I guess you won't get a chance to use that any more, will you?"
observed Smarlinghue mildly. "You'll have to lie pretty close going
out."

The Ferret blazed into sudden rage.

"Mabbe I will and mabbe I won't!" he snarled. "Listen to 'em up there
trying to get a hole to shoot through so's to plug a man in the back!
What d'ye think! Didn't I tell you they'd put my racket on the rocks!
The whole world'll know about this place to-morrow, and it's finished.
Get that? It's finished! A couple of 'em won't pay for it, and that's
all I got so far--just a couple of 'em! I'd hate to say good-night to
'em without getting another!"

"Don't be a fool, Connie," advised Smarlinghue earnestly. "They'll be
lined up on the end of the wharf the minute they hear the engine start.
You can't take a crack at 'em without showing yourself, can you? Well,
then, if you do, the betting is that you'll get yours, and that'll help
a lot--I don't think!"

The Ferret's jaw was hard-set.

"You're all to the good, Smarly," he said through thin lips, "and I
ain't going to forget what you done to-night, but you mind your own damn
business! I'll take care of myself, all right!" He stepped suddenly out
on the platform, switched off the lights, and jumped into the boat
again. "I ain't handing 'em any extra light to see by as we go out!" he
explained savagely. "You get in there under them cases. There's room for
us both, and I'll be with you as soon as I start the engine up. Are you
ready?"

The attack on the planking overhead was not only being more vigorously
pressed than ever, but was showing imminent promise of a successful
issue. Something, a loosened piece of timber probably, fell with a
splash into the water. Jimmie Dale crouched down beneath the barricade.
However great or little the danger in running the gauntlet from the
wharf end, it was obvious that the sooner they started away the
better--they would be under fire here in the next minute or so.

"Let 'er go!" he said tersely.

The Ferret made no answer--but the next instant the enclosed space was
reverberating with a deafening roar as the engine started. The boat,
moving forward, gained momentum; and the Ferret, now taking cover too,
crouched down beside Jimmie Dale. And then, a minute later, under the
boat's weight and impetus, the hinged end of the wharf swung outward and
the boat began to nose her way out into the open.

Oaths, exclamations, yells, a volley of shots greeted the boat's
appearance--and to Jimmie Dale it seemed as though a battery of machine
guns had opened upon them, so continuous was the fire as a hailstorm of
lead spattered upon the cases above his head and splintered them. A grim
smile flickered across his lips. Fate was indulging in quite a nave
sense of humor! Even the cargo was joining in the fusillade! Champagne!
Some of the bullets made a target! Here and there, in a feeble,
protesting outcry, muffled by its wrappings, a bottle popped! And then
the boat cleared the end of the wharf.

"Hell!" shrieked the Ferret above the uproar. "I was hoping some of 'em
would have jumped down on the boat as we came out! That was what I was
loading my rod for--I'd have plugged 'em cold! But I might have known
they wouldn't have the nerve! Curse 'em! Mabbe, though, it ain't too
late yet. They can't see the boat now; they're just firing like fools
into the fog. A lucky shot at the flashes--get me? I'll----"

"Yes, and what about your own flashes?" snapped Jimmie Dale; and, too
late to stop the other, thrust out a restraining hand--the Ferret had
jumped suddenly back into the cockpit.

The man was mad, of course, in a berserk rage, foolhardy beyond words.
He was standing up there now, and firing back over the top of the cases
as fast as he could pull trigger. A burst of shots from the wharf and a
patter of bullets on the cases answered him--and then, though it was too
dark to see distinctly, the Ferret's shadowy form seemed to sway
grotesquely, and what was manifestly the man's pistol made a queer
little clattering sound as it fell on the boat's grating.

In an instant Jimmie Dale was beside the other--but only in time to
catch the Ferret in his arms and lay a limp figure down on the bottom of
the boat.

"How bad is it, Connie?" he asked solicitously.

The Ferret made no reply.

From his pocket Jimmie Dale wrenched out his flashlight, and, switching
it on as he knelt over the other, tore open the Ferret's coat and vest.
One glance was enough--there was death in the man's face. But he could
not find the wound. Yes, here it was! In the left side--the stain was
showing now, spreading. The bullet must have ricocheted from
somewhere--it could not have been a direct hit, as otherwise, with
almost breast-high protection, it would have been a head wound. Did it
matter? The man at least was still breathing.

Jimmie Dale stared around him. Nothing but fog--he could not see even a
boat's length ahead. Nothing but the discordant medley of the
sirens--the firing from the wharf had ceased. And the boat was speeding
now--he did not know in exactly what direction. There had been no effort
made to steer the boat since they had left the wharf. He did not know
whether she had veered to the right or the left, or was headed straight
out into the river. _He_ had not seen any of those flashes which would
at least have told him where the wharf lay and from which he could have
judged the present course. As it was, the boat was now tearing blindly
through the night to certain destruction--either by collision with some
other craft or by finally bringing up with a headlong smash on one side
of the river or the other. There was only one thing to do!

It had taken him but a second to reach his decision. It took him but
another second to stop the engine. And then, back again at the Ferret's
side, his flashlight restored to his pocket, he sat down on the bottom
of the boat, and, raising the other's head, supported it on his knee.
There was nothing else he could do for the man. He knew that. One did
not have to be a medical practitioner to read the end that he had seen
so plainly written in the Ferret's face. It was a question if the man
would ever regain so much as momentary consciousness!

A strange mingling of emotions surged upon Jimmie Dale. The abysmal
irony of it all! The utter futility of his efforts when he had been so
sure of ultimate success! Here was the end--with the proof of the man's
guilt dying with him! That promise to Ray unkept! The Gray Seal
unvindicated! But he was conscious, too, of a sense of compassion in the
presence of death that displaced, or at least mellowed, the bitterness
in his heart toward the man who had murdered his friend.

The Ferret stirred--rolling his head uneasily on Jimmie Dale's knee.

"Better, Connie?" Jimmie Dale asked softly.

"It's--it's dark," said the Ferret feebly. "That you, Smarly?"

"Yes--sure!" said Jimmie Dale.

"Then, listen! There's something I want you to do, Smarly. I ain't
fooling myself. I've got mine, all right."

"What's the use of talking like that?" said Jimmie Dale hearteningly.
"Buck up, Connie! You haven't cashed in yet, have you?"

"Cut out the--the bunk!" rasped the Ferret. "I ain't any squealer! I got
the spot, all right, like you said I would. Listen! I'm telling you
there's something I want you to do. I--I got a couple of pals that ..."
The Ferret's voice died to a murmur.

Jimmie Dale bent his head lower.

"I didn't get all that, Connie," he said gently.

The Ferret nodded weakly.

"Wait!" he said. "Give me time. It--it ain't easy to talk. Boston Bob
and Pinky John."

Jimmie Dale grew suddenly tense--but Smarlinghue's tones were unaltered.
Was the truth, a confession, coming after all!

"I used to know 'em," said Smarlinghue. "What is it you want?"

"They ain't here yet"--there were long pauses now between the Ferret's
words--"they're coming from France. Got held up. Cabled me in code to
get--to get----" The Ferret choked and stopped.

"Yes," prompted Smarlinghue, and fought to keep his voice in control,
"to get--what?"

"That's none of your business!" There was an attempt at a snarl in the
Ferret's broken tones. "Just something. See? I want 'em to know I didn't
throw 'em down. I tried first chance I got--last night--only the Gray
Seal beat me to it."

"The Gray Seal! Last night!" Jimmie Dale made no effort to curb
Smarlinghue's very natural excitement. "Say, I read about that in the
papers. Say, you aren't talking about a guy named Thorne that got bumped
off, are you?"

"Yes--that's what. I was there." The Ferret was struggling to make his
words audible. "I--I saw the Gray Seal bump him off."

Jimmie Dale's face in the darkness set suddenly as hard as chiseled
marble. A queer pounding was in his ears. What was this the Ferret had
said? The Ferret had been there--but it wasn't the Ferret who had
killed Ray. The Ferret had witnessed the murder! That meant that
besides himself, Jimmie Dale, and the Ferret, a _third_ man, the actual
murderer, had been in Ray Thorne's house last night. The Ferret was
telling the truth, there was not the slightest doubt about that--the
Ferret knew he was dying.

"Gawd!" gasped Smarlinghue. "You saw the Gray Seal? You saw the Gray
Seal hand Thorne the spot?"

"Yes; but I--I didn't know it was the Gray Seal till the papers said so,
and--and, Smarly, hold my hand--tight. Listen! I want my pals to know I
played straight. I--I got in with a jimmy--basement window--see? I
didn't make any noise getting upstairs, but--but I had to duck behind a
curtain that--that hung in front of one of the doors in the hall because
somebody was coming downstairs, and ..."

Again the Ferret's voice trailed off into nothingness. When he spoke
again it was in a hoarse, rattling whisper. Jimmie Dale strained to
catch the faltering words:

"The--the guy that came downstairs was Thorne. He opened a door--across
the hall, and--and stepped into a room. The room was--lighted. I--I
could see from the edge of the curtain. Thorne--was--in--pajamas. The
Gray Seal was kneeling in front of--of--a safe, and--and there was stuff
from the inside of it all--all over the floor. The Gray Seal
swung--around--on his knees when--when the door opened. Thorne said: 'My
God--_you_!' And--and then the Gray Seal plugged him with--with a rod
that--that had a silencer on it. That's all. I--I wasn't for getting
mixed up in--in any murder. When--the--Gray--Seal--closed--the--door--again,
I--I beat it."

The rle of Smarlinghue vanished.

"What did the Gray Seal look like?" demanded Jimmie Dale tensely. "Had
you ever seen him before? Would you know him again if you saw him?"

The Ferret made a futile effort to speak--and then his words came in a
faint mumble:

"I--I don't know. Only saw side--side face. Never saw--saw him before.
What d'you care--Smarly? Black hair. Lots of--of men with black hair.
I--hell!" He raised himself up suddenly on his elbow. "Shut that
trapdoor! Listen! I hear 'em! The Wop! Tony the Wop! Get another of 'em
before----" He fell back on Jimmie Dale's knee with a long-drawn,
fluttering sigh.

It was the end. The Ferret was dead.

Jimmie Dale rose to his feet, and with hands clenched stood staring into
the fog. Only a crook! That would be the world's sorry encomium. Even
so! Callousness was something foreign to Jimmie Dale. The Ferret's death
had not left him unmoved. But that was not all. His mind was in
chaos--struggling to adjust itself to new viewpoints that were
diametrically opposed to the old. Everything had assumed an entirely
different aspect. He had to begin all over again--anew!

He drew his hand heavily across his eyes. "Black hair!" Who was this
third man?--whom Ray _knew_! Was it possible, after all, that Ray was
more than merely an innocent cat's-paw in the blue envelope mystery? How
did Ray come to know _anyone_ connected with an affair in which
_everyone_ was a shady character and worse? Why was Ray ever trusted
with the blue envelope at all? Why Ray?--out of all New York! And yet
the Tocsin had heard Daddy Ratzler say that Ray was not in the secret!
But there were others who were very much in the secret that Daddy
Ratzler hadn't known about either--the Ferret, for instance--and now
obviously this third visitor to Ray's house last night. Well?

He bent suddenly down over the engine. He was only stumbling around in a
mental _cul-de-sac_--and time was too precious now for that! There was
the immediate present to claim his whole attention. He must get
ashore--and not by drifting! That might mean hours--daylight--the
lifting of the fog. Smarlinghue could very ill afford to be discovered
here in this boat under existing conditions! He had not been seen either
in the shed or in the boat, and what part he had taken in the affray
could not possibly have disclosed his presence--therefore, so far as
Tony the Wop and his jackals were concerned, there had been nothing to
indicate that _anybody_ had been with the Ferret. A twisted smile
touched Jimmie Dale's lips. It would be well to leave them--and
everybody else--under that impression!

       *       *       *       *       *

The boat, with its engine throttled down, crept cautiously through the
fog. It came to rest finally by striking the end of a wharf that loomed
up suddenly out of nowhere--and thereafter it lay there bumping gently
against the piling.

But Smarlinghue had gone.




CHAPTER XI

FRAYED THREADS


Jimmie Dale's face was lined, his dark eyes looked tired; the immaculate
dinner clothes he wore seemed somehow to have lost their perfect
fit--his shoulders were slightly slumped.

He had dined at the club with Carruthers--futilely. Carruthers had had
nothing new to report from the police angle. Jimmie Dale sat now at the
big, flat-topped rosewood desk in his den in Riverside Drive--futilely.

Before him was a little pile of blue envelopes and a little pile of blue
note paper, all as nearly identical in texture with _the_ blue envelope
and its enclosure, which were at the present moment locked away in his
safe, as he had been able to find amongst the wares displayed by the
leading stores in New York that dealt in such commodities. There was a
rack of test tubes in front of him, the contents variegated in color.
Here and there on the desk were bits of blue paper that were stained and
discolored. Was there any significance--the old question that was always
at the back of his head--in the fact that the envelope and paper that
had cost Ray Thorne his life, and which were so priceless in the eyes of
Daddy Ratzler, the Ferret, and the _murderer_, were blue in color? What
was the effect on blue paper of certain chemicals intimately associated
with the making of various kinds of sympathetic ink? He had been making
experiments with blue paper. Nothing! Nor had the original envelope and
note paper yielded up so much as one jot or tittle of their secret.

His elbows went down on the desk; and, chin sunk in his hands, he stared
unseeingly across the room. It was four nights ago now since Ray Thorne
had been killed--and he, Jimmie Dale, had been balked at every turn. It
was an impasse. Instead of making any progress, the days and nights had
only been crowded with confusion and failure--and a dread anxiety that
had grown hourly more acute. Fear had come. It was torturing him now.
The Tocsin had disappeared. There had been no word from her, no sign
from her for three days.

His brows gathered in sudden furrows, his fingers biting into his
cheeks. The one thing he had been so sure would not happen _had_
happened. He had known terror on her account in the old days when he had
searched fruitlessly and in vain for her; but in those days she had
purposely eluded him. This time she would not _purposely_ elude him;
this time they were to have worked hand in hand together, to have kept
constantly in touch with each other. But since that night in the
Sanctuary, when later he had picked up the Ferret's trail, he had not
been able to find a single trace of her. There could be only one reason
for this--only one. She would know that he would be nearly mad with fear
and anxiety on her account, and she would not voluntarily have made him
suffer. Only one reason--just one! Stark, ugly logic! The reason she had
not communicated with him was that she had been _physically_ unable to
do so. What had happened? Was it Daddy Ratzler? Had Daddy Ratzler caught
her in a trap? What had he done to her? Murder meant nothing to Daddy
Ratzler. He dealt in it--bought and paid for it without compunction.
Jimmie Dale's fingers bit deeper into his cheeks. His store of courage
was not inexhaustible, and now it was almost gone. Was she
even--_alive_?

And Daddy Ratzler, too, had disappeared!

Jimmie Dale rose abruptly from his desk and began to pace up and down
the room, his hands fiercely clenched--and then, as abruptly, he
returned to his chair. To give way to agitation was the last thing he
could afford to do. It would not only get him nowhere--it clouded the
issue. He needed all his wits, and all the cool thinking of which he was
capable now. Perhaps he was exaggerating the peril he believed the
Tocsin to be in. In any case her disappearance and Ray Thorne's murder
were indissolubly associated, and sprang from a common source--the blue
envelope. That was obviously the only trail to follow. But he had lost
the trail. How was he to pick it up again?

Where had he lost it? His mind was at work now, delving, searching,
probing into the nooks and corners of the last three days. Somewhere
surely there must be a lead that he had overlooked; somewhere, surely,
there must be a signpost that he had missed!

The Ferret first, then! The Ferret had been an eye-witness to the
murder. The murderer was a man with "black hair!" The Ferret, dying, had
not meant to indulge in irony, but that was almost the sum total of the
information Connie Gowan had supplied. Whether or not the Ferret knew
the actual secret of the blue envelope it was impossible to say. The one
question leading up to that point that he, Jimmie Dale, had been able to
put had been savagely turned aside. This seemed to dismiss the Ferret
from further consideration, except for the fact that it brought his two
confederates, Boston Bob and Pinky John, into the picture. Boston Bob
and Pinky John would undoubtedly prove well worth watching, but neither
of the two had as yet reached New York. As Smarlinghue, he, Jimmie Dale,
had that on unimpeachable authority--the authority of the underworld.
The Ferret's body had been found in the boat. The papers had made a lot
of it. And, in the underworld, this latest killing among the high-born
of Crimeland had, during the past few days, almost rivalled the
reappearance of the Gray Seal as a topic of conversation. It was
unimportant that the police were at a loss in the affair and that Tony
the Wop had not volunteered to enlighten them; but it was beyond cavil
or question that, with the departed Ferret so fiercely in the limelight,
the two men who had been most closely associated with him for years in
his criminal activities could be in New York without that fact being
known to the underworld. In the guise of Smarlinghue, he had searched
for them himself through a dozen dens and dives without avail. He had
heard mention of them often enough, for their names were almost
invariably coupled with the Ferret's, but they had not been seen in New
York for more than a year.

Jimmie Dale shook his head brusquely. Boston Bob and Pinky John offered
him no help at the present moment. Some day, undoubtedly, they would
show up here since they had cabled the Ferret they were coming--but they
had already been a long time on the way. The Tocsin had heard them
express some fears that their movements would not be altogether without
interest to the police. The Ferret had said that they had been "held
up." They still might be a very long way from New York! He smiled
wryly. There was no chance of "cultivating" _them_ to-night!

What about Ray himself? Was Ray merely an innocent cat's-paw--or was he
not? He, Jimmie Dale, did not want to believe the latter; but in view of
the fact, established by the Ferret, that Ray had recognized the man who
had murdered him, it was a possibility that must be taken into account.
He did not know. Both before and after the funeral, which had taken
place yesterday, he and Carruthers had spent a great deal of time in
Ray's house--and so had the police. The police had gone through Ray's
papers and effects again and again. Detective Sergeant Waud had been
searching desperately for a clue that would lead to the discovery of
_what_ had been stolen from the safe; he, Jimmie Dale, had been
searching for a clue of an entirely different nature. Detective Sergeant
Waud, in spite of his efforts, was now only more at a loss than ever, if
that were possible; and he, Jimmie Dale, had not found a scrap of
evidence to indicate that Ray had ever had any queer or questionable
associations before. With Ray's good name at stake, this was a distinct
relief in the sense that it tended to swing the pendulum in Ray's favor
and strengthen the theory that he had had no guilty knowledge of what
was going on--but this negative fact afforded no clue to a new starting
point! Nothing that had transpired at the house since the murder had
thrown any new light on the crime. Acting on cabled authority from Ray's
brother, who was now on his way out from Australia, Carruthers, so that
the house might not be left vacant pending the former's arrival, had
retained Mrs. Caton and her daughter in service--and at the same time
had incontinently discharged Beaton, the dissolute valet, not only
because his services were no longer required, but because the two women
refused to remain alone in the house with the man since his unsavory
character had been so thoroughly exposed. Perhaps Ray's brother, if not
out of the present, then out of the past, might be able to forge
together again some of the broken links. Again the wry smile crossed
Jimmie Dale's lips. Ray's brother had not reached New York yet, either!
For the immediate present, then, unless something cropped up
unexpectedly, nothing could be gained by centering further attention on
the case from Ray's angle.

That left only Daddy Ratzler. But Daddy Ratzler had disappeared. He,
Jimmie Dale, did not know at just what precise moment Old Pockface had
gone away--he only knew that Daddy Ratzler had been gone now for at
least two days, and that it was three days since there had been any sign
of the Tocsin. Two days ago, in the afternoon, as Smarlinghue, he had
strolled past Daddy Ratzler's office with the idea of having a back-door
interview with Mother Margot if the coast were clear and the opportunity
offered--and had found the place closed. There had been a notice on the
street door to the effect that Daddy Ratzler had been unexpectedly
called out of town--and the notice, rather significantly, from his,
Jimmie Dale's standpoint, failed to state when Daddy Ratzler might be
expected to return.

Jimmie Dale's lips drew suddenly now into a hard, straight line. This
had alarmed him. If this were so, it should have left the Tocsin free,
since Daddy Ratzler had very bluntly made it plain to her that he would
not trust her in the house when he was absent; and if, then, she had
been free, and knowing that he would soon discover that Daddy Ratzler
had gone, why had she not communicated with him, Jimmie Dale? She had
paid no visit to the Sanctuary; no note had been left in that secret
recess behind the baseboard; and neither note nor telephone message had
been received at Riverside Drive where Jason of late had had strict
injunctions to permit no one but himself to answer the phone!

As Smarlinghue, he, Jimmie Dale, had gone to the attic lodging of Mother
Margot. He had made no inquiries; he had not dared to arouse curiosity
and set tongues wagging about Mother Margot--nor was it necessary to do
so. He had surreptitiously unlocked her door and entered the squalid
room. The room itself had answered his question for him. A glance almost
was sufficient to satisfy him that she had never occupied it from the
moment she had become a tenant there.

That was not so bad, for she had rented it only as a blind should Daddy
Ratzler become inquisitive, and had herself said that she had not
intended to occupy it except in case of necessity; but what _was_ bad,
and what had hourly increased his misgivings until those misgivings had
culminated in the stark fear that possessed him now, was that "Agnes
Watkins" had not occupied her room in her so-called hotel, either, for
at least the last two days and nights. Her trunks and belongings were
still there--but she was not! Her absence, let alone arousing any
suspicions in the mind of the far-from-puritanical proprietor, had
probably not even been noticed--one did one's own room work in such
places as that--and, as she herself had stated, one of the reasons she
had selected such a rooming house was because no one would either know
or care if she were away for days at a stretch providing the rent were
not overdue. He had set no inquiries afoot here either--for here, too,
they were unnecessary. He had had no difficulty, thanks to that side
entrance which had particularly influenced her in her selection of the
place, in entering her room unobserved and at will--but he had entered
it only twice. After his second visit he had resorted to a time-worn
expedient, and had sealed the door on the outside--with a single hair
stretched across the top corner. If this were broken it would only
prove, of course, that _someone_, not necessarily the Tocsin, had
unlocked the door--which in itself would be a vital piece of
information. But the hair had not been broken. It had been still intact
only a few hours ago. For two days, at least, then, _no one_ had opened
that door! The Tocsin had disappeared.

Where else was he to look for her? Daddy Ratzler's empty office and
house? He _had_ looked there--with the fear at first in his heart that
she had come to harm behind those closed doors. But that fear had been
soon dispelled--even the cellar was bare of any evidence of foul play.
Daddy Ratzler would never have been such a fool anyway--he did not kill
his victims on his own premises! But Daddy Ratzler's office and house
had presented other possibilities--a clue perhaps to where Daddy Ratzler
had gone; a clue perhaps to the personnel of Daddy Ratzler's immediate
followers, the identity of the members of the gang who, like their
chief, set such unhallowed store by the blue envelope. There were Daddy
Ratzler's safe and desk and papers! Well, he had already opened Daddy
Ratzler's safe and desk, and----

Jimmie Dale abruptly pulled open one of the drawers of his own rosewood
desk, and, taking out a slip of paper, laid it down on the blotting pad
before him. It was a very small slip of paper, perhaps an inch in width
by five in length, that might have been scissored from the bottom of a
pad, and it was faded almost to a yellow color. He scowled in puzzlement
at the one line that was ink-scrawled upon it:

"Who killed Blotz? Five grand."

"Five grand," of course, meant five thousand dollars. But that did not
help very much.

What did it mean? It could hardly have any bearing on the present case,
for, from its faded condition, the slip of paper appeared to be at least
several years old; but, nevertheless, it intrigued him. It was the only
thing he had found at Daddy Ratzler's that had aroused more than his
passing interest--and he had found this adhering to the frame of the
desk where it had evidently slipped through a crevice at the back of one
of the top drawers. Daddy Ratzler, if the paper had any significance or
value, must have presumed it lost. But who was Blotz? He had never heard
of any one by that name who had been murdered--and neither had the
underworld so far as he could discover, for casual mention of the name
had everywhere missed fire. And yet, somehow, he would like to know more
of--Blotz!

He replaced the slip of paper in his desk and rose briskly to his feet.
His mind was suddenly made up. He was not entirely satisfied but that it
_was_ at Daddy Ratzler's he had lost the trail. Another search there
might be productive. It was worth trying. There was plenty of time;
there was still an hour or so before Smarlinghue would set out on his
usual pilgrimage through the underworld in the hope of--what? A chance
word that would disclose Daddy Ratzler's whereabouts? The chance that
Boston Bob and Pinky John had suddenly appeared upon the scene? The
chance that he would discover the rendezvous of Daddy Ratzler's gang?
The chance that he would be able to "place" even one member of that
gang?

He had been doing that night after night--without reward! He laughed a
little bitterly--and then his shoulders squared. Well, suppose he had!
There was no other way, no other chance of success. To find the Tocsin,
he must find Daddy Ratzler. He was sure of that--but in any case
inaction would have been intolerable.

He cleared away the dbris from his desk, took from his safe the leather
girdle that he had brought back with him from his last visit to the
Sanctuary--and ten minutes later, having changed into tweeds, was
standing in the lower hall, and Jason, plainly nervous and anxious, was
handing him his hat.

"I'm going out, Jason," he said.

"Yes, Master Jim, sir." said the old man tremulously, "so I see."

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale--and made a rather poor fist at infusing stern
displeasure into his voice. "And look here, Jason, I've something to say
to you!"

"Yes, sir?" inquired Jason.

"I've told you this sitting up for me until daylight, and sometimes long
after, has got to stop. For the last three nights you've deliberately
disobeyed me."

"Not deliberately, Master Jim, sir!" Jason's face was white, the tears
not far from the dim old eyes. "Don't say that, sir! You see, sir, it's
sitting in that big chair there, and dozing a bit, and you coming in,
sir, when I'd meant to have gone to bed long ago."

"H'm!" coughed Jimmie Dale to hide a catch in his voice. "I wish I had
your gift, Jason!"

"Gift, sir?"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale, with his hand suddenly on the old man's
shoulder. "Of lying gallantly, Jason--out of loyalty."

And then the front door closed on Jimmie Dale.




CHAPTER XII

THE SECOND VISITOR


A shadow bulked in the darkness against the back door of Daddy Ratzler's
domicile--and while a minute passed, like any other shadow, it made no
sound.

Jimmie Dale was not toying with chance. His ear was pressed against the
panel of the door and he was listening intently. The front room that
served for office had been dark as he had passed by on the street a few
moments ago, and so, too, had been the side windows as he had made his
way into the back yard. The presumption was that the house was still
empty and deserted--but presumptions sometimes had a treacherous habit
of playing disquieting pranks. Someone might be in there, despite
appearances to the contrary. Daddy Ratzler was tricky. Also, Jimmie Dale
remembered that the Tocsin had said the back door creaked.

Satisfied at last that there was no sound from within, but still wary of
presumption, Jimmie Dale slipped over his face the black silk mask which
he took from one of the little upright pockets of his leather girdle;
and then from another pocket in the girdle he took out a delicate little
blued-steel instrument which he inserted in the door lock. Under the
mask he smiled whimsically. He might have crawled in through the cellar
window, of course! He was quite well aware from his last visit here that
the cellar window was still unfastened just as the Tocsin had left it,
but a cellar window was not always an unmixed blessing--in an
emergency. A door, even if it creaked, provided a much surer and swifter
means of retreat in case of necessity!

There was a series of faint _snipping_ sounds--and then, as though it
were being gently coaxed to join in the conspiracy, only a subdued
protest as the door opened inch by inch under Jimmie Dale's hand.

And now there was no further sound. Jimmie Dale was moving with that
uncanny silent tread of the old Sanctuary days. But at each door along
the passageway he stopped to listen--and once again as he reached the
end of the passage and the threshold of Daddy Ratzler's office. The
house was empty.

The small flashlight in Jimmie Dale's hand suddenly penciled a timid
little ray of light across the office--too timid to penetrate the window
shades that he had noted from the street were still as closely drawn as
they had been on his first visit here. But the ray pointed neither
toward the desk nor toward the safe--_they_ would receive attention in
due course--it pointed toward the small vestibule that gave on the
street door. The street door had a mail slot, and clamped on the inside
of the door was Daddy Ratzler's mail box.

He was very curious about Daddy Ratzler's mail box! It was what had
first engaged his attention when he had come here before; it was what
first engaged his attention now. On the former occasion it had been
empty, but the postman would have passed by a good many times since
then!

He stepped quickly across the room, reached the vestibule, and,
stooping, opened the mail box. Yes, this time there were letters
here--two of them! Eagerly he examined first one and then the other
under the ray of the flashlight--and then, with a grimace of
disappointment, he tossed them back and closed the box again. One was an
unsealed circular from a furniture house that did business on the
instalment plan; the other bore the imprint of a local coal and wood
dealer, and was so obviously a bill or statement of account that there
was no excuse for tampering with it.

Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders resignedly. Well, that was that! He
had hoped the mail box might have provided more information; but in that
respect it seemed to be in league with everything else that was
connected with Daddy Ratzler!

He came back into the office, hesitated an instant as between the safe
and the desk for the next point of attack--and suddenly thrusting the
flashlight into his pocket whipped out his automatic in its stead.

Someone was coming! A key was rattling in the front-door lock!

And now through the darkness Jimmie Dale moved swiftly, soundlessly. In
scarcely a second he had reached the passageway leading to the rear of
the house, and here, just a little back from the office doorway, he
waited. He was tense and rigid now, every faculty alert, his jaw
outthrust a little--mercilessly. Was something going to break at last?
Who was it out there? Daddy Ratzler himself sneaking back to his lair?
Who else would have a key? Something pitiless, something elemental, rose
up in Jimmie Dale as, in cumulation now, the fear and agony he had
suffered during the last three days surged upon him. If it were Daddy
Ratzler, he, Jimmie Dale, would choke the truth about the Tocsin out of
him; and if any harm had come to her, if she were--were dead, then----

The street door opened and closed. Someone was fumbling with the mail
box now. He heard it being closed again. And now a footstep sounded on
the office floor, crossing toward the desk. And then the light over the
desk went on.

It was not often that Jimmie Dale's hand trembled--it trembled now as he
mechanically removed his mask. But he made no other movement. The swift
revulsion from the fear and anguish he had known for days to one of
sudden overwhelming relief and joy seemed to hold him rooted to the
spot. It was she, the Tocsin, who had entered the room, she, the Tocsin,
who had seated herself now at the desk. That shabby, haglike old
creature was Mother Margot! It did not seem as though it could be so;
that it was reality; that it was not some cruel hallucination. He wanted
to cry out to her, but somehow the words choked in his throat.

It was all like some dream. He was moving toward her now. Her back was
turned to him. She did not see him, did not hear him come. She had taken
a piece of paper from a drawer of the desk and was writing hurriedly. He
was close to her now, looking over her shoulder. Her pencil danced
across the paper. Words of a thousand memories swam before his eyes:

DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK:

I know that you----

His arms closed around her, crushing her to him.

She gave a sudden startled cry, struggling in her alarm to free
herself--and then, with a quick intake of her breath:

"Oh, Jimmie--you!"

"Marie!" he whispered brokenly.

Her arms were around his neck; she laid her cheek against his.

"You frightened me rather badly, Jimmie," she said gently. "You--you
shouldn't have done that."

"I did not mean to," he answered huskily. "A little while ago I was
afraid that I had--had lost you--for always. I couldn't believe that it
was really you. I had a feeling that I was dreaming, and that if I spoke
you wouldn't be there. It must have been a subconscious urge to touch
you. I don't think I knew what I was actually doing."

"Dear Jimmie!" she said tenderly. "I know. I understand. I have been
terribly worried about it. I knew how anxious you would be, but I had no
means of reaching you or communicating with you until to-night. I was
just writing you a note"--she swung impulsively away from him, pointing
to the desk--"when you----"

"Yes; I saw it," he said, and drew her back into his arms again. "But
there is something that I want to know far more than that. Have you been
in any danger? Are you in any danger now? I must know, Marie! Tell me
the literal truth!"

There were tears behind the thick-lensed spectacles of Mother Margot,
but she smiled brightly at him.

"No, Jimmie," she answered, "I haven't been in any danger, and I am not
in any now; not even if I were found here--providing I were found here
_alone_. But, as it is, it will be far safer with that light out. It
might attract attention. We mustn't risk that. Pull up another chair,
dear, close to mine here, and then switch off the light. I've a lot to
tell you--and there's not too much time."

"Yes," agreed Jimmie Dale--but a long minute passed before he dragged
another chair forward, while the Tocsin sank, a little breathless into
hers, and darkness fell upon the room.

It was the Tocsin who spoke first.

"Jimmie," she said tensely, "before we talk about anything else, tell me
something--the most important thing of all--the man who killed Ray--the
Ferret! Did you ever find the Ferret?"

He stared at her in amazement.

"The Ferret!" he exclaimed. "Why, don't you know? The papers have been
full of it!"

He could see her shake her head in the darkness.

"I haven't seen any papers or heard anything about it," she said. "What
was it?"

"He was killed that same night--the night, or, rather, early morning
that I started out to look for him," Jimmie Dale answered quietly. "He
was trying to escape with a boatload of bootlegger stuff from Tony the
Wop's hi-jacking gang. He used to keep the boat hidden under a wharf in
the East River. Understand? The boat got away in the fog all right, but
the Ferret was shot just after the boat cleared the end of the wharf. He
died a few minutes later."

"Dead!" Her voice was suddenly flat. "Then that ends it all, doesn't it,
Jimmie? What does the blue envelope matter now? What does it matter now
what it was all about? They haven't got it anyhow. It was the man who
killed Ray that we were after!"

Jimmie Dale's hand sought and found the Tocsin's.

"We are still after him, Marie," he said gravely.

"But you said that the Ferret was----"

"It wasn't the Ferret who killed Ray," Jimmie Dale interposed. "I was
in the boat with the Ferret when he died. As Smarlinghue, of course. The
Wop's crowd didn't know I was there. I had found out about their
hi-jacking plans, and had gone to warn the Ferret--you remember that my
idea was to 'cultivate' him? The Ferret talked a little before he died.
Boston Bob and Pinky John had cabled him about the blue envelope--I
don't know whether he knew what was in it or not. We were right, though,
in our belief that he went to Ray's house that night to get it. He was
not only there, but was actually there at the time of the murder and was
an eye-witness to it. He saw the man who shot Ray--the man who he
believed, of course, from the papers, to have been the Gray Seal."

"Jimmie!" Her fingers twined fiercely around Jimmie Dale's. "Who was
it?"

"A man with black hair!" Jimmie Dale laughed a little harshly. "No one
he knew. That's all I got out of the Ferret. A man with black hair."

"Oh!" she said almost under her breath. "I--I was so sure it was the
Ferret. And now we've got to start all over again. A man with black
hair! That doesn't help very much, does it, Jimmie?"

"Not very much! But tell me now about yourself and what has
happened--and how, for instance, you come to have the key to the front
door here, and are in a position to walk boldly in, turn on the light,
and usurp Daddy Ratzler's desk as though you owned the place?"

"The answer is simple," she replied. "Daddy Ratzler gave me the key, and
Daddy Ratzler sent me here."

"In spite of the fact that he had previously been so particular to see
that you were never left here for a minute alone?"

"Yes--Daddy Ratzler and I are getting on. He sent me here to-night for
his mail."

Jimmie Dale laughed softly.

"Then I'm afraid he's out of luck!" he said.

"Oh!" she said. "So you've been at the mail box, too?"

"Of course!"

"Was there anything there that I didn't get?"

"No; I put it all back. That's why I say he's out of luck. I fancy he'll
be rather disappointed with a coal bill and a circular illustrating
furniture bargains on the monthly payment plan."

Again in the darkness Jimmie Dale saw the Tocsin shake her head.

"I'm not so sure about that," she said. "It's possible, of course, that
he was expecting some special letter, but I hardly think so. I think
he'll be quite satisfied with what I take him--not the circular, for
that is not sealed; but the coal bill, for instance."

Jimmie Dale's brows puckered.

"I don't follow that," he admitted.

"It's only that he seems to be more interested in the _outside_ of his
mail than he does with the _inside_," she answered. "When we left here
three days ago he took some mail with him, and that night I saw him
examining all the envelopes under a magnifying glass before he opened
them."

"The devil you did!" exclaimed Jimmie Dale. "Let me see that coal chap's
envelope again!"

The Tocsin produced it from beneath her shawl.

Under his flashlight's ray Jimmie Dale examined the envelope,
critically, minutely. Finally he handed it back, and the flashlight went
out.

"It's been dashed cleverly done, if it's been done at all!" he said,
speaking more to himself than to the Tocsin. "But why should anyone want
to open a thing like that?"

"Why should anyone want to open _any_ of his mail; all of it, for that
matter, that can be got hold of?--which is what Daddy Ratzler seems to
fear."

"Exactly!" agreed Jimmie Dale tersely. "Why? And who, if anybody, is
doing it?"

"I think I know," said the Tocsin quietly. "Not his name, of course--but
this dovetails in with something I heard to-night. You'll see, Jimmie,
presently; and I think you'll agree with me in theory at least when you
have heard all my story."

"Right! Go on, Marie! That's what I want to hear."

"Daddy Ratzler is sick," she said. "He went away the afternoon following
the night you and I were together in the Sanctuary. He took me with him
to a house of his on Long Island, where----"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Jimmie Dale. "That's rather strange! A
house of his, you said. I've raked the underworld over and over, Marie,
in my search for you and Daddy Ratzler, and I don't see how I could have
slipped up on that, and how, especially if he owned it, no one knew he
had a house out there. Everybody took it for granted that he lived
_here_."

"Yes, of course!" she said. "That's the impression he has been at
infinite pains to create for ever so long. But I am afraid I misled you
a little myself when I said 'his' house. It isn't supposed to be his
house, though I'm sure it is--but it certainly isn't in his name. It
belonged to a man named Blotz, and he----"

"What did you say the name was?" Jimmie Dale broke in sharply.

"Blotz," she repeated. "Does that mean anything in particular? He died a
few years ago."

"Oh, he did, did he?" There was a curious quiet in Jimmie Dale's voice.

"Jimmie, what _is_ it?" she demanded.

"Just this! When I was searching around here the other night, I found a
small piece of paper that had obviously slipped out of the drawer and
had stuck to the frame of the desk itself--this desk! There was a line
of scrawled writing on it. This: 'Who killed Blotz? Five grand.'"

"Oh!" The Tocsin drew in her breath quickly. "That doesn't sound nice,
Jimmie--not a bit nice! Does it mean that Blotz was murdered by contract
for five thousand dollars?"

"I don't know!" he said gruffly. "I couldn't find any record of a man by
that name ever having been murdered, or even of having died under
suspicious circumstances."

"It's queer!" she said in sudden agitation. "It's very queer! Everything
about that house is queer! There is something mysterious connected with
it that I do not understand. The day before yesterday when I was going
upstairs I am sure I heard _two_ voices in Daddy Ratzler's room, the
door of which was shut. Our household consists of just Daddy Ratzler,
old Pascal and myself. I know for a positive fact that Pascal was out in
the garden at the time. Furthermore, no one could have entered the house
and gone up the stairs to Daddy Ratzler's room without my knowing it.
Daddy Ratzler must have heard my footsteps on the stairs, for suddenly
the voices ceased, and he called out to me to come to him. When I opened
the door there was nobody in the room except Daddy Ratzler lying there
on the bed. He said the light hurt his eyes and that he wanted the
blinds closed."

"I would suggest," said Jimmie Dale musingly, "an upper veranda--if the
house possesses such a thing."

"It does," she answered, "and Daddy Ratzler's window opens on it; but
the window was closed. Anyone who might have made his exit that way
would therefore have had to close the window after him. I would have
heard it."

"A cupboard? A clothes closet?"

"Neither, Jimmie. There was no one hiding in the room--not even under
the bed. Daddy Ratzler very obligingly took pains to see that I was
satisfied on even that point, so that, if I had imagined I had heard
voices, I should be thoroughly convinced I had been mistaken. In tossing
about, he brushed a medicine spoon off the bedside table onto the floor.
I picked it up!"

"H'm!" said Jimmie Dale. "That's very _interesting_, Marie. Who's this
Pascal?"

"I don't quite know," she replied. "He's a very old man, and seems to be
an institution around the place; but I am not quite sure yet whether he
is one of Daddy Ratzler's gang or not. I am inclined to think he isn't.
Anyway, he is almost stone deaf--which may perhaps be the reason why he
is kept on there! He acts as a sort of guardian and caretaker of the
place, and, if he's straight--as a _blind_!--you know what I mean--he's
lived for years in the neighborhood."

"Quite!" said Jimmie Dale. "Casts an aura of respectability over the
house, as it were!"

"Yes. It's rather hard to talk to him because you have to shout--and
Daddy Ratzler has sharp ears. The only chance I've had was a few minutes
now and then when Pascal was out in the garden. I got a little something
pieced together, however. Pascal used to be Blotz's man-of-all-work.
When Blotz died the house was sold; but Pascal said he never saw the new
owner and didn't know what his name was. He said it was all done through
a real estate agent--meaning Daddy Ratzler, of course; and, if he is
telling the truth, he has no suspicion that Daddy Ratzler is anything
else but the real estate agent who has charge of the property. According
to Pascal, the new owner decided not to occupy the house, but did not
want it to run down while he was trying to sell it again--and so Pascal
was kept on--and is still there, since the house, though placed on the
market again, was never resold. I don't altogether trust Pascal, of
course; but it seems clear enough that Daddy Ratzler bought this
property in the name, probably, of some tool of his, and has been acting
as agent for a mythical owner ever since. Naturally the 'For Sale' sign
therefore is not to be taken at its face value. One other thing I got
from Pascal. He said that _Mister_ Ratzler only came to the house once
in a great while to look it over and see that everything was all right.
This is obviously not so; for, if it were, it would mean that Daddy
Ratzler is nothing but a purposeless fool--which he is not; and if
Pascal is honest in what he says, then it is certain that Daddy Ratzler
spends many a night there without his deaf caretaker knowing anything
about it."

"Our friend seems to have been at some pains to camouflage his double
life!" observed Jimmie Dale grimly. "Whereabouts on Long Island is this
house?"

"You remember Markel, don't you?"

Jimmie Dale laughed softly.

"The bounder with the paste necklace? Oh, yes--quite well! I believe
someone tied him in dishabille to a tree one night in Charleton Park
Manor with the cord of his own dressing gown."[4]

"_Someone_ did, Jimmie!" she said with mock severity. "Well, just before
you get to the park gates, there's a wagon track that leads off the main
road, and----"

"It was very convenient--for parking," Jimmie Dale interposed dryly.

"I dare say," she returned, "but if you had followed that track for a
quarter of a mile instead of parking you would have came to Daddy
Ratzler's house."

Jimmie Dale whistled low under his breath.

"That sounds like a lonely spot!" he exclaimed, his tones no longer
light.

"It is," she said; "and secluded--very much so!" Then abruptly: "What
time is it, Jimmie?"

The flashlight came into play for an instant.

"A quarter to eleven," he answered.

"That's all right, then," she said. "I would have had to write all this
to you, and then I intended to go over to the Sanctuary and leave the
letter there for you. I shan't have to do that now, so we are still
ahead of time. Let's get back to Daddy Ratzler. I couldn't go anywhere
to telephone or post a letter, for, until to-night, Daddy Ratzler hasn't
let me get beyond the reach of his voice; and no one comes to the house,
for Pascal goes for the supplies and brings them back himself--so you
see why I could not communicate with you. I did not dare to trust
Pascal with a letter or even to have him see me writing one. It would
take very little indeed, Jimmie, to arouse Daddy Ratzler's suspicions."

Jimmie Dale nodded his head in the darkness.

"I see," he said; "but why his volte-face to-night?"

"He wanted me out of the way," she said simply.

"Oh! So the mail was only a pretext after all?"

"In that sense--yes. But that doesn't mean he is any the less anxious to
get it."

"I suppose not," Jimmie Dale agreed. "Now tell me something about him.
You said he was sick. How sick is he? What's the matter with him?"

"It's his throat. It's a bad attack of tonsillitis, I would say. Of
course, he won't have a doctor near the place. Anyway, he is a very
miserable old man, and he is suffering enough to make me a little bit
sorry for even--Daddy Ratzler! He'll be in bed for another two or three
days at least, I'm sure."

Jimmie Dale pulled his hand across his forehead in a puzzled way.

"There are one or two things I must confess I don't understand," he
said. "According to what you got from Pascal, this is apparently the
first time Daddy Ratzler has _occupied_ the house to the caretaker's
knowledge. What prompted Daddy Ratzler to do such an unusual thing? Why
did he take you with him? Pascal could have fed and looked after him.
And why, above all, if he had to go to bed for a few days, didn't he go
to bed here where he lives?"

Her fingers were twined suddenly and tightly around his again.

"I can answer your three questions in one word, Jimmie--_fear_!"

"Fear?"

"Yes! It's not only his throat, Jimmie--he is sick with fear. It was
just because he _was_ known to live in this house, and because it would
therefore be the first place where anybody would look for him, that he
was afraid to stay here practically helpless in bed--so he ducked for
cover. And he took me with him because, even in hiding, he was still
afraid. Where could he find a better ally? Mother Margot had a
reputation in the old days of being, not only dependable, but something
of a wildcat in a tight corner, hadn't she, dear? I fancy it was much
easier to explain to Pascal--which strengthens my belief that Pascal is
honest--the presence of an old woman, who was supposed to be out there
to cook and look after him generally, than it would be for Daddy Ratzler
to explain the presence of a watchdog in the shape of a gunman at his
heels. And in the light of what has happened since, I know now the real
reason he took me with him was because he was terrified that even his
retreat might be discovered, and he was afraid to be there alone with a
deaf man--so much afraid that he actually gave me a revolver, and my
room is within call of him through the night. Also, he keeps a light
burning in his own room all night long."

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Jimmie Dale. "As bad as that? You are certainly
getting on with him if he gave you a gun! What is it that has put his
wind up to that extent? Who is it that he is afraid of?"

"_You_, Jimmie!"

Startled, Jimmie Dale leaned forward in his chair.

"Of me!" he exclaimed incredulously.

"The Gray Seal," she said. "I have thought so for several days; I had
proof of it to-night. Listen, Jimmie! Early this evening Daddy Ratzler
told me I was to go to town, get his mail, and return on the midnight
train. As I have said, this was the first time I had been permitted to
leave the place, and it was obvious that, in spite of his fear at being
left alone, he wanted me out of the way for a few hours. Therefore, it
was fairly obvious too that he wasn't going to be alone. Apart from the
fact that I had become a member of Daddy Ratzler's household, I hadn't
accomplished very much so far--and so, though I left the house at once,
I didn't leave immediately for New York. I was quite sure there would be
a number of trains at that hour, as there proved to be, so that I could
take a later one, accomplish what I had to do here, and still catch the
midnight train back. It's only an hour's run out there, as you know,
Jimmie."

"Yes, go on, Marie!"

"I started off along the wagon track. But I didn't go very far--I
stepped in amongst the trees and waited. I had to wait quite a long
while, Jimmie. Then I heard a motor car stop somewhere ahead of me on
the wagon track, and then, presently--I could just make them out in the
darkness--four men passed by me, walking toward the house. When I
thought it was safe, I followed them. Whether Pascal admitted them, or
they had a key, or how they got in, I can't say; I only know that they
must have made their entry very silently, for I did not hear the door
being opened or shut--which still strikes me as strange for I was not
very far away."

"How far?" inquired Jimmie Dale abruptly.

"Perhaps fifty yards. But you must remember it was very still out
there."

"No comment," said Jimmie Dale after a short silence, "except that, like
everything else about the house, as I remarked before--it's
interesting! And then?"

"The only light in the house was from Daddy Ratzler's window. We have
already spoken about the upper veranda--there are outside stairs leading
up to it. I took off my shoes and crept up there to the window of Daddy
Ratzler's room. The window was open for air, and I could hear as well as
though I were in the room; but the blinds were closed. I couldn't see at
all through the slats on one side; but the slats on the other side were
just slightly apart, and through these I could see, though not very
clearly, a portion of the room. I----"

Jimmie Dale interrupted suddenly.

"Look here, Marie," he asked, "do you think you could contrive to toy a
little with those slats to-morrow without arousing Daddy Ratzler's
suspicions?"

"Yes, I am sure I could quite easily," she said; "and I wish I had
thought of it myself, though of course I didn't know what was going to
happen to-night. I always open the blinds in the morning and close them
at night--he would never notice another fraction of an inch, and that's
all that would be needed. Do you mean that you are coming out there
to-morrow night?"

"I don't know yet. Perhaps! In any case, I like the Scouts' motto: 'Be
Prepared!' What did you see and what did you hear?"

"Daddy Ratzler was propped up in bed. The four men were in there. One of
them was--another old friend, Jimmie! Silky Hines!"

"My word!" Jimmie Dale's smile was mirthless. "I was talking to him last
night in Blind Peter's. We got quite confidential over old times--at
least I thought we did. He said he was still playing a lone hand on con
rackets. So he's one of the crowd, eh? It looks like a close-mouthed
corporation! In three nights and in a dozen dives I never heard a single
name connected with Daddy Ratzler! Did you recognize any of the others?"

"No; I had never seen any of the others before. But while they were
talking the names of two of them were mentioned. One was called the
Muzzler, and the other just plain Jake."

"New to me, too," nodded Jimmie Dale. "Carry on, Marie!"

"When I got to the window they were talking about a roadhouse called the
Two Oaks. They're going there at four o'clock this morning. Do you know
anything about the place? It's run by a man whose name was vaguely
familiar to me when they mentioned it, but I can't place him--Steve
Barlow."

"Steve Barlow is, or was, a professional gambler--and was always
considered a square shooter," said Jimmie Dale reminiscently. "I never
actually met him, but I know him by sight and reputation. He had a snug
little joint just on the outskirts of Mount Hope that was always known
as 'Big Steve's,' and----"

"Then, that's it, Jimmie! It's the same place except for the name.
That's where Daddy Ratzler said it was--he was telling them all how to
get there."

"So it's a roadhouse now, is it? The Two Oaks!" There was a caustic note
in Jimmie Dale's voice. "There is certainly money in booze--they're all
going in for it! Even an artist at the top of his profession--like the
Ferret! The Eighteenth Amendment would appear to be the juiciest
plucking for a few million-odd of her citizens that ever blew in on the
U.S.A.! What are they going out there at four o'clock this morning
for?"

"I have no idea. _They_ all seemed to know, however! All I caught was
that they were going to 'pull' something. If they had discussed any of
the details, it was before I got to the window."

"H'm!" muttered Jimmie Dale. "Well, I can't see that whatever they're
after will help us any. But where does Daddy Ratzler's fear of the Gray
Seal come in?"

"Right here! Daddy Ratzler said so himself. He began to talk to them
about the blue envelope. He didn't use nice language; and he wasn't a
nice-looking sight, either, as he sat there, sometimes clawing at the
bedclothes, and sometimes shaking his fists frantically in the air.
There wasn't a speck of color in his face, his cheeks were sunken, and
his eyes seemed to stare out of two holes that had been bored in his
skull. It isn't a pretty thing to say, but he looked more like a dead
man come to life than anything else I can think of. His nerves were in
pieces, of course. He raved at them. He told them that if he'd thought
any one of them had let a whisper out of them he would have their
throats cut so they wouldn't whisper any more. He paid you a compliment,
Jimmie. The police!--he laughed like a derisive maniac. The Gray
Seal!--he snarled and gibbered and cursed until he was breathless.

"Silky Hines tried to quiet him.

"'Gawd knows how he got next!' Silky Hines said. 'But what good is that
envelope going to do him now he's got it?'

"'You fool!' Daddy Ratzler screamed at him. 'Suppose he finds _me_!'"

"Oh!" murmured Jimmie Dale softly. "He does seem ripe, doesn't he?"

"Well, he lost his nerve to-night anyway--and Daddy Ratzler wasn't ever
supposed to have had any! But, of course, he _is_ sick. Silky Hines
flicked him on the raw again without meaning to do so.

"'It's queer, the Gray Seal showing up like this,' Silky Hines said.
'He's supposed to have been dead for years.'

"'Queer!' Daddy Ratzler screamed at him again. 'It's big enough to bring
Judas Iscariot back to life! The only thing that's queer about it is how
he found out anything!'

"'Which ain't queer at all,' Silky Hines retorted, 'because it was
always that way. Nobody knew how the Gray Seal ever found out about
anything. Anyway, it's a cinch that none of us spilled the works. And,
anyway, we ain't lost the pot yet. All we've got to do is sit tight till
we draw openers--which won't be so long now.'

"Daddy Ratzler's voice had grown hoarse, Jimmie.

"'Sit tight?' he croaked. 'You've got to find him, d'ye hear? You've got
to _find_ him! How do we know that envelope isn't any good to him, and
that he doesn't know _all_ about it? And that ain't all! If he can find
out about one thing we're in, he can find out about others. The rat! The
swine! We've got other plums, haven't we? He'll be picking those too if
we don't get him!'

"There's a lot I haven't told you, Jimmie; but you have got all of the
essentials. I suppose I was an hour at the window. I did not dare stay
any longer. But you'll understand now what I meant when I said I thought
I knew who it was that is giving Daddy Ratzler so much concern about his
mail--it's the man that Daddy Ratzler thinks is the Gray Seal, the man
who murdered Ray, the man who Daddy Ratzler is afraid is tapping his
mail in order to pick more 'plums,' as he puts it. And I need not add
that this is only one more evidence of how great his fear of the Gray
Seal is." She stood up suddenly. "And now I must go, Jimmie. I'll just
have time to catch that train."

"Yes," he admitted ruefully. "I suppose you'll have to! And I can't even
go with you to the station--Mother Margot and Jimmie Dale wouldn't look
well on the street together! The back door for mine! You've told me a
lot, Marie--my head's buzzing with it. But there's one thing you haven't
told me that I particularly want to know. Which is the window of _your_
room out there in that sylvan retreat?"

"Daddy Ratzler's is the one at the head of the veranda stairs, mine is
the next one. Why? What do you want me to do?"

"First, and above all," he answered, a sudden throb in his voice as he
drew her into his arms, "I want you to remember that you are very
precious to me, Marie; and that I shall be anxious about you every
minute--and so you are to promise for my sake not to take a single risk
that can possibly be avoided, and always to be doubly on your guard."

"I promise, Jimmie; but I do not think I will be in any danger at all,"
she said reassuringly. "What else?"

"What else? Oh, yes!" His voice was casual again. "Don't go to bed
to-morrow night--and if there's anyone in the house besides Pascal and
Daddy Ratzler, leave a handkerchief or something white on your window
sill."

"What are you going to do?" she whispered tensely.

"I don't know yet," he told her with a cheery laugh. "I haven't thought
it out. I fancy a lot will depend upon to-night."

"To-night? Where are you going to-night?"

"Well," he said easily, "I thought I'd take a little spin in my car out
Mount Hope way."

"The Two Oaks! That's only inviting unnecessary danger, isn't it? Just
what you told me not to do! You said yourself that whatever they were
after out there wouldn't help us any. What do you want to go out there
for?"

"Well, you see," he said, "I've changed my mind. There's always the
chance that Daddy Ratzler is right."

"Right?" she questioned. "Chance?"

The darkness hid the sudden tightening of Jimmie Dale's lips.

"The chance," he said lightly, "that the Gray Seal, Daddy Ratzler's Gray
Seal, you know, may be there too--after plums!"




CHAPTER XIII

THE TWO OAKS


It had been half-past twelve when Benson had brought Jimmie Dale's car
to the St. James Club--and, being told to leave the car, had been
dismissed. It was after two o'clock now, and Jimmie Dale, from the
shadows of the grove of trees that surrounded the place, stood frowning
speculatively at the low, rambling structure once known as "Big
Steve's," but which, in its change of heart from the sale of chips to
the more lucrative sale of bottles, had been rechristened the Two Oaks.

Except for what seemed to be a sort of annex in the rear and which was
in complete darkness save for a single window in the second story, the
establishment blazed with light. Through the open windows there floated
out to him on the still air of the hot night the sounds of a jazz
orchestra, shouts of hilarious laughter, and the clatter of dishes. The
Two Oaks was obviously doing a roaring business in late suppers--and
illicit beverages. Steve Barlow seemed to have grabbed opportunity by
the forelock! One of these days, of course, the place would be pinched;
but meanwhile, in the expressive language of Steve's kind, Steve should
worry!

Yes! Quite so! Sometime or other that would probably happen; but
to-night something far removed from an official raid _was_ going to
happen here--at four o'clock!

Jimmie Dale pushed his hat back from his forehead. It was a sticky
night, and the quarter-mile walk from where he had discreetly parked his
car had not added any to his comfort. What was it that was bringing
Silky Hines and his companions here to-night? And why at four o'clock?
He shook his head. He could not answer either of those questions, and
both of them had harassed him from the moment he had left the Tocsin.
But they had to be answered! He had two hours in which to answer them!

Well, what was the first move? For an instant he debated the
advisability of entering the Two Oaks and ordering a "late supper"
himself--and then promptly decided against doing so. If it became
necessary later on--yes; but for the moment--no. A place of this sort
required an "introduction"--not that he had any doubts about being able
to satisfy Steve Barlow as to his _bona-fides_; but unless it could
possibly be avoided, he did not propose, in view of what might transpire
later on, to have it known that one Jimmie Dale had even been near the
Two Oaks to-night. And, besides, what could he hope to gain by occupying
a table in there? A few faces that he might recognize?--perhaps a
well-known underworld peer or two whose presence might suggest a lead?
Yes! But with a little caution, he could see everybody in there quite as
well from the outside without being seen himself!

"Damn it!" exploded Jimmie Dale savagely to himself. "What _is_ their
game, anyway? It's only a long chance, of course, but I wouldn't like to
_miss_ that 'plum-picker' with the 'black hair' if he _does_ show
up--and if I don't want to find myself off-stage when the curtain goes
down, I've got to call the turn before the racket starts! It's not just
a bald hold-up--that's certain. Anything like that is far too crude for
Daddy Ratzler. He would never lay his plans ahead and marshal his gang
merely for the sake of whatever cash the Two Oaks takes in to-night,
particularly when it might prove to be an off night for Steve's
business--in which case the receipts would be practically nil. Also,
there are plenty of places where a haul of that sort would be a lot
fatter than here. Why, then, the Two Oaks?"

His eyes swept critically again over the scene before him--the motor
cars, a dozen or more of them, parked around the front entrance; the
boisterous crowd that he could see through the open windows, nearly
everyone in evening dress; the annex with its one lighted window in the
upper story; and, trailing off in the darkness, another small building,
unlighted, at the rear of the annex.

"There must be something queer about the place itself," he muttered.
"That seems to be the only answer. There's nothing to do but explore a
bit--that annex there, for instance, as a starter!"

Intending to skirt the edge of the grove until he came opposite the
annex where, beyond the range of the glare of light from the open
windows, the shadows lay deep across the intervening open space, he took
a step forward in that direction--but only to halt almost instantly
again.

A car had turned in from the road and was rattling up the driveway.
Instinctively he stood still and watched it. It was a small, closed car
of a cheap make, he could see, a long way from being one of the
high-priced models that so far had been attracted to the Two Oaks that
night, and, from the noise it made, was in a decidedly run-down
condition. It drew up at the entrance, where, leaving the engine
running, a man got out and disappeared through the doorway of the Two
Oaks.

Jimmie Dale's dark eyes held now intently on the scene. He was only a
few yards away and he could see quite clearly, for the light from one of
the windows fell full upon the car. The driver of the car had been as
shabby in appearance as was the car itself. Not at all the sort of
person to be ushered into the presence of Steve Barlow's well-groomed
"guests!" Nor had he been! He was back now beside the car, and was
standing there talking to someone in the rear seat.

Perhaps a minute or two passed, and then Jimmie Dale recognized the big,
burly form of Steve Barlow, as the proprietor came hastily out of the
Two Oaks and went up to the car. A moment more and Big Steve had taken a
valise from the interior, and was helping an old, gray-haired, and
poorly dressed woman to alight.

The car turned and rattled back to the highway--but Big Steve and the
old woman did not enter the Two Oaks. Instead, carrying the valise, and
with his other hand supporting the old woman, who, whether ill or
feeble, seemed to walk with tottering steps, Steve Barlow started slowly
along the outside of the building in the direction of the annex at the
rear.

Jimmie Dale pursed his lips. At this hour, or at any hour for that
matter, what he was witnessing certainly fell at least within the
category of the unusual--and, heaven knew, it was the unusual he was
looking for to-night! His interest was quickened an instant later as, in
lieu of a saxophone number that had just ended with a final blatant
squawk, the old woman's voice reached him in a sudden, plaintive cry:

"Oh, Steve, what have they done to him? They haven't hurt him--not that
bad, have they? He--he isn't going to--to die, Steve?"

Had this anything to do with Daddy Ratzler? Jimmie Dale, keeping just
within the fringe of the trees, was paralleling his steps now with those
of Big Steve and the old woman. He had not caught Big Steve's low-toned
reply. Was this the "lead" that he had hoped would break for him?
Something--was it intuition or just a desperate eagerness to grasp at
any straw?--told him that it was. A twisted little smile dragged down
the corners of Jimmie Dale's mouth. Well, he would find out anyhow!

Big Steve and the old woman had passed out of the light-flooded area now
and had reached a door at the far end of the annex. It was too dark here
to see distinctly, but Big Steve had laid the valise on the ground and
appeared to be unlocking the door. Yes! The door opened. Big Steve
picked up the valise and the two went inside. The door closed again, and
almost immediately a light came on in the room adjacent to the doorway.

But Jimmie Dale, running now in the shadows across the open space, was
not far behind them. He found himself in a little porch, the door of
which Big Steve had just unlocked, and in front of him an inner door,
glass-paneled. Through the panels he saw Big Steve and his companion
disappear through an unlighted doorway at the farther end of the room.

Jimmie Dale took out his black silk mask from its pocket in the leather
girdle, slipped it on--and the inner door opened and closed again behind
him without a sound. His glance swept around the room--a safe, a
roll-top desk, a high-backed easy chair in the corner, a center table,
an inviting-looking leather couch. Obviously Steve Barlow's private
office, and--Jimmie Dale nodded approval--obviously Big Steve had done
himself rather well in the matter of personal comfort!

Jimmie Dale's pause had been little more than momentary. He moved
swiftly now to the threshold of the unlighted doorway. Here the light
from the room behind him disclosed a long, narrow passage that
undoubtedly led into the pantry or kitchen in the main building, for,
from a closed door at the far end of the passage, the faint rattle of
dishes was distinguishable. There were also two doors, he noted, opening
off the right-hand side of the passage, while immediately at his right
was a staircase which, a short way up, made a right-angled turn. From
somewhere at the head of the stairs he caught the rumble of Big Steve's
voice.

There was no creak of stair-tread, no single sound as Jimmie Dale began
the ascent. He smiled almost apologetically. There had been no carpeted
stairs like these in the old Sanctuary!

The upper hall was in darkness, he could see, save directly in the path
of the open door of a dimly lighted room a few feet away from the head
of the stairs--the one, it was apparent, whose window had already
attracted his attention from without. He gained the landing, then edged
forward a little to a position where, flattened back against the wall
and hidden in the darkness, he could see into the room beyond.

The light came from a lamp, turned low, that was burning on a bedside
table. The old woman, her shoulders shaken with sobs, was bending over
someone in the bed. Big Steve, standing in the center of the room, was
talking.

"Don't you take on like that, Mrs. Meegan," he said soothingly. "I'm
telling you the Kid hasn't never been hurt at all, and that he's all
right."

Jimmie Dale involuntarily leaned a little forward. Kid Meegan! He had
heard quite a lot about Kid Meegan in several joints last night. And so,
too, probably, had some of Daddy Ratzler's gang! But he had put most of
it down to exaggerated rumor. Perhaps there was more truth in it than he
had thought. A light began to break dimly in upon him.

"Yes; but"--Mrs. Meegan's eyes were streaming as she faced around from
the bed--"he's like he was unconscious."

"The doctor had to give him something," explained Big Steve, as he put
his hand on the old woman's shoulder. "Come on, now, Mrs. Meegan, sit
down in that chair there and let's talk it out."

"Yes," she said tremulously, sinking into the chair indicated. "Yes;
I--I want you to tell me about it."

"Well, you've got it all wrong to begin with," stated Big Steve
reassuringly. "I was hoping you wouldn't hear anything about it till it
was all over. Who told you, anyway?"

"Mrs. Snelling, a neighbor of mine, who came in to tell me how sorry she
was."

"Humph!" grunted Big Steve. "One of them sympathy cats that hates to
miss anything! I know the breed! And at this hour!"

"It wasn't so late then, Steve," protested Mrs. Meegan loyally. "It
takes a long time to get over here from Jersey, and I didn't get started
right away because I couldn't find anybody at first to drive me
over--not anybody that I could afford to pay what it was worth, I
mean."

Big Steve cleared his throat, reached awkwardly into his pocket for a
cigar, glanced at the bed--and thrust the cigar back into his pocket
again.

"Sure! I see!" he said. "And what was it this Mrs. Snelling handed you?"

"She said"--Mrs. Meegan twisted her hands anxiously together in her
lap--"that somebody heard about it in New York, and that now everybody
in the neighborhood was talking about nothing else, and that if I didn't
know anything about it, then, being his mother, I'd ought to."

Big Steve reverted to a disdainful grunt.

"That kind would!" he snorted. "That's what I said. Well, go ahead, Mrs.
Meegan. What was the story?"

"She said there'd been a terrible row in some place in New York, a club
of some sort, and that Danny there"--Mrs. Meegan nodded piteously toward
the bed--"had got into trouble and had been so badly hurt that you had
to carry him out in your arms, and that you'd taken him away to your
home out here."

"Isn't that nice?" observed Big Steve caustically. "And me being
originally from the old home town over in Jersey was life-size too in
the picture! Anything else?"

"No. I--I was frightened. I hadn't heard anything from you. I was afraid
he was so bad that--that you didn't want to tell me until--until you had
to."

"You could have telephoned," Big Steve suggested.

The tears came trickling down Mrs. Meegan's cheeks again.

"I didn't think of it," she said. "All I could think of was to get to
Danny just as quick as I could."

Big Steve paced the length of the room; then, his hands thrust into his
trousers pockets, he planted himself again in front of the threadbare
and pathetic little figure in the chair.

"All right!" he said, and patted her shoulder again. "I'm glad you came.
I _wasn't_ going to say anything about it until it was all over, but now
I'm going to tell you the _truth_. But there's something else I got to
say first. I was brought up alongside of you, and your old man, and
Danny, in that same little town you're living in now. You used to be
pretty good to me, Mrs. Meegan, when I was a kid. Do you remember the
time I got into a fight and was afraid to go home because I'd got my
pants tore--and you sewed 'em up for me?"

A smile came quiveringly to the tear-stained face as Mrs. Meegan nodded
her head.

"Sure, you do!" said Big Steve heartily. "Well, I'm going to slip a few
years now--up to the time when I'd moved away and Danny was looking for
a better job to keep the pot boiling after Dad Meegan died. Danny was
ten years younger than me, but we'd grown up together and I guess I'd
always looked on the kid like a small brother--but I ain't going to
butter my words 'cause it won't do any good, and you know it's so
anyhow. Danny's always had a bit of a wild streak in him."

"Yes, I--I'm afraid"--her whisper was so low that Jimmie Dale could
scarcely catch the words--"I'm afraid that's so, but----"

"At heart he's all right," Big Steve finished gently. "That's what I'm
banking on. Well, he came around and wanted a job with me. I didn't give
him one, Mrs. Meegan--and you might as well know the reason why. This
wasn't any place for Danny. I ain't been any saint in business myself."

Mrs. Meegan shook her head.

"Nothing would make me believe that," she asserted flatly. "Why, Steve,
what's wrong with a fine hotel like this?"

"Nothing!" said Big Steve, a sudden gruffness in his voice. "But let it
go at that. I got him a job somewhere else."

"You got him more than one, Steve."

"Sure! Yes! Well, that brings us down to pretty near last night. I said
I was going to tell you the truth, and I am. It ain't always pleasant,
and this ain't neither--that is, all of it ain't--but just you buck up
while you're listening, Mrs. Meegan, 'cause the story's going to have a
happy ending. Danny got to playing around with a crowd he hadn't ought
to have been with. See? The floating crap game don't mean anything to
you, I guess, and I ain't going to try to explain it, except to say that
it ain't often pulled off twice in the same place, which is why it's
called floating. It's well organized; and there's a barrel of money
changes hands in them games--thousands and thousands, Mrs. Meegan. Well,
Danny started rolling the dice in one of them games last night."

Mrs. Meegan's eyes widened.

"But Danny didn't have any thousands to play with," she said in a
bewildered way.

"No; he didn't"--Big Steve chuckled suddenly--"not to begin with. He
started on a shoestring, but he had 'em _all_ when he quit. He cleaned
up. He made one of the biggest killings--and there's been _some_ big
ones, Mrs. Meegan--that was ever made in New York. I don't know how
much he won, because he'd blown in a big hunk of it before I got my paws
on him; but I know there's something like eighty thousand dollars left
of it downstairs there in a little black bag in my safe."

The shadow against the wall, that was Jimmie Dale, stirred slightly.

Mrs. Meegan's eyes grew wider.

"Steve!" she cried out in a dazed tone.

"Yes," said Big Steve, "that's the straight goods, all right. And now
listen to the rest of it, which is the part I'd like to skip over for
your sake if I could, but you got to know how Danny came to be lying on
that bed there and what's the matter with him. He cut loose. When he
walked out of that game with all the dough in the world, I guess he was
pretty near crazy anyhow. He headed for one of the biggest and most
expensive night clubs in the city. He held a reception, Mrs. Meegan. Do
you get me? It was on him! He spent money in handfuls. He gave it
away--and there were lots to take it. The word went around outside. Why
wouldn't it! Other night clubs closed but _that_ one didn't. Everything
was free--Danny paid the bills. Not living in the city I didn't hear
about it until late this afternoon--that's yesterday afternoon now. Then
I went down there and salvaged what was left of Danny and his coin. By
this time he was pretty bad, and it's true I had to carry him out. I'm
calling a spade a spade now, Mrs. Meegan--he'd drunk himself insensible.
He had me scared a bit too after I got him out here, and I called in a
doctor. The doctor fixed him up, and then came back around midnight and
gave him something to make him sleep like you see him now. The doc says
he'll be all right in a day or so."

Mrs. Meegan was crying quietly.

"God bless you, Steve!" she said.

"That's nothing at all, Mrs. Meegan," said Big Steve hastily. "Now about
that money. I hope you ain't going to be fussy about it just because
it's gambling money. It was won fair and square enough. It was just luck
busting wide open."

"I hadn't thought about the money," she said.

"Well, then," smiled Big Steve, "I'll do the thinking for you. And I'll
tell you what's going to be done with it. It's going to mean a new life
for you and Danny--and I got a hunch it's going to keep Danny so busy
after this that he won't have time to hang around with his old crowd any
more. I'm going to talk to Danny. The first thing he's going to do is to
buy a nice little place for you and him somewhere that ain't near New
York, and where he ain't going to bump into temptation every time he
shoves his face outdoors. And with the rest of the money he's going to
start himself up in some decent business--and I'll give him a hand to do
it. If I know Danny, he'll fall for this hard; but, if it's necessary,
I'll help him to make up his mind by busting his nose. Is that all
right, Mrs. Meegan?"

Mrs. Meegan's face was transfigured as she rose tremblingly from her
chair.

"Oh, Steve!" she sobbed--and buried her face on his shoulder.

"Yes, Steve," said Jimmie Dale softly to himself, as he began to move
silently toward the stairs. "I think I've got a warm spot in my heart
for you, too!"

Jimmie Dale reached the head of the stairs--but suddenly came to a halt
again as something that Big Steve was saying arrested him.

"I've been looking in on him every half-hour or so, Mrs. Meegan," said
Big Steve; "but now you're here, I guess you'll sort of want to take
that on yourself. There ain't really anything to do, and there's no
reason why you can't lie down on that other cot there and get some
sleep. We generally close up here around three o'clock, and if you want
anything before then just punch the bell; afterwards I'll be downstairs
in the room just underneath you, I always have a little game of cards
with a few friends every night after closing-up time, and all you've got
to do is call me. And if there's anything else ..."

Jimmie Dale went on down the stairs, cast a sidelong glance at the safe
as he crossed the lighted office, opened the glass-panelled inner door,
stepped out into the porch, the outer door of which was still wide open
as Big Steve had left it--and waited. He nodded to himself. Big Steve's
movements were now the first consideration, and he, Jimmie Dale, could
still see into the office.

He had not long to wait. In scarcely a minute Big Steve appeared in the
connecting doorway between the office and the passage. Here Big Steve
paused for an instant to reach out for the wall switch. The office was
in darkness. Then Big Steve's footsteps sounded crossing toward the
glass-panelled door--and Jimmie Dale stepped silently out into the
night.




CHAPTER XIV

MEN IN MASKS


Jimmie Dale smiled grimly now as from the shadows he watched Big Steve
lock the outer door, light a cigar, and stroll back to his interrupted
duties as host of the Two Oaks. Both of his questions had been answered.
Eighty thousand dollars in cash! It wasn't often that eighty thousand
_in cash_ was to be had--outside a bank! His spirits rose. The bait was
big enough to tempt the "man with the black hair," the man who was
stealing Daddy Ratzler's plums--_the man who had murdered Ray!_

"Something tells me," said Jimmie Dale quietly to the night, "that there
isn't so much chance about it after all, and that he'll be here on the
heels of Silky Hines for another bite--and I'd like to see his _face_.
But anyway, whether I do or not, I think I'm rather glad I came. The
ethics of the whole business may be open to debate, but I'd rather Mrs.
Meegan got that money--than Daddy Ratzler and Silky Hines! And I think
she will!"

Jimmie Dale returned to the porch door--and opened it with a pick-lock.
Four o'clock! The Two Oaks began to close up around three. By four the
multitude would have departed! It was quite obvious now why Silky Hines
was waiting until--four o'clock!

"Yes! Quite!" said Jimmie Dale in communion with himself. "Not awfully
bright of me--but I was under the impression that the Two Oaks was in
full swing _all_ night. My mistake! H'm! It's still rather a long pull
to the zero hour, but the time ought not to drag! Big Steve will be
starting that private little game of his back here long before that."

Jimmie Dale entered the office, and without pause stepped across to the
connecting door on the other side that led into the passageway. He could
hear Mrs. Meegan moving about in her room upstairs, and the faint rattle
of dishes that he had noticed before was still in evidence--there were
no other sounds. He moved noiselessly along the passage. His flashlight
came into play. Big Steve's private card room proved to be the second
one beyond the stairs.

From the threshold, Jimmie Dale inspected the room as the ray of his
flashlight circled the interior. There was little else in the room save
a large poker table of orthodox design which was surrounded by
comfortable and inviting-looking chairs. The window at the rear of the
room was directly opposite the door.

"It's a hot night," observed Jimmie Dale; "they'll have to open that."

The flashlight went out. Jimmie Dale returned to the office. But here
the round, white ray again became inquisitive--it lingered for a full
minute over the face of Big Steve's safe.

"Rather ancient vintage!" he murmured. "It might be worse!"

The flashlight went out again--the Gray Seal was at work.

The minutes dragged along; now punctuated by the tinkle of the whirling
dial, now by a vexed and deep-breathed exclamation that proclaimed
abortive effort; now by periods of utter silence as Jimmie Dale, his ear
clamped to the steel door, listened for the tumblers' fall while the
dial moved by the barest fraction of an inch.

Mrs. Meegan still moved about in the room upstairs; the faint clatter of
dishes still came from beyond the passage; a black shape, formless in
outline against the surrounding darkness, still hovered in front of the
safe. And then there came another sound--the dull, muffled thud of metal
meeting metal, as the bolts slid back in their grooves.

_"Got it_!"

The door of the safe swung open. The flashlight disclosed a black
leather satchel. Jimmie Dale removed the satchel and opened it. It was
nearly full of loose, crumpled banknotes.

"I was afraid so," Jimmie Dale confided to himself. "I couldn't get
these in my pockets in a thousand years. Well, there's only one thing
for it, and, thank heaven, there's plenty of time!"

The flashlight swept around the room--and Jimmie Dale reached for a
newspaper that lay on the table. A pocket in his leather girdle
contributed a piece of cord. In a minute more the satchel was empty and
a parcel lay on the floor beside him.

For an instant after that, Jimmie Dale hesitated; then from his girdle
he took out the thin metal case that contained the insignia of the Gray
Seal. He had no choice in the matter. With the money gone, Silky Hines
and his henchmen would put Big Steve through the third degree anent its
whereabouts. It would go very ill with Big Steve then, for they
naturally would not believe that he knew nothing of its disappearance.
It would end up, of course, in Big Steve being "taken for a ride"
unless--Jimmie Dale opened the metal case, and with the tweezers lifted
out a diamond-shaped, gray paper seal--unless, well unless the Gray Seal
took upon his shoulders the onus of another "crime"!

Jimmie Dale surveyed the face of the safe--and shook his head. No; not
there! Big Steve might very naturally come into the office here before
he settled down to his game of cards and notice it, in which case he
would give the alarm at once. That, of course, would in itself forestall
even the possibility of any unpleasantness between Silky Hines and Big
Steve, for, with the Two Oaks in an uproar and the money already gone,
Silky Hines and his three followers would not put in an appearance at
all--but, in that event, neither would the _fifth_ man! And it was on
that chance alone, the chance that the fifth man might come, that he,
Jimmie Dale, was here.

On the outside of the satchel, then? Again Jimmie Dale shook his head.
No; not there, either! If Big Steve happened to open the safe, he would
still see it--and the results would be the same!

Jimmie Dale lifted his shoulders as though in self-apology for his
hesitation. It was only a detail, of course--but it _was_ important.
Well, _here_--then! He moistened the adhesive side of the seal with his
tongue, and, still holding it with the tweezers, reached inside and laid
it on the bottom lining of the satchel. There were no telltale
fingerprints! He pressed it firmly into place with his handkerchief,
closed the satchel, and set the satchel back in the safe; then he shut
and locked the safe, wiped the dial and handle carefully with his
handkerchief, picked up the parcel of banknotes from the floor, and,
locking the porch door behind him, for the second time that night and
from the same exit disappeared into the shadows.

"And to-morrow, Mrs. Meegan," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly to himself, as
he tucked the parcel under his arm, "we'll slip this over on some bank.
But for the present I fancy it will be safer locked up in my car than
anywhere else. Also, the walk will help to pass the idle moments."

Jimmie Dale did not hurry. When he eventually returned to the Two Oaks
the cars that had been parked in front of the entrance were gone, and
the only windows now alight in the main building were upstairs in what
was presumably the servants' quarters; those, and two in the annex--the
one occupied by Mrs. Meegan, and the one directly underneath, which
latter was, of course, Big Steve's card room. The business day--or
night--of the establishment was ended.

He had removed his mask while on the highway. He replaced it now as he
stepped a little way out from the fringe of trees for a closer view. The
card room window had not only been opened as he had anticipated it would
be; but, whether through indifference, or deeming the seclusion of the
countryside entirely adequate, or for the sake of more air, or for all
of these possible reasons combined, the roller shade had not been pulled
down. Five men in shirt sleeves sat around the poker table. Big Steve's
customary game after closing hours--he had intimated to Mrs. Meegan that
it was a nightly occurrence--was already in full swing.

"And Silky Hines isn't going it blind!" muttered Jimmie Dale tersely.
"He'll know about this 'customary' game. The only sure bet is that the
curtain will fall with the safe center-stage. But I wonder what the
procedure will be?"

Jimmie Dale withdrew again to the shelter of the trees. Here, at most,
he was still but a matter of a few yards away from both the card room
window and the porch door, and with his eyes grown accustomed to the
darkness he could quite easily keep both well in view. There was nothing
to do now but wait.

The lights in the servants' quarters upstairs in the main part of the
building went out one by one. Occasionally there came gusts of laughter
from the card room, occasionally even a word or two that was
distinguishable. The time did not pass quickly, but Jimmie waited in
grim patience.

"The fifth man!" his mind kept repeating. "I just want to know _who_ he
is. That's all I want--_to-night_. The rest will come later!"

And then suddenly Jimmie Dale grew tense. A car that he had heard
approaching had apparently turned off from the main road a little
distance away. And now it had come to a stop. He glanced at the luminous
dial of his wrist watch. Three minutes of four!

Five minutes more went by. Jimmie Dale's face set. Yes, here they were!
Black shapes emerging from the denser shadows of the trees, and coming
from the direction where the car had stopped, were moving swiftly and
silently toward the porch door. He counted them. Four!

For a minute or two they stood there, one of their number obviously at
work with a skeleton key or pick-lock, for presently, still having made
no sound, they vanished through the doorway. Jimmie Dale's eyes
traveled expectantly to the spot where the four men had emerged from the
trees. There was no fifth man dogging their footsteps. Perhaps it was
too soon. Well, suppose that he, Jimmie Dale, reached the porch first
then--if he could do so unseen--and waited _there_! If the fifth man
came at all, he ...

Jimmie Dale dropped promptly to his hands and knees and began to crawl
rapidly forward. But halfway across the open space he came to an abrupt
halt at the sound of a sudden commotion in the card room. He was near
enough now to hear what was said; but he raised himself up a little that
he might see more distinctly. The four men, masked and wearing peaked
caps, had crowded into the card room and had covered the players with
their revolvers.

"Keep your hands on the table, every one of you!" ordered a voice
smoothly.

Jimmie Dale, dividing his glances now between the card room window and
the porch door, nodded his head. That was Silky Hines's voice. It belied
the man, though it had supplied him with his moniker. Beneath the
smooth, soft tones was hidden a devil's venom.

Big Steve had been a gambler all his life. He laughed now.

"Help yourselves!" he said. "I was just going to scoop the pot, but I
guess you win." He shoved the little heap of bills that were on the
table over in Silky Hines's direction, as he spread out his cards. "And
on an ace full, too!"

"You still win--unless one of these gentlemen has you beaten," said
Silky Hines. "We didn't come out here after chicken feed."

The players around the table, a white-faced, uneasy group now, their
hands obediently in front of them, were silent.

Jimmie Dale's eyes searched the darkness in the neighborhood of the
porch door. There was still no sign of the fifth man.

"What do you mean?" Big Steve's voice had hardened.

"I'll tell you," said Silky Hines, "and it won't take long. This
afternoon, meaning yesterday now, you carried Kid Meegan, who was soused
to the gills, out of a swell New York joint; Kid Meegan--and a black
satchel. You put the Kid to bed out here, and you put the satchel in
your safe. I'll trouble you for that satchel."

Big Steve's voice choked with sudden fury.

"I'll see you in hell first!" he flung out.

"No," said Silky Hines, "I may meet you there later, but I'm busy
to-night! Get me? I'm asking you for the combination of that safe."

Big Steve made no answer.

"All right!" The soft purr was still in Silky Hines's voice, but
creeping into it now was a deadly menace. "It's too bad to spoil a
pleasant evening--and a safe. We can always 'soup' it if we have to; but
that'll take a little work, and it don't seem necessary to ruin the safe
when there's a lot easier and quicker way--the combination, Steve?"

Big Steve still made no answer.

"All right!" said Silky Hines again--casually. "Will you gentlemen
kindly push your cards over toward me? Thank you!"

Jimmie Dale's lips drew together as, after another quick glance in the
direction of the porch door, his eyes came back to Silky Hines again.
What deviltry was the man up to! With his revolver still menacing the
circle, Silky Hines had arranged the disordered cards and had picked up
the pack with his left hand.

"I always knew you were a good loser, Steve," Silky Hines purred on,
"but you don't seem to get the idea that you ain't holding even enough
to chip in on to-night. We're going to get that money--and we're going
to get it the _easiest_ way! See? I ain't making any threats
against--_you_. Some guys get stubborn when they're handed that sort of
a spiel. And from what I've heard of you, Steve, you're that kind of a
guy. So I ain't saying, 'Steve, come across, or get bumped off,' because
you were born one of those fool birds that'd tell me to shoot and be
damned, and to-morrow the papers would be telling how Big Steve died
game. No, Steve--nothing like that! I've got your number! I'm just going
to deal these cards around to your four friends here, one at a time,
leaving _you_ out of it. One of _my_ friends is handier with a knife
than he is with a rod, and it won't make any noise. The first jack is
elected." He began to flip the cards around the table. "The first
jack--or the combination, Steve."

A blanched silence had fallen on the room. Silky Hines suddenly stopped
dealing as a card fell before the man on Big Steve's right.

"The first jack," said Silky Hines.

A queer sound, like a half-choked cry, came from the man on Big Steve's
right as he sat gaping, loose-jawed, at the card in front of him. There
was no color in his face. He touched his lips with his tongue. One of
Silky Hines's companions was suddenly standing at the back of the man's
chair.

"There's no particular hurry, Steve," said Silky Hines; "so we'll
say--one minute!"

Jimmie Dale's hands clenched. What price human life with any one of
Daddy Ratzler's brood! God! Didn't Big Steve realize that Silky Hines
_meant_ it! If not, then it was up to him, Jimmie Dale, to----

"This is _murder_!" burst suddenly from Big Steve's lips.

"There are _four_ jacks," said Silky Hines.

Big Steve came swaying to his feet.

"I'll open it," he said hoarsely.

"No," said Silky Hines, "you'll sit down in that chair again--and stay
there! You'll get no chance to play any tricks or broadcast anything.
You won't leave the room--none of you will. _I'll_ open it! Take that
pencil out of your pocket and write down the combination on this card."
He tossed a card from the pack in his hand across the table. "Another
jack! That's _queer_--Steve! But there's no room on that. Well, here's
the deuce of diamonds. The boys here'll entertain you while I'm gone,
so----"

Jimmie Dale was creeping again toward the porch door. He felt suddenly
let down. Moisture that was not from the heat had gathered on his
forehead beneath his mask. His thoughts were chaotic. The fifth man!
There had been no sign of the fifth man--not likely to be! Not a chance
in a thousand now! No fifth man had gone in through that porch door. But
there was still left some recompense for the night's work quite apart
from the fact that Mrs. Meegan upstairs there wouldn't be the poorer
to-morrow by the sum of eighty thousand dollars. He knew, in
anticipation, an unholy satisfaction in watching that silver-tongued
potential murderer, Silky Hines, open the satchel. The Gray Seal again!
Thank heaven, for the sake of those men in the card room, he had not
left anything open to question! And perhaps Daddy Ratzler's teeth would
chatter a little the harder when he heard the story!

Jimmie Dale slipped into the porch--and at the same moment he saw Silky
Hines pause inside the doorway from the passage and switch on the office
light. Silky Hines had a playing card in his hand as well as his
revolver. The deuce of diamonds.

Inside the porch, but well back from the inner, glass-panelled door
which had been left wide open, Jimmie Dale watched. Silky Hines walked
to the safe, knelt down before it, laid his revolver on the floor beside
him, and, as he studied the playing card in his hand, began to
manipulate the dial.

He worked deftly--Silky Hines was deft in everything he did! The safe
door swung open, he reached inside for the black satchel--and suddenly
Jimmie Dale stood tense and rigid.

_Somebody else was in the room!_

The door leading into the passage was closing without a sound. A man,
masked, was locking the door, still without sound, behind him.

Thought is swifter than word or deed. Jimmie Dale's brain was racing.
_The fifth man_! It wasn't one of the three from the other room who had
been with Silky Hines. This man wore a slouch hat--not a cap. He must
have been hiding on the stairs--had got there somehow, either through
the front entrance or the rear, after he, Jimmie Dale, had gone to his
car, and before Silky Hines and his companions had entered. Jimmie
Dale's pulse leaped. The man had black hair. The weapon in his hand was
fitted with a silencer.

It happened in the winking of an eye. There had been no sound. It might
have been intuition, or that out of the corner of his eye Silky Hines
had caught sight of the other; but Silky Hines's hand, outstretched
toward the satchel in the safe, snatched up instead the revolver from
the floor--and Silky Hines fired. The roar of the report racketed
through the room. It was answered by a flash from the masked man in the
slouch hat--and Silky Hines, spinning around, pitched to the ground.

Jimmie Dale whipped his automatic from his pocket. Silky Hines's bullet
had not wholly missed its mark. It had at least grazed the other. The
man, still near the door, was leaning back against the wall, his
revolver dangling in his right hand, his other hand clapped to his left
ear from which the blood was crimsoning his fingers.

Jimmie Dale stepped into the room.

"Drop that gun!" he ordered coldly from behind his outflung automatic;
and then, as the other's weapon clattered obediently to the floor: "Now
take off that mask!"

The man made no protest--there seemed no fight left in him. Perhaps he
was too badly hit. He raised his hand to the fastening of his mask, and
shrugged his shoulders as though in philosophical resignation at
defeat--and with the shrug of his shoulders the light went out, and
there came a jeering laugh.

The next instant something came hurtling through the air, a chair, that,
even as he sprang forward, caught Jimmie Dale on ankles and knees. He
stumbled and fell head first against the table in the center of the
room. The blow for a moment dazed him--but in that moment, and even in
his dazed condition he heard the other dash across the room and leap out
through the porch.

Jimmie Dale reeled to his feet.

"Bilked!" he muttered; and then in a sort of savage admiration: "Good
work! He had his shoulder against that wall switch all the time!"

Someone was pounding on the passageway door. Someone was calling Silky
Hines's name. From overhead a woman's voice was crying out in alarm.
There was no time to lose. Jimmie Dale, with his girdle of burglars'
tools and his little metal case of diamond-shaped gray paper seals,
could not afford to be caught here, either!

He was groping around him now on the floor.

"Bilked!" he repeated; "but"--as his hand came in contact with a
revolver that was fitted with a silencer--"at least, _this_!"

And then Jimmie Dale was gone.




CHAPTER XV

INSIDE INFORMATION


It was the next night--but Jimmie Dale, though at the St. James Club,
was not as usual in evening attire. He was wearing a dark and very
unobtrusive though fashionably cut suit of tweed as he entered the
reading room, and, selecting an evening paper whose headlines afforded
him a peculiar interest, seated himself in an unoccupied corner of the
room. He read the headlines again. They were stretched in two rows of
lurid type across the entire width of the front page:

GRAY SEAL ROBS FELLOW CROOKS
OF $80,000
AFTERMATH OF BIG FLOATING
CRAP GAME

Jimmie Dale skimmed over the first part of the text rapidly. His
interest began where the "fifth" man had entered the office. The version
of the affair was obviously Big Steve's. At the sound of a shot from the
office one of the three remaining bandits in the card room had rushed to
the office door and had found it locked. He was then joined by another
of his companions, leaving one man on guard in the doorway of the card
room. The two bandits broke down the office door. On the floor,
unconscious, was the leader of the hold-up gang who had originally gone
into the office to open the safe. The satchel was still there, but it
was empty except for a gray seal pasted inside on the bottom. The Gray
Seal had apparently been hiding in the room, had waited until the safe
was opened, had then deliberately shot the gang leader, had exchanged
the money in the satchel for one of his wretched and despicable
stickers, and had got away with the loot. Meanwhile, of course, the
servants had been awakened by the noise, and the whole establishment was
in an uproar. The leader of the gang had, however, regained
consciousness by this time, and did not appear to be at all seriously
wounded, for, unaided by his companions, he had taken to his heels as
expeditiously as any of the rest. The four men, like the Gray Seal, had
made their escape. No one's identity had been established.

"H'm!" commented Jimmie Dale. "Comprehensive but inaccurate!"

He lighted a cigarette, and, putting the newspaper aside, leaned back in
his chair. He watched the blue spiral curling from the tip of his
cigarette thoughtfully. So Silky Hines was still on the job and still
going strong! That, at least, was worth knowing! Probably no more than a
bullet graze that had stunned him for the moment! And nothing had been
said about a certain bank having mysteriously received a certain sum of
money in trust for a certain Mrs. Meegan. Just so! The bank was probably
quite a little worried, and premature publicity might not have been
politic! Whether they opened an account with Mrs. Meegan or not was
their affair--and Mrs. Meegan's! The point was that the money, being in
their custody, was _safe_. If they established friendly and cordial
relations with Mrs. Meegan, well and good; if not, well, they would have
to get a receipt from Mrs. Meegan--and Mrs. Meegan would get the money
in any case. So that was that!

Jimmie Dale looked up. A club attendant was standing at his elbow.

"There is a telephone call for you, Mr. Dale," said the man. "The booth
on this floor, if you care to answer it, sir."

"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale.

He rose from his chair, and, going to the telephone booth in the hall,
picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" he inquired.

A voice came tensely over the wire:

"That you, Jimmie?"

"Oh, hello, Carruthers," replied Jimmie Dale. "Yes, Jimmie speaking.
Anything new?"

"You bet! The Gray Seal's latest!"

"Some haul!" said Jimmie Dale brightly. "It must have been lively out at
the Two Oaks. I've just finished reading about it."

"Damn it," cried Carruthers excitedly, "I know you can read! Everybody's
read it. You don't think I'd call you up about _that_, do you?"

"My error!" murmured Jimmie Dale apologetically. "Well?"

"Jimmie, listen! Of all the damned nerve! Do you know what the Gray Seal
has done?"

"Haven't the faintest!"

"Well, listen!"

"I'm listening," said Jimmie Dale patiently.

"Well, you're going to get a shock. He sent a parcel to Detective
Sergeant Waud. It was left at the Homicide Bureau before daylight this
morning--hung on the doorknob, Jimmie. The parcel contained a note of
condolence adorned with one of his infernal gray seals--and a revolver
that was fitted with a silencer."

There was a sudden gleam of laughter in Jimmie Dale's dark eyes--but his
voice was plaintive as he spoke.

"I wish you wouldn't talk in riddles, Carruthers," he complained. "I'm
not very good at them. What is the connection between a note of
condolence and a lethal weapon? Was he suggesting suicide to the worthy
sergeant?"

"Confound you, Jimmie!" replied Carruthers, "I tell you this is serious.
It's hot stuff! Front page! The gall and egotism of that blood-drunk
pervert is enough to make Satan himself sick with envy! He condoled with
Waud over the fatuous results so far achieved by the police in their
distracted efforts to apprehend the murderer of Ray Thorne. He ragged
Waud unmercifully. Said he realized how deeply chagrined and mortified
Waud would be when, if no one held out a helping hand to him, he must
finally come to an understanding of his own abysmal innocuity. I don't
think Waud knew what that word meant, but he looked it up and swore like
hell! The note--it was all in printed characters, not a scrap of
writing, Jimmie--ended up by the Gray Seal saying that, having no
immediate use for the weapon himself, he begged to enclose with his
compliments and in the hope that Waud's efforts thereby would be
directed into more intelligent channels hereafter, the gun with which
Ray Thorne had been shot. What do you think of that?"

"Not very much!" said Jimmie contemptuously. "He's spoofing, of course.
He probably picked it up out of some junk pile just to have a go at the
police and pull their legs."

"Spoofing--nothing!" Carruthers' voice over the phone was at fever pitch
with excitement now. "It _was_ the gun that killed Ray. The markings on
a bullet fired from it correspond with the markings on the bullet
extracted from Ray's body."

"Good Lord!" gasped Jimmie Dale.

"Yes!" gloated Carruthers. "I thought you'd swallow hard before you were
through! This opens a new field for investigation. You see where it
leads to, don't you? That bird's unholy thirst for vicious notoriety
will do him down yet! If that gun can be traced to where it was bought,
and a description of the purchaser obtained, we'll have got a long way
ahead!"

"Yes, of course!" agreed Jimmie Dale. "Naturally!"

"Well, that's all for now," said Carruthers. "Waud's turned his whole
crowd loose on it, and I'll keep you posted if anything new turns up."

"Rather! I should hope so!" exclaimed Jimmie Dale fervently. "Thanks,
Carruthers."

"Good-night," said Carruthers.

"Good-night," said Jimmie Dale.

There was a quizzical lift to Jimmie Dale's eyebrows as he hung up the
receiver.

"Even the police are useful at times," he informed the sound-proof booth
whimsically. "I just wanted to be sure. So, besides having black hair,
he has a clipped left ear. We're getting on!"

He left the telephone booth, chatted for a moment with a fellow-member
whom he encountered in the hall, and then sauntered leisurely into the
writing room. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past ten. He nodded
to himself. That would just about give him time to write a short but
rather difficult note comfortably.

He sat down at a desk and drew a sheet of note paper toward him. He sat
there for some twenty minutes, at end of which time he had written no
more than perhaps a dozen or fifteen lines. But they had been written to
his satisfaction, for he made no changes now as he re-read them
carefully; then, enclosing the sheet of paper in an envelope, he tucked
the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat--and as he did so his
fingers came in contact with another envelope that was already there. A
grim little smile flickered across his lips. The night's agenda! Quite
so! And if all went well the meeting would be called to order some time
in the vicinity of midnight! It had been a busy day; it would be a busy
night! He had left nothing undone that he could think of. He shrugged
his shoulders. Pray heaven that fate was in a genial mood during the
next few hours, that was all!

And then Jimmie Dale left the club.

Twenty minutes later, with his car parked a block away, he was walking
along a shabby cross-street in the lower East Side where evening
clothes, had he worn them, would have attracted very undesirable
attention. His tweed suit attracted none. And presently he slipped
unnoticed into the dark mouth of a lane. A minute more, and, entering by
the French window, he was standing in the Sanctuary.

No one had seen him enter, and he had no need of any light that might
proclaim his presence now. He crossed the room and from the opening
behind the movable section of the baseboard took out a parcel and his
make-up box. With these, as unobtrusively as he had come, he returned to
his car.

Thereafter, once free of the New York and Brooklyn traffic, he drove at
a stiff clip--the Long Island roads were good, and Charleton Park Manor
was at least an hour away!

The man with the clipped left ear! Again and again as Jimmie Dale left
the miles behind him, his mind reverted to the masked figure who last
night in Big Steve's office had shot down Silky Hines. It was no longer
a moot question whether this was the man who had murdered Ray--it was
now an established fact. He, Jimmie Dale, had had very little doubt
about it, but between doubt and certainty there was a wide gulf. He had
bridged that gulf--but _who_ was this man, and _how_, and _where_ was he
stealing Daddy Ratzler's secrets? One of the gang? Hardly! From the
Tocsin's report of the conversation that had taken place at Daddy
Ratzler's bedside last night, Daddy Ratzler's _intimate_ followers would
appear to be limited to the four who had been present there--and all
four had afterward been at the Two Oaks together.

Jimmie Dale shook his head suddenly over the wheel of his speeding car.
No, there perhaps might be another! He had forgotten--the Angel! A nice
moniker! It was the Angel who was to have gone to Ray in person for the
blue envelope. But the Angel still might be one of the four. The Tocsin
had placed by name only three of the men last night. But did this matter
very much? Whether Daddy Ratzler's group numbered four or five it was
almost fantastic to entertain the idea that the man in question was one
of them.

Well, then, where was the leak coming from that supplied Ray's murderer
with the advance information that enabled him to pick Daddy Ratzler's
plums? Last night, for instance! It would have been a very juicy plum if
the man had had only the gang itself to deal with! The mail? Daddy
Ratzler's concern about his letters! Was that the answer?

Again Jimmie Dale shook his head. That also was almost too fantastic to
be worthy of consideration. Daddy Ratzler was the brains of the
organization. Daddy Ratzler formulated the plans. The gang wouldn't be
writing letters to Daddy Ratzler about his own schemes! But why, then,
did Daddy Ratzler examine his letters with a magnifying glass?

"Damn!" said Jimmie Dale heartily.

One phase of the blue envelope mystery only led to another. One question
began a cycle. He wrenched his mind back to what was for him now the
main consideration. There would be no difficulty now in identifying the
man with that clipped left ear; what was vital now was to make contact
with him again. There was only one way--through Daddy Ratzler; granting,
of course, that the man would go on picking plums. Last night the
Tocsin, as well as Ray's murderer, had been able to obtain advance
information of one of Daddy Ratzler's schemes. She might be able to do
so again--and then again she might not! There might be many games pulled
off in which the man with the clipped ear would be an uninvited
participant, and neither he, Jimmie Dale, nor the Tocsin, know anything
about them.

But there _was_ one plum, and the biggest of all, still to be picked,
which the man he was after now would not fail to snatch if he could--the
plum for whose possession he had futilely murdered Ray. The blue
envelope! Silky Hines in the course of the discussion that the Tocsin
had overheard last night had said, basing his statement on the
assumption that the blue envelope was never recovered, and providing of
course that the Gray Seal could not read its riddle, that "the pot
wasn't lost yet" and that it was only a question of "waiting for
openers, which wouldn't be long in coming." Translated into English that
meant the loss of the blue envelope spelled only a temporary delay in
pulling off what had all the earmarks of being the master coup of Daddy
Ratzler's long and nefarious career. Ray's murderer, unless his own
peculiar source of inside information had suddenly dried up, would
certainly be present on that occasion; but the only way that he, Jimmie
Dale, could be certain of being present, too, was to discover in some
way or another, and _beforehand_, what the message was that the blue
envelope contained.

"And," confessed Jimmie Dale to the headlights' glare along the road, "I
haven't had any luck so far with those beastly acids and test tubes! All
I've done, I fancy, is make a mess and worry Jason! Most perplexing
thing, that blue envelope! It means everything now if I am ever to get
that hound and keep my promise to Ray. I can't afford to let it beat me;
but, then"--a sudden cryptic smile crossed Jimmie Dale's lips--"I'm
rather sure it won't--before I'm through!"

The miles and the minutes sped away together. Midnight came--and passed.
And then suddenly Jimmie Dale slowed his car. Thanks to that bounder,
Markel, of the days gone by, the surroundings were very definitely
familiar. Charleton Park Manor was just ahead--and here was the wagon
track where he had parked his car that night, and which, if followed for
a quarter of a mile, the Tocsin said, would bring him to Daddy
Ratzler's house.

Jimmie Dale swung the car into the wagon track, but he did not follow it
for more than a hundred yards--the sound of a motor would travel far on
the night air, and Daddy Ratzler was noted for his acute hearing! At the
first opening disclosed by the headlights, Jimmie Dale ran the car far
enough in among the trees to hide it from sight should anyone chance
along the wagon track.

And then the lights went out.

From under the front seat Jimmie Dale took out several strips of heavy
black cloth which he pinned across the windshield and the front windows;
then, climbing over into the back of the car, he pulled down the rear
curtains. The car had blended into the surrounding darkness.

And now, confident that it could not be seen from without, Jimmie Dale
switched on the little dome light overhead and opened the parcel that he
had brought with him from the Sanctuary. He laid the contents out on the
back seat--the old pair of shoes with broken laces; the mismated socks;
the patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms; the disreputable collarless
flannel shirt; the torn and filthy coat; the shapeless and dirt-stained
slouch hat. And for a moment he stared at these in somber fashion, and
almost as though a puzzled curiosity due to some vaguely familiar sight
had been suddenly aroused. He had not seen them for years. He had put
them away, preserved them, it was true, against an unforeseen need, but
he had never expected to see them again. They brought back unnumbered
memories. Here were the clothes of Larry the Bat, the dope fiend, a
one-time habitu of every crooked joint in the Bad Lands, an intimate
associate of thugs and criminals, and later known and execrated alike by
the police, the underworld, and the public at large--_as the Gray Seal_.
Larry the Bat--who was to live again to-night!

Jimmie Dale began rapidly to make the exchange of clothing, retaining
the leather girdle he was already wearing, and transferring the contents
of the pockets of the tweed suit to those of the disreputable rags he
was now donning. Since that night long ago in the old Crime Club when
the Magpie had stumbled upon the fact that Larry the Bat and the Gray
Seal were one, and had spread his tidings throughout the underworld, and
the news had swept like wildfire to the police and press, Larry the Bat
had virtually disappeared from the land of the living--but the Gray Seal
had kept steadily at work. Neither the police nor the underworld,
however, were blind fools! The obvious had stared them in the face. It
was realized at once that Larry the Bat was only _one_ of the characters
that cloaked the Gray Seal--though the guise in which he had still
continued to masquerade had never been discovered. And Daddy Ratzler was
one of those who had been personally acquainted, quite well acquainted,
with Larry the Bat in the days gone by. Daddy Ratzler was one of those
who _knew_ that Larry the Bat was the Gray Seal. But, also, Daddy
Ratzler was a wily and tricky customer!

The make-up box now claimed Jimmie Dale's attention. But he did not work
so quickly now, as his wrists, neck, throat, and face received their
quota of stain, and the shapely, well-cared-for hands grew unkempt and
grimy, artfully black beneath the finger nails. The vision mirror was
awkwardly placed and small. The rehabilitation of Larry the Bat could
have been more readily and simply effected at the Sanctuary. Exactly!
But the risk had been too great. Daddy Ratzler was not the only one who
would recognize Larry the Bat on sight. There were many a private
citizen, many a denizen of the underworld, and many a member of the
police who could do so, too--traffic officers some of the latter now,
probably. Larry the Bat driving in the seclusion of a closed car at
night might ordinarily be expected to pass unnoticed, though there was
always the possibility of a traffic mix-up and an inquisitive officer,
or a perhaps trivial incident of some kind that would force him to
alight and expose himself; but the greatest danger had lurked in the
fact that the Gray Seal was in the limelight again--and wanted for the
murder of Ray Thorne! With the police at fever heat, even the glimpse of
a suspicious-looking character at the wheel of a car might have been
enough to trip him up and bring recognition in its wake--and recognition
meant ruin, and disaster, inevitable and swift. "Death to the Gray
Seal!" That ugly slogan was to-day as clamorous as ever! It would have
been foolhardy, an act of insanity, to attempt it!

He stared into the mirror as his fingers deftly inserted little
distorting pieces of wax behind his ears, in his nostrils, and under his
upper lip--the features reflected there were dissolute and vicious now,
and from under drug-laden lids the narrowed eyes of Larry the Bat stared
back at him. He paid himself a grim compliment. There would have been no
question about the certainty of recognition had he risked exposure and
been seen by anyone who had ever known--Larry the Bat!




CHAPTER XVI

WITHOUT REHEARSAL


Jimmie Dale was ready now! He picked up the battered slouch hat, pulled
it well down over his eyes, switched off the dome light, and, stepping
out of the car, made his way back to the wagon track. Here he walked
swiftly--not with the accustomed slouch of Larry the Bat, for the
darkness was discreet--and five minutes later was standing before the
shadowy outline of what appeared to be a large, old-fashioned, two-story
house.

There were no lights in the front of the house; but from the angle at
which he stood he could see a series of little streaky threads of light
stealing through the closed shutters of one of the upper side windows.
He nodded to himself. That would be Daddy Ratzler's room. Daddy Ratzler
kept his light burning all night. The room next to it was the Tocsin's.
Moving a little closer he stared up at the latter for a long minute. The
all-important question now was whether any of the gang was in the house
with Daddy Ratzler. Again he nodded his head--this time in satisfaction.
Even at this distance he was quite sure that anything white on the
Tocsin's window would have showed up against the darkness--and he could
see nothing. _She_ would be there though, of course! And he could at
least see that her window was both unshuttered and wide open.

Jimmie Dale began to climb the outside veranda stairs. His lips were
tight now. This was not the task of last night; there was no carpet
here, no wrangling voices to aid him as there had been for the
Tocsin--and Daddy Ratzler's room was just at the head of the stairs.
But, as he made his way upward, there was no sound save the peaceful
night sounds of the countryside dominated by the croaking of a frog.

The Tocsin's deft touch was in evidence. He peered in through the
slightly widened slats of Daddy Ratzler's shutters. A single
incandescent illuminated the room. Daddy Ratzler lay there motionless in
the bed with his eyes closed. He might or might not be asleep, but what
was of more interest to Jimmie Dale was a heavy-calibered revolver that
lay within hand reach of Daddy Ratzler on a table beside the bed.

Jimmie Dale moved on to the next window--and from within, low-breathed,
a single word reached him:

"Jimmie?"

Jimmie Dale took from his pocket the note he had written in the club,
and passed it in through the window.

"Don't make any noise," he whispered, "but turn on your light and read
this. I'll give you five minutes. Right?"

"Yes."

Jimmie Dale drew back along the veranda, glanced in again at the still
motionless form in the bed, and descended to the ground--and a minute
later, having selected an instrument from the kit of tools in his
leather girdle, was at work upon the lock of the front door. It was a
massive and intricate lock. The luminous dial of his wrist watch told
him that he had already exceeded his stated five minutes when finally it
yielded.

He stepped silently into the house, leaving the door ajar behind him.
The white ray of his flashlight stabbed through the darkness. He crept
up the stairs. A door at the end of the corridor stood open. Light
flooded out from it, Jimmie Dale exchanged his flashlight for his
automatic--and stepped over the threshold.

"Hello, Daddy!" snickered Larry the Bat. "I heard youse was sick, an' I
thought mabbe a visit from an old pal might brighten youse up."

The figure in the bed sat bolt upright, his eyes blinking--and suddenly
the sunken cheeks assumed an ashen hue.

"Larry the Bat!" he gulped. "The--the Gray Seal! What--what do you
want?"

Larry the Bat's gaze played insolently over the unshaven pock-marked
face, the small ratlike eyes glowing out of deep sockets, and the
sagging jaw that disclosed an almost toothless mouth. As the Tocsin had
said, the man was not pleasant to look upon!

"Wot youse scared of?" grinned Larry the Bat.

Daddy Ratzler swallowed hard.

"Nothing," he said--and now his voice held a wheedling and ingratiating
note. "You and me have always been on the level, Larry. Why should I be
scared? I wasn't scared. You gave me a start, that's all. I guess you'd
have got one too if you'd been me. My God!" He wet his lips with his
tongue, "How--how did you find out I was here? What--what do you want? I
never let you down, Larry; you--you know that."

"Dat's wot I was bankin' on," observed Larry the Bat smoothly. "Youse
an' me have always worked well together, an' de idea I got in me nut now
is dat we'll do it again. Youse an' me, Daddy--see? A fifty-fifty
split. But first mabbe"--he slipped suddenly across the room to the
table beside the bed, dropped his own automatic into his pocket, and,
picking up Daddy Ratzler's revolver, pocketed that as well--"mabbe de
two of us 'ud feel more comfortable if I wasn't stickin' a rod under yer
nose, an' youse wasn't tryin' to make a grab fer yers. Dat's de only way
to do business--like friends--on de level, like youse said. Wot?"

Daddy Ratzler's bony fingers plucked at the counterpane.

"What--what do you want?" he asked for the third time.

"I'll tell youse," said Larry the Bat. "Youse heard about a guy named
Ray Thorne gettin bumped off de other night, didn't youse?"

"Sure!" nodded Daddy Ratzler. "It was all in the papers."

"Sure!" Larry the Bat was smiling coldly now. "But de papers didn't say
nothin' about a blue envelope dat was in de safe, ner nothin' about de
fact of Daddy Ratzler bein' de one de blue envelope was fer, an' nothing
about de big haul Daddy Ratzler was going to make when he got dat
envelope."

Daddy Ratzler stared with his ratlike eyes--and his eyes became
narrowed. Daddy Ratzler had been in a pinch before--and fear became
subservient to Daddy Ratzler's brain. A blank look spread over his face.

"You're in wrong, Larry," he said earnestly. "I don't know where you got
that sort of dope from, but it's all bunk. I don't know anything about
any envelope, and I never heard of Thorne until I read about you handing
him the spot."

"Is _dat_ so?" inquired Larry the Bat caustically. "Well, youse're a
damned liar, Daddy, an' youse knows dat I knows youse are!"

Daddy Ratzler shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"I'm giving you the straight goods, Larry," he protested, "that's all I
can say."

"Aw, cut dat out!" There was a snarl now in Larry the Bat's voice.
"We'll get down to cases." He thrust his hand suddenly into his pocket
and produced a sealed blue envelope that was slit open at one end. "Wot
de hell's in dis? Dat's wot I wants to know!"

Daddy Ratzler shook his head.

"I never saw it before," he insisted.

"Mabbe youse didn't!" snapped Larry the Bat. "But youse _knows_ all
about it. An envelope an' a blank piece of paper don't mean nothin' to
me, only dat I knows dere's a message dere somewhere an' dat youse knows
how to read it! See? I'm tellin' youse, ain't I, dat I'm playin' square
wid youse? De envelope ain't no good to me unless I'm wise to wot youse
knows, and wot youse knows ain't no good to youse widout de envelope.
Dat's an even break, ain't it? I'm offerin' youse fifty-fifty on
whatever dere is in de pot, so come across!"

Daddy Ratzler became suddenly irascible.

"What do you want me to do--fake up something?" he squeaked. "How many
times have I got to tell you you're in the wrong street?"

Larry the Bat leaned slightly over the bed.

"Well, den," he said through shut teeth, "suppose instead of comin'
clean wid youse on a fair cut I blow yer blasted block off! Is dat wot
youse're askin' fer?"

But now Daddy Ratzler laughed.

"That's a bum play!" he cackled. "You couldn't bluff me like that, even
if I knew what you were talking about. That's the last thing you'd do.
A dead man couldn't tell you anything, could he? But as long as he was
alive there'd be always a chance for you to horn in. You don't get
anywhere with me like that!"

Larry the Bat straightened up. A look of discomfiture crossed his face.

"I don't want to start no rough-house," he admitted. "All I wants
is----"

The sentence was never ended--Mother Margot was standing in the doorway
with a leveled revolver in her hand.

"Youse dere," she ordered curtly, "_put up yer mitts_!" And then with a
gasp: "My Gawd, Larry de Bat! De Gray Seal! Wot do youse knows about
dat!"

"The letter!" screamed Daddy Ratzler. "The letter! The letter!"

Jimmie Dale's hands, in one of which he still held the blue envelope,
were raised above his head. Mother Margot, her revolver still covering
him, advanced into the room.

"Sure t'ing!" she croaked. "Drop it! See? Drop dat letter on de bed!"

The envelope fluttered from Jimmie Dale's hand to the counterpane--and
Daddy Ratzler with a snarl of triumph pounced upon it.

"Plug him, Margot!" shrieked Daddy Ratzler. "Let him have it! Kill
the----"

Jimmie Dale risked Mother Margot's marksmanship! He made a sudden leap
for the door. Mother Margot's shot roared out behind him--and missed! He
heard Daddy Ratzler scream with rage and Mother Margot shrill her
execrations. He reached the stairs and took them at breakneck pace,
while again and again behind him, from the head of the stairs now, the
flashes of Mother Margot's shots split the black. And then the front
door slammed behind him.

But he was crouched beneath the window and was peering in through the
slats again as Mother Margot rentered Daddy Ratzler's room.

Daddy Ratzler, still clutching the blue envelope in his hand, was
panting with excitement.

"Did you get him?" he cried eagerly.

Mother Margot wiped her face with her sleeve.

"Gawd, I dunno," she said hoarsely. "I must've hit him, but he was able
to beat it all right, 'cause I heard him runnin' away outside. I thought
I heard someone talkin' in here a few minutes ago--dat's wot woke me
up!"

"It's a good thing you did," grunted Daddy Ratzler approvingly. "I won't
forget this, Margot, though I wish you'd plugged him! He pinched my gun,
but there's another one in that top drawer over there. Give it to me!"

Mother Margot obeyed, and Daddy Ratzler laid the revolver on the table
beside the bed.

"In case he comes back we'll be ready for him, curse him!" he snarled.
"You turn on the lights downstairs and keep 'em on. And wake up Pascal.
He can't hear, but he can keep his eyes open. And you needn't tell him
who it was that bust in. I don't want the police nosing around out here.
Tell him it was a burglar. And keep your own mouth tight about who it
was, too! See? And don't neither of you go to bed again to-night. Get
me? Yes, and bring me a lamp up here."

"Sure!" said Mother Margot--and scurried from the room. She was back
presently carrying a lighted lamp which she set down on the table.
"D'youse want de electric light switched off?"

"No," said Daddy Ratzler curtly. "Is Pascal on the job?"

"Both of us is on de job," said Mother Margot with a vicious smile. "Dat
bird won't sneak into dis house again widout us gettin' wise to it!
Gawd, I hope he tries it!"

"All right," said Daddy Ratzler gruffly; "only remember what I told you!
Beat it--and shut the door! I'll be listening now, and I can take care
of myself in here."

The door closed behind Mother Margot--and Jimmie Dale, watching, saw
Daddy Ratzler contemptuously toss away the blank piece of paper that the
envelope contained, then reach avidly for a knife that lay on the table
and begin carefully to slit open lengthwise the top of the blue envelope
itself. And now Daddy Ratzler's little ratlike black eyes were
glistening.

"Bluffed him!" gloated Daddy Ratzler. "Bluffed him! The Gray Seal!
Bluffed him!"

Still using the utmost care he now doubled back as much of the upper
edge of the gummed flap of the envelope as would yield to pressure, and,
leaning far out over the bed, held this for a few moments over the top
of the lamp. The result as he examined it, seemed to puzzle Daddy
Ratzler. He repeated the experiment over and over again. His hands were
trembling now, and the puzzlement in his face had deepened into
consternation.

And outside the window Jimmie Dale laughed softly.

"Thank you, Daddy!" he murmured as he began silently to descend the
veranda stairs. "I'll try that on the original!"




CHAPTER XVII

AT MIDNIGHT


The storm had broken half an hour before, and even yet did not seem to
have attained its height. On-driven by furious gusts of wind, the
downpour of rain swept across the river in weird, gray, misty sheets.
The opposite shore was indiscernible, save only at moments when the
lightning play made daylight of the night. Here and there the lights of
some passing craft showed faintly out of the blackness, but these were
few and far between--there was no other sign of life.

Crouching in a small clump of bushes near the water's edge, Jimmie Dale
dashed the rain irritably from his face and eyes. Except for those
occasional lights out there he could see nothing. Around him trees,
shrubbery, and river bank all blended into a meaningless wall of
darkness.

It was his third night of vigil. He smiled at himself suddenly in a sort
of half-angry, half-pitying way. How many more nights was he going to
keep this up? The chances at best were a hundred to one against him. He
knew that and was quite willing to admit it; and, with every stitch of
clothing wet now, his discomfort made the odds after two nights of
failure assume even greater proportions.

He shrugged his shoulders. A wild goose chase? A snatching at straws?
Perhaps! But, then--perhaps not! There _was_ a chance.

He pushed back his rain-soaked sleeve and looked at his wrist watch. The
luminous dial marked five minutes to midnight. His eyes strained out
through the darkness to the few moving lights on the river. The message
in the blue envelope specified midnight, but there was still no sign
that to-night would be any more productive of results than those that
had gone before. Quite true! But then--a sort of dogged optimism rose up
within him--it wasn't the kind of a night on which one would be expected
to keep a rendezvous to the minute!

Rather curious, that message! And rather curious, too, the blue envelope
itself! After leaving Daddy Ratzler that night he had lost no time in
returning to Riverside Drive and in taking the original blue envelope
from the safe in his den. And thereafter, thanks to Daddy Ratzler's
enlightening demonstration with the spurious envelope, the rest had been
simplicity itself. As Daddy Ratzler had done, so he, too, had slit the
top of the envelope open and had carefully doubled back the loose edge
of the gummed flap. The simple application of heat had brought out the
writing.

He smiled queerly. Sympathetic ink had been used after all! But who
would have thought of looking for it under what was virtually another
layer of paper! Even pen pressure marks, had there been any, had in this
way been covered up. Perhaps that accounted for the use of a blue
envelope rather than a white one, the blue-colored paper being less
transparent than white. He was inclined to think it did, and to accept
this as the answer to the question that had perplexed him in this
respect from the beginning. But, in any case, that did not matter any
further now since the secret of the envelope had been exposed.

The message had been written with what must have been an exceedingly
fine pen, for, though the letters were perfectly formed, he had barely
been able to read it with the naked eye. He remembered that his reaction
to it all had been one of hesitancy, an uncertainty of mind as to what
he should do--though within an hour of reading the message he had locked
the envelope away in his safe again and had left New York. That was
three days ago--and yet here now in the darkness and the storm it seemed
as though he could still see the words and letters forming again on the
upper edge of the envelope where the flap had been turned back just as
they had done when he had watched them first appear:

Send boat Canadian side a mile above Prescott.
Midnight, July 16th. Show only starboard light.

An ironical smile crossed his lips as the thought of a moment ago about
this being a night when punctuality measured in minutes might be excused
recurred to him. If the rendezvous were kept to-night, Daddy Ratzler and
his crowd would be a _week_ late! Ray had been killed three days before
the date specified in the message, and those three days, of course, if
the blue envelope had been delivered to the Angel as had been planned,
would have given Daddy Ratzler ample time to make his arrangements and
conform with the instructions in the message. That was all quite
logical; but since then the date itself had not only lapsed, but
practically a whole week had passed besides.

Why, then, should he have any hope or expectation that the rendezvous
would be kept to-night, or on any other night now for that matter? And
especially when Daddy Ratzler had never received the blue envelope at
all! On the face of it, it seemed absurd. Yes! Precisely! And it would
have been absurd except for that remark of Silky Hines that they had
only to wait for "openers" which would not be long in coming. And also
one other thing. The elaborate and carefully worked-out plan of which
the blue envelope was the visible evidence was dependent for its success
on _someone_, for some purpose or other, being here at the spot
specified in the message. He did not know how those "openers" were to
reach Daddy Ratzler, nor how long it would be before they did; but it
seemed at least an even chance that when contact was restablished the
meeting place would still be here as originally planned.

Jimmie Dale shook the rain from his face. Why not? Those words in the
message--"Canadian side"--were extremely significant. It was obvious
that smuggling of some sort that was far from petty in its character was
being attempted. It was therefore apparently essential that the
rendezvous should be kept on the Canadian side. Why then should the
locality already selected be changed?

"No," said Jimmie Dale suddenly; "I'm not so sure about that. I'm still
gambling with the odds against me. There's Daddy Ratzler. I wish I knew
about Daddy Ratzler. Does he think I tried to trick him with a fake
envelope--and lost out on it thanks to Mother Margot; or does he think
that the envelope was either tampered with in Paris, or that something
went wrong with their precious ink? I _don't_ think he has any suspicion
that he showed me how to decipher the message; but if he gets the idea
that it has been tampered with at all, then it's all off here! It's the
toss of a coin. I don't know. I only know I'm here, and that it's worth
seeing through, that's all!"

A vivid flash of lightning came and went--and disclosed a small boat
some distance up the river that he had not seen before. He lost it again
in the darkness. Let alone a single green starboard light, the boat was
showing no light of any kind.

But still he continued to stare in that direction. The boat might be
still too far away to show any signal--and then, again, it might not.
There was nothing very definite about "a mile above Prescott." Where did
Prescott begin and end in respect of the river bank? One might easily be
a quarter or half a mile out. That made little or no difference, of
course, so far as signaling was concerned, for the inference was that a
boat passing up or down the river anywhere in the vicinity and showing a
single green light would receive an answering flash of some kind from
the shore. His own position, for instance, was only approximate, but he
was near enough to the locality indicated so that no rendezvous could be
kept under the prescribed conditions without his being aware of it. A
grain of comfort! He had no cause to worry on that score at least.

Doubt surged back on him again. Three nights of watching already; and
the days, so that he might attract no attention in the neighborhood,
spent miles away, now in one direction and now in another, his rle of
motor tourist camouflaging his movements! It would be so simple a matter
to dispel all doubt, so easy to discover whether or not the rendezvous
was still existent here! He had only to take a boat himself, and,
showing a single green light, patrol up and down near the shore--and
draw the answering signal, provided there was one to draw. Yes, quite
so! Was he becoming childish, or was he merely peevish because he was
drenched to the skin? That would be the end of any chance of the man
with the clipped ear appearing on the scene! And, also, there was----

_The green light_!

He stepped out from the clump of bushes, straining his eyes through the
darkness. Yes, unmistakably, it was there! In the same general direction
in which he had seen the boat in the lightning's flare, but much closer
in toward the shore now, a single green light was showing--there was no
red light, no port light--just the green.

So in some way or other they had drawn their "openers" after all--and
the game was on! A sense of grim satisfaction settled upon Jimmie Dale.
He had played against the odds--and won! Daddy Ratzler was sick, of
course; but from the newspaper account Silky Hines had certainly not
been rendered inactive as a result of that night at the Two Oaks--and
therefore, logically, it would be Silky Hines who was out there now in
that boat! Yes, undoubtedly, it would be Silky Hines, either alone, or
with some of the gang!

Jimmie Dale began to make his way along the shoreline; but, mindful of
the intermittent lightning flashes that might at any moment limn him
against the night, he kept close to the trees and bushes that lined the
river bank. The boat, perhaps some five hundred yards away, was heading
directly in now for the shore--but there was no hurry. It was not Silky
Hines or any other of Daddy Ratzler's followers that he was after--it
was the man who had murdered Ray. The plum-picker! And if the man's
apparently uncanny source of information had not failed him, and if he
ran true to form, he would put in an appearance somewhere and from some
unexpected source to Silky Hines' undoing--but not until the plum was
thoroughly ripe and ready to drop into his hand. And that was the point
at which he, Jimmie Dale, proposed to do a little undoing himself.

But now something unexpected was happening, and involuntarily Jimmie
Dale paused. Still several hundred yards away from where he stood, the
boat appeared to have touched the shoreline and from the shore itself a
faint pin-point of white light, a lantern presumably, appeared. And then
there came a tiny flash through the darkness. There was no sound save
the howl and sweep of the wind. The lantern seemed to drop suddenly to
the ground--and go out.

And then, urged on by he knew not what, Jimmie Dale sprinted forward.

Again a flash of lightning--and again for a moment it was as bright as
day. The boat was speeding away from the shore. It held a single
occupant--a man who wore a mask, a man who wore a bandage over his left
ear, the white of which was clearly defined in the lurid, unearthly
light!

Then utter blackness again, and the pelting rain.

And as he ran, something abysmal, a realization of disaster, registered
itself on Jimmie Dale's brain. Not Silky Hines! Not any of Daddy
Ratzler's gang! How had Ray's murderer come _first_--outplayed them all?

The next instant he was bending over a murdered man at the water's
edge.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE TOCSIN'S STORY


Engine trouble had delayed Jimmie Dale on his return trip from the
Canadian border, and it was after seven o'clock in the evening when he
drew up in front of his residence on Riverside Drive and alighted from a
very dirty and mud-spattered car.

Jason, with undisguised relief, opened the door for him.

"It's good to see you back, Master Jim, sir," said the privileged old
man. "I trust you had an enjoyable trip, sir."

"Very--Jason, thank you!" said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "Anything new
since I've been away?"

Jason glanced guardedly around the hall in which they were still
standing.

"Well, yes, Master Jim," he answered; "and it's in respect to those
instructions of yours, sir, that no one was to answer the phone except
myself."

"Yes?" inquired Jimmie Dale.

"The day before yesterday, Master Jim--a woman"--Jason coughed
apologetically behind his hand--"I couldn't exactly call her a lady,
sir, for she had a very coarse voice, and, if I may so express it, her
English was rather low--rang up and asked for you. I was a bit taken
aback at the voice, sir; but I answered that you were away and that I
was unable to say when you might be expected to return. I hope I did
right, sir?"

Jimmie Dale suppressed a smile. Jason would instantly have recognized
the voice of his future mistress--who was supposed to be in Europe!
Jason was not acquainted with Mother Margot. Exactly! But this struck a
serious note. What had happened at that house out there near Charleton
Park Manor? How had the Tocsin managed to get to a phone at all?

"You did perfectly right, Jason," he said approvingly. "And what message
did this--er--woman leave?"

"None, sir," replied Jason; "at least not on that occasion--not even her
name or a phone number, though I asked for both. But she called up again
this afternoon around five o'clock, about two hours ago. She was quite a
bit more insistent this time, sir. I had to assure her over and over
again, Master Jim, that I had no idea as to your whereabouts. Then she
said I was on no account to forget to tell you the minute you got back
that she had left a letter for you, and that you'd know where to find
it."

Jimmie Dale retrieved his hat from the old butler's hand.

"Most intriguing, Jason!" he grinned. "She may have a pretty face in
spite of her voice, you know. I'm off! It's irresistible!"

A startled, anxious look showed suddenly in Jason's eyes.

"But, Master Jim!" he protested. "Without dinner, sir!"

"I had a bite on the road an hour ago," smiled Jimmie Dale.

Jason cleared his throat.

"Master Jim," he faltered, "I hope you'll forgive me for taking
liberties, sir--but--but it's like the old days with these letters and
you away so much, and--and I know that somehow you're in danger. I
dandled you on my knee when you were a baby, Master Jim, as I've been
proud to say many a time, and if I could be of any help now I'd like you
to know, sir, that there isn't anything I wouldn't do."

"Help?" echoed Jimmie Dale cheerfully. "You're invaluable! Just keep the
home fires burning the way you're doing--telephone and all that, you
know. And, Jason!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get that idea of danger out of your head. There isn't any. You quite
understand that?"

Jason had never contradicted his master in his life.

"Perfectly, sir!" he answered--but his eyes did not meet Jimmie Dale's.
"It's very kind of you, Master Jim, to relieve an old man's mind."

Jimmie Dale's dark eyes swept for an instant in kindly, whimsical
appraisal over the other.

"Jason," he said solemnly, as he turned abruptly and started out through
the front door, "you are a damned fraud!"

Jason this time, however, did not answer--but as Jimmie Dale got into
his car and drove away, he could still see the old man standing there on
the front steps, bareheaded, watching him out of sight.

Jimmie Dale drove fast; the traffic was light at that hour, and some
twenty minutes later, entering unseen by means of the lane and the
French window, he was standing in the Sanctuary. Still light outside, it
was dark within the dingy room; and now, as he lighted it, the
air-choked gas jet hissed and wheezed into a meager blue and yellow
flame. He crossed the room quickly, displaced the movable section of
the baseboard, and reached into the opening. The letter was here, of
course, as he had expected. He stood up with it in his hand, and, about
to replace the baseboard, hesitated for a minute. He might only have to
open it up again! What rle was he to play to-night? Was Smarlinghue, or
perhaps even Larry the Bat, to step out from that hiding-place again?
The letter first!

He stepped back under the gas jet, tore open the envelope, extracted a
single closely written sheet of notepaper and began to read the letter
rapidly. It bore that day's date, and began as the Tocsin had begun
every letter she had ever addressed to the Gray Seal:

DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK:

I know you are away somewhere, but I am hoping that you will perhaps
still be back in time to come to me to-night. If not, then to-morrow
night--or the next. I shall be waiting for you. Come _as soon after
dark_ as possible--but do not try to communicate with me unless you see
a light in my window. This may seem almost incoherent; but I am writing
in great haste, and you do not need any detailed explanation in order to
make you understand that it is urgent. I have made some strange
discoveries about the country house.

M.

Jimmie Dale re-read the letter, then he began to tear it into fragments,
and the fragments into still smaller ones. These he dropped into the
pocket of his coat. Then he crossed the room and replaced the movable
section of the baseboard. Obviously, neither the services of Larry the
Bat nor Smarlinghue were required to-night. A mask, yes--if even that
proved necessary!--but the leather girdle he was already wearing would
supply all requirements of that sort. His automatic and a flashlight
were also on his person. He needed nothing that the Sanctuary could
supply.

Darkness fell upon the squalid room, the French window opened and closed
noiselessly, a shadow hovered for a moment at the mouth of the lane--and
then Jimmie Dale, walking casually down the block, turned the corner and
regained his car.

Already growing dusk as the car shot away from the curb, it was dark
when, after a little more than the hour's run to Charleton Park Manor,
Jimmie Dale swung from the main road into the wagon track that led to
Daddy Ratzler's house, and, diverging again, secreted his car among the
bordering trees as he had done on his previous visit here some nights
before. Five minutes later, following the wagon track on foot, he was
standing in the shadow of the trees, with the house looming up before
him.

The only light showing anywhere as he now made a cautious circuit of the
house came from the Tocsin's window. It seemed rather curious that there
was none in Daddy Ratzler's room--but in any case, from what she had
said in her letter, the coast appeared to be clear. He slipped out of
the shadows and moved toward the house. A dark form showed suddenly on
the veranda, and Mother Margot's voice came through the darkness.

"Who's dat out dere?" she demanded.

"Lady," said Jimmie Dale circumspectly, "I may do you a gross injustice,
but my mother told me never to confide--in women."

Her laugh floated down to him.

"It's all right, Jimmie," she said. "Everything is perfectly safe. Wait
a minute and I'll open the front door for you."

It was less than a minute before the front door opened--and the Tocsin
was in Jimmie Dale's arms. It was much more than a minute, however,
before she spoke again.

"Jimmie," she whispered finally, as she drew back into the hall and
closed the door behind them, "do you suppose we'll ever grow up to be a
staid old married couple?"

"God forbid!" ejaculated Jimmie Dale piously.

"Yes!" she agreed. "But now listen, Jimmie! We might as well talk here
in the hall for the next few minutes as anywhere else--afterwards I have
something to show you. And thank heaven you have come as early as this;
but, even so, the time is short. That's what I meant by telling you to
come as soon after dark as possible. I was afraid Pascal might see you
and report your visit if you came too early; while, on the other hand,
Daddy Ratzler generally gets back around nine o'clock."

"Back?" repeated Jimmie Dale in surprise. "Isn't he here?"

"No," she said. "I don't think he was physically up to it, and even now
he is none too well; but, anyhow, he got up the next morning after your
visit to him and went to New York--and he has been going to the city
every day since."

"H'm!" said Jimmie Dale. "And Pascal? Where's he?"

"Upstairs in his room at the other side of the house. He gets up with
the dawn and goes to bed with the dark--you know that, besides being
deaf, he's a very old man. So we've got the house to ourselves for the
moment, and I want to make the most of it. I want to know very badly,
Jimmie, everything that has happened, and whether, after all, you found
out the secret of the blue envelope; but I am not going to ask a single
question until I have told you my story, and, above all, _shown_ you
what I have found. Daddy Ratzler _might_ come back earlier than I
expect, you see--and when he does come back I must be upstairs in my
room."

"Right!" conceded Jimmie Dale. "Go on, dear."

"Well," she said, "Daddy Ratzler got up the next morning after you were
here, and went to town for the day. He said he wouldn't be back until
about nine o'clock. And Pascal, taking advantage of Daddy Ratzler's
absence, went off to spend the afternoon with some cronies in the
neighborhood--so I risked a trip to New York that afternoon. I was
terribly anxious to know about the blue envelope, and also what had
happened at the Two Oaks; for, of course, we had had no chance to
discuss anything that night when you staged that little one-act play.
So, as I say, I went to town. I called up Jason on the phone--as Mother
Margot, of course, because I didn't want him to recognize my voice."

"You succeeded!" chuckled Jimmie Dale. "I am afraid you even offended
his sense of decorum. He was not very complimentary about either your
voice or your English; in fact, he referred to the latter as being
rather 'low.'"

"Dear old Jason!" she exclaimed affectionately. "He told me you were
away. I went to the Sanctuary to see if you had left any message. There
wasn't any, and I came back here--quite early in the afternoon. Daddy
Ratzler returned about nine o'clock. He went to bed, and I heard him
_lock_ both his door and his window. Whatever else you did, Jimmie, I
think you succeeded in frightening him worse than ever. Anyway, I went
to bed, but I couldn't sleep. My door was open. I suppose it must have
been somewhere around eleven o'clock when, as I lay there, I suddenly
heard voices in Daddy Ratzler's room. They were low and muffled, of
course, and not a word was distinguishable--but Daddy Ratzler was
unmistakably talking to someone. Now, no one could have got into that
room without my knowing it--for even you, Jimmie, couldn't have opened
the shutters and the locked window and have got in that way without my
hearing you, for my window was wide open on the veranda just a few yards
away--so this was the _second_ time I had heard two voices in that room
when it seemed impossible that any one could be in there with Daddy
Ratzler."

The darkness hid the sudden thinning of Jimmie Dale's lips.

"I'd like your story better, Marie," he said grimly, "if you were out of
this cursed place for good and all! But go on! What happened then?"

"A great deal, Jimmie--then and afterwards," she said quietly. "The
voices only lasted for a very few minutes. Then I heard Daddy Ratzler
get out of bed. A moment after that he unlocked his door cautiously and
came quietly out into the hall. He stood there for a little while,
apparently listening; then he tiptoed into my room--you remember I told
you my door was open--and bent over the bed. I pretended to be asleep.
He stood there so long that I was afraid I would give myself away, but
he was finally satisfied that I was not awake and went out of the room
again. I watched him as he went out. He was wearing a dressing gown. I
could see just enough to make that out, you understand, dark as it was;
for, though the light was on in his room, so little of it could show
along the hall that he had evidently not even thought of closing his
door."

"I understand!" said Jimmie Dale tensely. "And then?"

"He went downstairs. I heard him go into the kitchen and open the door
leading to the cellar, and then I heard him go down the cellar stairs. I
did not, of course, know whether he would be back almost at once or not,
so I waited awhile to see. I suppose I waited nearly half an hour. Then,
as he did not return, I got up. It was _my_ turn then, Jimmie--that was
what I was out here for. Besides that mysterious conversation, Daddy
Ratzler was up to something and I meant to find out what it was if I
could. I went into his room; but it was of course empty, and there was
no sign of anyone else having been there. Then I crept downstairs
without making any noise. I wasn't really taking any risk, you know, for
I----"

"No; I suppose not--just every one there was!" exclaimed Jimmie Dale
uneasily.

"No--really, Jimmie!" she protested. "To all intents and purposes, as I
have said, there was actually no light showing in the hall, but it would
have served excellently as an excuse. If he had seen me, I had only to
say that I had wakened up suddenly, and, noting a faint glow in the hall
that I thought could only be coming from the open door of his room, I
had jumped out of bed to see if anything was the matter; and then,
finding his room empty, I had become alarmed and had started to look for
him. Anyway, he did not see me, nor did I see him. I went to the door
at the head of the cellar stairs and listened, but I couldn't hear a
sound. Then I opened the door quietly. There was no light in the cellar
and still no sound. I turned on the light at the head of the stairs, and
went down a little way; but I did not have to go anywhere near the
bottom to see that there was nobody in the cellar. I turned out the
light, went back upstairs, got into bed again, and lay there for a long
time trying to puzzle it all out. It was certain that Daddy Ratzler had
gone down to the cellar; it was certain that he was not there; and it
was certain that he had not come up the cellar stairs again. It was
true, of course, that there was a door in the cellar through which he
could have gone outside; but if he had intended to go outdoors, why
should he take so awkward and roundabout a way when he could have gone
out so much more easily by the front door? And, then, another thing! If
he had intended to remain outdoors for so long a time--it was more than
an hour, Jimmie, before he eventually came back _by the cellar stairs_,
and, as he thought, found me still asleep--it seemed strange that he had
not put on his clothes instead of going out in his dressing gown. I
could not answer those questions, but I spent hours in the cellar
yesterday and again to-day--every minute when Pascal was out of the way.
And then I--but you'll see for yourself, Jimmie. It was about noontime
when I made my discovery. I waited until Pascal had gone off on what had
now become his habitual neighborhood visits, then I went to town and
again telephoned Jason. You still were not back, so I left that note for
you in the Sanctuary and hurried back here, as I did not dare to be too
long away. And now, come and I will show you what I found--though I do
not think from what I have told you that it will surprise you very
much."

"I have a hazy notion--which may be all wrong," said Jimmie Dale in a
strangely quiet voice.

"But not a woman's curiosity," she laughed softly. "Well, give me your
flashlight--it will be much safer than to turn on any lights here
downstairs which might be seen by Daddy Ratzler if he were on his way
here sooner than I expect."




CHAPTER XIX

THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY


The hall, disclosed by the flashlight's ray, led through to the rear of
the house and into the kitchen. Here the Tocsin opened the door at the
head of the cellar stairs--and a moment later, following the Tocsin,
Jimmie Dale found himself standing in the cellar itself.

And now the flashlight in the Tocsin's hand rested for a moment on a
door with a few short steps leading up to it at the far end of the
cellar, and then played slowly over the rear wall--which Jimmie Dale
could see was sheathed with rough planking and still formed the backing
for what at one time, though they were now in disrepair, had evidently
been a series of large bins.

"Yes?" inquired Jimmie Dale, as the flashlight came to rest again on a
portion of the planking almost opposite where they stood.

"Pascal says they did a lot of truck gardening out here years ago," she
explained, "and that these used to be vegetable bins. And now,
Jimmie--_look_!"

She had stepped close to the wall and was pressing with her finger on
what appeared to be no more than the rusty head of an old nail--and
without a sound, and as though operating on well-oiled hinges, three of
the planks swung suddenly outward.

Jimmie Dale whistled low under his breath.

"My word!" he ejaculated. "Good work, Marie!" And then, eagerly: "Here,
give me the flashlight and let's have a look at what's in there!"

But the Tocsin shook her head.

"No; not yet," she said. "It's a sort of half cave, half cellar--but you
can explore it as much as you like presently. As soon as you have told
me _your_ story, I am going to leave you here so as to take no chances
of being anywhere else but in my room when Daddy Ratzler gets back. But
first I must tell you what else I found. You will see a speaking tube
sticking out of the wall at the far end when you go in there--and that,
of course, accounted at once for the two voices. The other end was
obviously in Daddy Ratzler's room. It wasn't nearly so hard then to
unearth what was in Daddy Ratzler's room as it had been to find this
secret door here, and I didn't have to spend the hours sounding the
walls that I did down here in the cellar. On both occasions when I heard
the two voices, Daddy Ratzler had been in bed--therefore the end of the
tube in his room must be so close to the bed itself that he could speak
into it without getting up. So, as soon as I had seen this end of the
speaking tube, I went up to Daddy Ratzler's room and began to search
around near the bed. You will remember, from what you saw on the night
you were there, that the room is finished in cheap, varnished wood--so
cheap, Jimmie, that it is everywhere full of knots."

Jimmie Dale nodded quickly.

"Yes; I remember," he said tersely.

"Well, that is the answer," she said. "The upstairs end of the speaking
tube is behind one of those knots just beside the head of Daddy
Ratzler's bed--the knot can be taken out and replaced quite readily."

Jimmie Dale was frowning now.

"It's queer!" he muttered suddenly, as though almost unconscious of the
Tocsin's presence. "I wonder!"

"Everything about this house is queer, as I told you that night in Daddy
Ratzler's office," she said; "but you'll think it is queerer still when
you've seen what is behind this secret door--which, by the way, opens
and closes on the inside by means of a push-button that is not
camouflaged by the head of a nail. And now the things that I want to
know! Did the man with the 'black hair' turn up at the Two Oaks after
all?"

"Yes--masked!" said Jimmie Dale with a short laugh. "But he went away
_marked_ with a wound on his left ear. Also, his revolver, which he left
behind him, proved to be the one with which Ray was shot--which dispels
any possible doubt that he is the man who murdered Ray."

"Oh, Jimmie, tell me about it!" she exclaimed tensely--and listened as
tensely while he rapidly sketched in the details of the night at the Two
Oaks. "Yes," she said at the end, "he is the man, of course--but if only
we knew _who_ he is! And now about the envelope--did the ruse work with
Daddy Ratzler?"

"Perfectly!" said Jimmie Dale with a tight smile. "There was a message
written in sympathetic ink under the flap of the envelope--brought out
by heat. That was what he wanted the lamp for. It simply gave details
for a midnight rendezvous on the Canadian side of the St. Lawrence and
specified a date that was then a week or more past."

"But you went there just the same?" she suggested quickly. "That is
where you have been for the last three days?"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale, "it was the only chance I saw, and I took it
because of what you told me Silky Hines had said about not having to
wait long for 'openers' for the pot anyway. My idea was that, if Silky
Hines was right, the rendezvous would eventually be kept at the same
place, and if the man with the clipped ear was still getting inside
information, as Daddy Ratzler seemed to be afraid he was, he would be
there on the heels of Daddy Ratzler's gang in an attempt to pick what
Daddy Ratzler intimated was the choicest plum of all. And so----"

"Wait, Jimmie!" she interrupted hurriedly. "What was the reason for this
rendezvous? What is it all about?"

Jimmie Dale shook his head.

"I don't know," he said; "except, of course, that it is probably an
international smuggling ring of some sort--but from _our_ standpoint
that's not of vital moment, is it?"

"No," she said; "that's true. Tell me the rest, then, Jimmie. Was the
rendezvous kept?"

"Yes," he answered, a sudden bitterness in his voice; "but not at all in
the way I expected. It was kept last night. And last night was a beast
of a night--though I have to thank the lightning for most of what I saw.
The plan was that a boat showing a single green light was to make
contact with the shore. I saw the boat coming through the storm, but I
was still some distance away when it swung abruptly in toward the land.
I expected, of course, that, since Daddy Ratzler was sick, Silky Hines
would be in the boat, either alone or with some of the rest of the gang.
What happened then happened very quickly. As the boat touched the shore
a lantern light appeared at the water's edge, then came a sudden little
flash, which I know now was a revolver shot, and the lantern went out;
and then, in a flare of lightning, I saw the boat for an instant as
plainly as though it were daylight. It was racing away from the shore
again. There was just one man in it, and he wasn't Silky Hines or----"

"Jimmie," she interrupted breathlessly, "the man with the clipped ear!"

"Yes!" Jimmie Dale nodded shortly. "And when I reached the spot I found
a man lying dead beside the broken lantern. He had been shot through the
heart--just as Ray was--and by the same hand."

There was silence for a moment in the cellar. It was the Tocsin who
spoke first.

"This is terrible," she said, her voice shaking a little. "Do you know
who the dead man was?"

"No. I searched him, of course, for that purpose. He was well supplied
with money; but there was nothing in his pockets in the shape of
letters, or papers, or anything of any nature that afforded even a clue
to his identity. I left him there. It seemed almost a callous thing to
do; but he was dead and beyond any help of mine, and the last thing I
could afford to do was to appear in the affair. He would certainly be
found by daylight; but whether the police have since identified him or
not I cannot say. That's all, Marie. That brings us down to the present
moment."

"And now?" she queried anxiously.

"I don't know," Jimmie Dale admitted frankly. "If the fellow, having
picked Daddy Ratzler's richest plum, is now satisfied, there would be no
chance of getting track of him again by watching Daddy Ratzler any
further; for, in that case, there wouldn't be any 'next' coup at which
the man would be present, even if we could discover beforehand what it
was to be. That, however, is purely problematical; he may _not_ be
satisfied, and so, for the time being, we shall have to carry on as we
have been doing. But that is not all. Last night worries me. Last night
he outplayed them all. The boat was a little late in reaching the
rendezvous, but I put that down at first to the storm. I've thought a
lot about that since. Why was there no sign of Silky Hines? Had Silky
Hines originally been in the boat? Was Silky Hines still in
it--dead--when the boat raced away again from the shore? Or what? With
Daddy Ratzler not taking an active part, the mantle would naturally have
fallen on Silky Hines' shoulders. Where was Silky Hines last night? I've
had no chance to check up on him from this end, for I came straight out
here the moment I got back to New York. I haven't even seen the evening
papers--I do not know whether they have reported the finding of a body,
or bodies, up there on the Canadian border. I was going to try to find
out to-night if Silky Hines was still around his usual haunts, and
whether or not he had ever left New York at all. There is always the
possibility, of course, that he was more seriously hurt at the Two Oaks
than the newspaper reported, though I do not for a moment think so--but
even that would not explain matters, for, in such an event, some other
member, or members, of the gang would have taken his place at the
rendezvous. Has he been out here, do you know?"

The Tocsin shook her head.

"Not since the time I told you about when he was here with the rest of
the gang," she answered. "I am positive of that, unless, of
course"--the flashlight in her hand bored suddenly in through the
opening beyond the secret door--"it was Silky Hines who was in there the
other night with Daddy Ratzler."

Jimmie Dale shook his head in turn.

"I don't think so," he demurred. "It's possible, of course, and it would
explain the two voices; but the only trouble is, Marie, that the pieces
do not fit. Why wouldn't Silky Hines have gone to Daddy Ratzler's room
as he did on that other occasion?"

"On that other occasion, Jimmie," she reminded him, "I was out of the
house, and, so Daddy Ratzler thought, on my way to New York."

Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

"That's one explanation, of course," he admitted. "So you think that the
second time you heard two voices was the night when, having somehow or
other obtained their 'openers,' Daddy Ratzler and Silky Hines discussed
arrangements for keeping the blue envelope rendezvous?"

"What else is there to think?" she asked a little helplessly.

"Heaven knows!" ejaculated Jimmie Dale. "But if that is so, I'd say
unhesitatingly that Silky Hines has now passed on into the beyond--a
martyr to a sordid cause. And in that case, how did Ray's murderer get
'next' to what was going on?"

"I don't know," she said numbly.

"No," said Jimmie Dale; "that's just it--and speculation won't get us
anywhere. But"--he nodded toward the opening--"I've a growing hunch that
the explanation is in there, if we can only find it--and I'm keen for a
look around. But first there's just one question before I poke around
here for a bit while you go upstairs to forestall Daddy Ratzler's
arrival. I'm rather curious to know what Daddy Ratzler's reaction was
when he found he couldn't make anything out of that blue envelope. Did
he say anything to you about it?"

"No," she answered; "he never mentioned it, and I never saw it again. He
simply got up the next morning and said he was well enough to go to
town. But he was frightened, and he has been frightened ever since."

"Right!" grinned Jimmie Dale with sudden cheerfulness. "Well, you go on
up now, Marie, so as to be sure to be on hand as a reception committee
for him! I'll let you know before I go away whether I've stumbled on
anything worth while down here or not."

"But suppose he gets back in the meanwhile, as he is almost sure to do?"
she asked dubiously. "He is still far from well, as I told you, and he
always goes to his room at once and straight to bed. After that, though
his own door is locked, he insists that I remain in my room within call.
He is in a highly nervous and excited condition. He would hear me if I
left my room and went downstairs."

"That's all right," smiled Jimmie Dale reassuringly, as he took the
flashlight from her hand. "I've got to you before, and I can do it
again. The veranda is still there, and you say he keeps his window
closed now--which is so much to the good. Just you keep yours open--and
stand by, no matter how long you have to wait. I'll be there. All set?"

"Yes," she said; and, as Jimmie Dale pointed the way for her with the
flashlight's ray, she ran up the cellar stairs and closed the door
behind her.

And then Jimmie Dale was in action. Several times he tested the
mechanism that controlled the secret door both from within and without,
and then the three planks, noiseless in their movement, swung finally
back into place against the wall behind him. A flight of rough,
unenclosed steps comprised of some six or seven treads led downward. He
descended these, and at the bottom stood motionless for a long time
while the white beam of his flashlight again and again, slowly,
inquisitively, swept in all directions around him.

"A sort of half cave, half cellar," the Tocsin had said. He nodded in
agreement with her description. It was a long and narrow tunnel-like
chamber running at right angles from the steps that he had just
descended, and paralleling the wall of the house. The floor was cemented
but was badly cracked in places and in need of repair; and the roof,
boarded, was supported by wooden beams and uprights that had every
appearance of having been in existence there for years. But the place
itself bore eloquent testimony to present-day occupation; for, from
where he stood beside the steps, which were at one extreme end, his
flashlight picked out at the other end, perhaps some forty feet away, a
bed, a table with a lamp upon it, a washstand equipped with bowl and
pitcher, several chairs, and a high bureau.

A queer and sudden smile touched Jimmie Dale's lips.

"Yes," he muttered. "I certainly would like to know who Daddy Ratzler
was talking to down here! I think it would bring us very close to--the
end!"

He moved slowly forward now. Strewn in more or less confusion against
the sides of the walls were a number of dust-laden boxes of various
sizes, their covers for the most part awry, and--he stopped suddenly
again, and bent down for a closer inspection--yes, unmistakably, the
remains of an old printing press. The next instant he was delving into
some of the boxes. Some engraver's tools, gone to rust, and several
steel plates upon which work had been started rewarded his search.

Jimmie Dale straightened up. All this didn't matter very much except
that it justified the original existence of the place and satisfied
one's curiosity in that respect. Years ago, for there was no sign of any
modern photographic appliances of the up-to-date counterfeiter, this had
obviously been a safe and doubtless busy little retreat where Uncle
Sam's banknotes were reproduced--without the sanction of Uncle Sam!
Perhaps it was Blotz, the former owner, whose ingenuity was responsible
for that three-planked door! "Who killed Blotz?" Had Daddy Ratzler been
a partner in that enterprise too--only to abandon it later on for
something perhaps more lucrative and less risky, though he had been
assiduously careful not to abandon the house itself? And no wonder! This
hidden chamber could serve many an ugly purpose dear to Daddy Ratzler's
heart that was far removed from the original one for which it had been
constructed--and had probably been made to do so, too!

Jimmie Dale moved forward again.

The bedroom, if it could be so called, now occupied his attention. There
had been no attempt at seclusion, no effort made to divide it off from
the rest of the chamber, even to the extent of a hanging of any sort.
And here his flashlight, circling around, disclosed the mouthpiece of
the speaking tube protruding from the side wall that was the nearer to
the house; it played over the unmade bed, whose blankets of an excellent
quality had been flung back over the footboard; it picked out a rug of
rather good quality that covered this section of the cement floor, and,
near the table, a most inviting easy chair.

Jimmie Dale's dark eyes were somber now, reflective. If there was not
luxury, whoever frequented the place had at least an eye to his own
comfort! Who was it? Perhaps Daddy Ratzler, sometimes--which would
account for the fact that he might make many visits here unknown to the
deaf Pascal who claimed that Daddy Ratzler rarely came to the house, and
then only in his capacity of the real estate agent in charge of the
property. But was Pascal honest? And why should Daddy Ratzler ever elect
to sleep in here at all?

Who else came here--and apparently was quite _at home_ here? Those
clothes hanging on the wall pegs were not Daddy Ratzler's clothes! They
ought to prove well worth a close examination--and those bureau drawers
as well!

Jimmie Dale stepped over to the array of pegs, reached up to take down a
coat--and stood motionless with his hand poised in mid-air.

_Someone was out there in the cellar!_

And then, while a second passed, Jimmie Dale's brain raced. There must
be an opening somewhere, craftily arranged, whereby the sound of anyone
moving about in the cellar could be heard in here.... It was fortunate
that Marie had not gone all the way down into the cellar that
night....Who was it out there now?... Marie?...Not likely....Then it was
either Daddy Ratzler or the unknown to whom these clothes belonged....
And discovery here now would be disastrously premature!... What was he
to do?...There was no place to hide....Yes--just one!

He was running now, silently, swiftly back along the way he had come.
Those steps! They were open at the sides! There would be just room
enough to crouch down under them! He gained the steps, and, switching
off his flashlight, wormed his way quickly in beneath them.

The door above made no sound as it opened; but an instant later
footsteps creaked upon the treads over his head. Came then the crackle
of a match--and someone stepped down onto the cement flooring.

And now, peering out from beneath his hiding-place, Jimmie Dale could
see the shadowy figure of a man, the match flame lighting his way,
walking briskly toward the far end of the tunnel-like sub-cellar, and
carrying what was obviously, if only dimly seen, a large valise in his
free hand. The match went out. The man struck another, reached the
table, and, bending over, lighted the lamp.

And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as though his veins were suddenly
afire. The man's back was toward him, but over the man's left ear a
bandage was plainly in evidence. And then the man, stooping to pick up
the valise which he had set down beside the table when lighting the
lamp, turned his head--and this time there was no mask upon his face.

It was Beaton, Ray Thorne's valet.




CHAPTER XX

THE TWO VOICES


_Beaton_! All that was primal, a surge of passion, the urge to kill, a
blind fury, swept over Jimmie Dale. He was not conscious that he had
drawn his automatic from his pocket, but it was in his hand now. Beaton!
He not only knew at last who Ray's murderer was, but the man was now at
his mercy.

And then cold common sense and reason came. The man's life was
forfeit--but not at his hands. He, Jimmie Dale, was not a murderer too!
It was enough now for the moment that he had identified his man. That
was all he had asked for, striven for, up to now. True, his task was not
yet done. _He_ knew that Beaton was the murderer, _he_ could prove it;
but it still remained to prove it to judge and jury--and the Gray Seal
could hardly take the witness stand! Well, he had quite fully realized
that all along, hadn't he? That was the last phase of the problem which
he had always known he would have to face once he had run his quarry to
earth--and he was face to face with that last phase of the problem now.

Where passion a moment before had held him in its sway, Jimmie Dale's
brain was working now coolly, methodically, judicially--but in his eyes,
that never left the figure standing there beside the table, there was
something more deadly and remorseless than any sudden flare of
impetuous and unbridled passion could ever bring. So Beaton, in spite of
his alibi that had satisfied Detective Sergeant Waud and the police in
general--yes, and until now, one Jimmie Dale as well--was the guilty
man!

Where was the flaw in that alibi that had escaped detection? His mind
searched back for an instant over Beaton's statements to the police--and
almost instantly dismissed the question from his mind. That did not
matter for the time being; nor did it matter at this moment how or in
what manner the proof of guilt would be forthcoming. He knew now who the
man with the clipped ear was; and, with that knowledge in his
possession, Beaton would never escape. He had promised Ray that he would
"get" the murderer; he had promised himself that the Gray Seal should be
proven innocent of Ray's death--and both of those promises would be
kept. There would be a way, and he would find it. What mattered now at
this moment, and from now on until that way was found, was that Beaton
should not take alarm--and it would, for instance, be exceedingly
unfortunate if Beaton discovered that the existence of this secret
cellar was not only known, but that he was being watched at this precise
moment by someone beneath these steps here!

Jimmie Dale smiled coldly. Quite so! But there was, however, nothing to
fear on that score; for, quite apart from the protection afforded by the
steps, the steps themselves were in almost total darkness since the rays
diffused by the lamp did not reach more than halfway to them.

Jimmie Dale's smile became whimsical. It was almost like watching the
lighted screen of a moving picture from the darkened body of the
house--only with decidedly less comfort! Beaton had placed his valise on
the table and had opened it. He took out from it now a bottle of whisky.
From the washstand he procured a glass, and, pouring out a stiff
portion, tossed the liquor down raw. Then he set the glass and bottle on
the table and walked over to the speaking tube.

"Hello, Daddy!" he called. "You there?"

Apparently receiving no reply, he flung himself into the easy chair,
which he pulled up within reach of the table--and helped himself again
to the bottle.

Beaton--and Daddy Ratzler! The two voices! Jimmie Dale nodded to himself
in grim understanding. From the moment the Tocsin had mentioned her
discovery of the speaking tube, it had seemed at least a fair
inference--unless, as she had suggested, it was Silky Hines or some
other one of the gang whom Daddy Ratzler had visited here that
night--that it was Daddy Ratzler himself who was the Judas and who was
playing fast and loose with his own followers. And now with the
appearance on the scene of Beaton, the actual "plum-picker" himself,
that inference had become fact, undeniable, obvious. There was, however,
ordinarily speaking, nothing amazing in that. Daddy Ratzler was quite
capable of it--or of anything else however foul that would feather his
nest--providing he was confident that his own skin was safe. But with
Beaton! Beaton was still but a young man, certainly not more than
thirty. How far back, and where and how in his criminal career, had
Daddy Ratzler picked Beaton up? Daddy Ratzler was playing the most
dangerous game known to the underworld; and, furthermore, he was playing
it in this case, not merely against a few local crooks who had put blind
and misguided trust in his leadership, but apparently against a
powerful and widespread organization--whose tentacles reached to Europe.
His life would go out like a snuffed candle if he were caught. He would
have to be very sure indeed of the man with whom he entered into a
partnership of this kind! And he had entered into it with Beaton!

Beaton! Jimmie Dale studied the man, as the one-time valet sat there now
in the easy chair. He had known Beaton, of course, as one knows a
friend's valet, from the time the fellow had entered Ray Thorne's
service--but he had never been _interested_ in Beaton until now! Beaton
had black hair, of course--the Ferret had been quite right about
that--but otherwise the Beaton of to-night was not the Beaton who so
often had bowed him, Jimmie Dale, into Ray Thorne's home. The man was no
longer the polite and gracious servant; and, no longer playing that
part, the mask of respectability had dropped from his face and he
was--himself. It was a crafty, cynical, vicious face that loomed up in
the lamplight now out of that chair. The man must have been a master of
facial control to have smiled his way about so disarmingly while in Ray
Thorne's employ. Possibly that accounted for Daddy Ratzler's choice!
Daddy Ratzler, through long years of evil-doing, was a competent judge
of evil men!

The minutes passed. At intervals Beaton had recourse to the bottle, and
at intervals got up and went to the speaking tube; but it was not until
the expiration of fully half an hour, so far as Jimmie Dale was able to
judge the passage of time, before there was any response from the other
end of the tube.

The conversation was not prolonged.

"Hurry up and come down here, Daddy!" said Beaton impatiently--and flung
himself back into his chair again.

Jimmie Dale, with infinite caution, shifted his position so far as the
restricted space would permit. To remain half-stooped, half-crouched
beneath these steps here for any extended period of time was not without
its drawbacks, and his cramped muscles were beginning to protest
vigorously against the unusual treatment to which they were being
subjected. But, at that, he told himself philosophically, they would
probably be worse before they were better! And there were untold
compensations! Here was Daddy Ratzler now! His footsteps, hurrying, were
sounding out there in the cellar. Daddy Ratzler hadn't lost any time. He
appeared to be as impatient to join Beaton as Beaton was to have him.

There was no sound as the secret door opened and closed, just the sudden
creaking of the steps above Jimmie Dale's head--and a minute later Daddy
Ratzler, a little breathless from his haste, was facing Beaton across
the table.

"Was he there?" Daddy Ratzler demanded excitedly. "Did you get it?"

Beaton lurched up from his chair, an evil grin on his face.

"Sure!" he said. "Sure, I got it--_and so did he_!"

"Ha!" exclaimed Daddy Ratzler sharply. "Well, you will tell me all that
in a minute. Let me see the stuff. My God, we've risked enough for it!
Let me see it!"

Beaton reached into the valise and produced a large package,
paper-wrapped, and tied with strong cord.

"I had a look at it," he said. "He must have done some slick work to
have got it all through the customs at Quebec or Montreal, or wherever
it was he landed and pulled the stunt. I've got to hand it to him for
that. I suppose he lumped it all together into this parcel after he got
ashore."

Daddy Ratzler's fingers were eagerly, avariciously at work on the
package.

"The customs!" he sniffed. "Bah! They hadn't a chance with the Spider!
He had shore lines out everywhere in Canada, and he's been putting it
over long before a lot of those birds wore pants! He used to work for
the big London ring until Frenchy Jacob got him to come in with us--this
time. That's why we kept holding off and not sending anything across for
the last few months, isn't it?--waiting for him to do the trick, and
letting the stuff pile up. That's why this is the biggest shipment we
ever made, isn't it? There wasn't anyone could touch the Spider at this
game--millions in duties, to say nothing of the pinched swag--he's had
the Secret Service trying to spot him for years, but they didn't have a
look-in with him because one rule he never broke was never to come over
the American line himself. He hasn't put his foot in the United States
for twenty years!"

"Well, he won't bother any of the watchdogs on either side of the border
any more--but we should worry!" observed Beaton callously.

Daddy Ratzler did not appear to hear the remark. He was too intent on
opening the package. And now his hands were trembling, and a hectic
flush was coloring his deep-sunken cheeks, as a number of small packages
were produced from the large one.

Jimmie Dale could not see as well as he would have liked, but he could
see well enough to realize what was going on. The valise had been set
down on the floor, and little strips of cotton wadding were now being
unrolled and spread out on the top of the table. And now this snowy bed,
even under nothing stronger than lamplight, began to sparkle, and to
become alive with innumerable little scintillating flashes. Diamonds!
Unset stones! A great quantity of them! Yes, it was quite true, the
smuggling of stones from Europe had become a very painful thorn in the
side of the United States government--and these had not only been
smuggled, but a good many of them, most of them probably, had doubtless
been stolen, and then bought for the account of the "ring" from the
swarming thieves on the continent by the fences of Paris, Vienna, Rome,
and God knew where else! How many lives had they cost? This pair of
nauseous rats, traitors even to their own kind, had themselves accounted
for two!

Daddy Ratzler's eyes were burning in their hollow sockets, as, his
fingers shaking with greed, he lifted up now one stone and now another
for closer inspection.

"Yes, yes!" he gloated. "It was worth the risk! To hell with Frenchy
Jacob and all the rest of them! And how would they ever know anyhow? We
were too clever for them, eh, you and old Daddy Ratzler? Little
beauties! Big beauties! They're worth half a million here if they're
sold right. Half a million! Half a----" He leaned abruptly across the
table toward Beaton. The avarice in his face had given place to sudden
suspicion. His voice rasped and croaked. "Are you holding any out on
me?" he demanded. "Are they _all_ here?"

Beaton poured a drink from the bottle--and leered at Daddy Ratzler over
the glass.

"And his own son, too!" he mourned plaintively, "Think of that!"

"Bah!" snarled Daddy Ratzler.

"Bah, yourself!" retorted Beaton in a sweep of rage as he gulped down
his liquor. "You may be my father, but you're so near your dotage that
you're getting to be nothing but a damned old fool! If I'd been playing
that game, I could have pinched the lot and flown the coop, couldn't I?
And what would you have done? Advertised in the papers for the son you
never owned? Want to search my pockets?"

A frightened look crept into Daddy Ratzler's face.

"No, no!" he protested placatingly. "We won't quarrel. You're a good
boy, Harry. You always were. And haven't I always taken good care of
you? I could see you were smart when you were only a kid--smart enough
so that later on you and me'd pull a lot of things together. And we've
made a lot out of no one knowing you were my son. A lot of things,
Harry, like"--his fingers trembled over the spoils on the table--"like
this."

"Yes," grimaced Beaton maliciously, "and like me feeding arsenic to
Blotz until he died so's you'd get this dump out here all for yourself.
And like us taking Big Heinie for a ride right here in this little old
hole, and afterwards burying what was left of him under the cement down
there in the corner because we found out he was the bird that had got
wise to the Blotz killing and was asking for five grand to be left under
some doorstep somewhere to keep his mouth shut. He got his five grand,
and he kept his mouth shut all right--and we got the five grand back!
Yes, I'll say we've pulled a few together, and that you've taken good
care of me, and that I've been well brought up, but maybe it's just as
well that the mother died out there in--where did you tell me once it
was?--Mexico?--when I was born!"

Daddy Ratzler's tongue was circling his lips, and he was looking
furtively around him now.

"Heinie!" his voice rose in a jerky squeak. "Heinie's dead years ago.
What are you bringing him into this for? What are you trying to do to
me?"

"Make you sweat for what you said to me a minute ago, you old skate!"
said Beaton viciously. "Age is telling on your nerve--father mine!
Heinie isn't the only one under the cement here. We ought to get some of
those cracks filled up."

"Damn you," screamed Daddy Ratzler, "hold your tongue!" And then
abjectly: "I didn't mean what I said, Harry. That's a good boy! I know
you wouldn't do----"

"Have a drink!" invited Beaton caustically--and pushed the bottle toward
Daddy Ratzler.

Father and son! Jimmie Dale's face was set and hard as he watched Daddy
Ratzler reach eagerly for the bottle. Daddy Ratzler had kept his secret
well! The underworld had had no inkling that Daddy Ratzler had bred, if
that were possible, a greater monster than himself! So this accounted
for the unholy alliance between the two! It was not pleasant--that
reference to Blotz and Heinie! With Ray and the Spider of last night the
known murder score now stood at four. How many more were there to be
added for the years during which this inhuman pair had worked together?

Beaton was speaking again.

"Forget all that, and let's size up the lay," he said almost amiably.
"We've got the goods. What about peddling out some of the sparklers and
turning them into cash?"

But now Daddy Ratzler seemed to have recovered his nerve, for he shook
his head decidedly.

"Not yet," he said. "It'd be too dangerous till we see how the break
goes. Some of 'em will be coming over from Paris, and Silky Hines is no
fool, and if there's a lot of loose stones showing up they'll have
something to work on. And then there's the Spider. What about him?"

"I've told you, haven't I? I bumped him off. I went up there the next
day, but I didn't do anything that night because I couldn't find a boat
that would fill the bill. I didn't dare hire one. Get me? I had to pinch
one."

"Sure!" Daddy Ratzler was fingering the stones again. "Sure--that's
right."

"Well, the next night--that's last night--there was a hell of a storm;
but I got a boat and showed the light, and the Spider showed one from
the shore. I ran the boat in, the Spider came to meet me with his
lantern and that package in his hand, and"--an ugly grin spread over
Beaton's face--"having a filial duty to perform I gave him the spot. He
didn't know who I was, but I couldn't let him live and tell the gang
that, getting nervous after hanging around there a week with half a
million whities on him and no one showing up, and not daring to write
because he knew the tip had gone out that the post office was taking a
peek at all of Daddy Ratzler's mail before it was delivered, he
telephoned long-distance to Daddy Ratzler, and told Daddy Ratzler where
and how to meet him, same as had been originally planned--only Daddy
Ratzler kept that telephone call a deep, dark secret, and pinched the
swag for himself. No, the Spider'll never give that away, 'cause he's
where they don't talk now; and neither Silky Hines nor none of the rest
of them will ever know. So, you see, there's nothing to worry about on
that lay."

But again Daddy Ratzler shook his head.

"That end of it's all right, and the way we figured," he said. "But
there's something else. The police'll find the Spider. Maybe they'll
identify the body. If they do, Silky Hines and the crowd on the other
side'll know that somebody's _got_ the stones away from him--and the
ring's big enough to put the screws on every fence from here to
California."

Beaton scowled, and then he nodded.

"You're coming back, Daddy!" he admitted. "Well, what's the answer? You
never said anything about this when you sent me chasing up there."

"Time enough when we got the stones!" grunted Daddy Ratzler. "We've got
'em now. I never thought we would when that damned Gray Seal got away
with the blue envelope. I knew, and so did Silky Hines, that the Spider
would have to take the risk of getting into communication with us
somehow sooner or later, but I wasn't banking on getting a lone break,
and being able to slip that telephone message over to you the way I did.
But now we've got the goods, we'll play our hand. If the Spider isn't
identified, we can start cashing in a few--but not around here. Out
West. That'll be your job. If they get wise to the Spider, the stones
will be safer than in a deposit vault down here, and we'll hang onto
them until I size up what the boys are going to do. You leave that to
me, Harry, my boy--Daddy Ratzler'll be in on the conferences and'll be
raising hell with the rest of them."

Beaton was rocking slightly on his feet.

"Oh, all right!" he said. "Have another drink!"

"No," said Daddy Ratzler tersely. "And you let it alone yourself. You've
had enough. There's something else we've got to think about."

"I can think better when I've got half a skinful," said Beaton, and
helped himself again--liberally. "What is it?"

Daddy Ratzler's voice was suddenly a half snarl, half whine.

"The Gray Seal," he said.

"Well, what about him?" demanded Beaton. "That envelope he handed you
was either a fake, or else something was wrong with the ink to begin
with; but in either case it didn't get him anywhere. What are you
worrying about?"

Daddy Ratzler moistened his lips with his tongue.

"About the Gray Seal, I tell you!" he reiterated with fierce, nervous
insistence. "It doesn't matter whether the envelope was a fake or not,
we're not through with him. He'll show up again. He knows I'm after
something big, and he'll never let go. He never has yet. I'm afraid, if
you want the truth. Nobody ever found out how he got next to things--and
he got next to hundreds of them. He's in league with hell itself--do you
understand that? How did he find out about that envelope in Thorne's
safe? How did he find out that I had anything to do with it? That's what
we're up against!"

Beaton's fingers crept to the bottle's neck.

"You mean," he inquired a little thickly, "you're afraid he'll come
around to make another friendly call to find out how you're getting on
with the blue envelope stuff, or maybe that he'll find out you've
annexed the big haul yourself?"

"Yes!"

"Well, I--hic--hope he does!" stated Beaton complacently.

"You leave that stuff alone!" snarled Daddy Ratzler. "You're talking
like a fool!"

"Is that so?" drawled Beaton. "Are you going to keep on staying out
here?"

Daddy Ratzler stared.

"What's that got to do with----"

"You answer my question," Beaton cut in with another hiccough. "What're
your plans?"

Daddy Ratzler hesitated an instant, eyeing Beaton and the bottle
angrily.

"No; I'm not going to stay out here after to-night," he snapped. "I
wouldn't have come back at all after I'd once got out of bed, except
that I expected you either last night or to-night. I came out here when
I was sick because I didn't want to take any chances on the Gray Seal
knowing where I was. And that's another thing he found out! So far as
that is concerned now it doesn't matter whether I'm here or in New
York."

"What's the big idea for making the move, then?"

Daddy Ratzler's face was crafty again.

"If the Spider's identified," he said, "things'll start humming in New
York, and I've got to be there every minute to see that Silky Hines and
the boys don't get any wrong ideas into their heads. And, besides,
there's Pascal. Pascal's deaf--and dumb mentally. That's why he's here.
He thinks it was only a burglar the other night when the Gray Seal broke
in, and that's all right; but there's been too much going on around
this house lately. He's never had a suspicion that everything wasn't
straight out here, and I can't afford to let him get one into his nut
now. Pascals are hard to find. Everybody around here has known Pascal
for years--Pascal makes the place _safe_."

"Sounds reasonable," commented Beaton. "So you're going back to New York
for keeps to-morrow, and you're figuring to wake up some night with the
Gray Seal sticking his gun in your ribs. Is that--hic!--the idea? Sure,
it is! And he'll ask nice and polite for his share. Well, the answer's
easy; no use--hic!--having trouble with him. We'll give him his share,
that's all."

"_What!_" Daddy snatched at the bottle, but Beaton forestalled him.

"That's all right," said Beaton with a hard grin. "Here's to you! One
more! Didn't I tell you hootch always made me think better? Sure,
we'll--hic!--give it to him--all that's coming to him. Now, you listen
to me!" Beaton's voice sharpened suddenly. "I know all about the Gray
Seal. I know he'll show up again before long as well as you do. But he's
just a crook--see? Out for what he can get! Well, he'll get it! Maybe
he's found out about last night, but I don't think so. Anyway, when he's
got his gun on you, fall for his threats. You've always--hic!--been a
slick actor. Let him wheedle the whole story about the blue envelope out
of you, and how you double-crossed your bosom pals, and that you've got
the goods out here. See? Then bring him out here for the--divide! He'll
come. He started it himself. He won't smell any trap. Bring him down
_here_."

A sudden sound like an ugly cackle issued from Daddy Ratzler's lips. He
began to rub his hands together again.

"Like Heinie!" he whispered. "You're a good boy, Harry! You're a good
boy! Drink all you like!"

"Damn him!" exploded Beaton in a burst of rage. "I owe him one myself
for that night at the Two Oaks. Yes, like Heinie! He'll
never--hic!--leave here alive. I'll sleep out here for a while. I'll be
here every night after ten o'clock. You bring him along!"

"Yes!" The breath hissed out of Daddy Ratzler. "Yes! God, and I was
afraid of him! _Yes_!"

"And another thing!" said Beaton, his lips parted over set teeth. "Don't
have anybody hanging around you any more at night to queer the game.
Make it--hic!--easy for him! Get rid of that old hag--what'd you call
her?--Mother Margot?--that you've got out here. You're not sick now, and
you don't need a nurse any more. That's a good enough excuse."

"I was going to anyhow"--Daddy Ratzler nodded his head in vigorous
agreement--"on account of Silky Hines or some of the boys being likely
to keep blowing into the office, or of me telephoning a lot. I wasn't
going to have her there, and I don't want her here. A few dollars and a
lot of promises'll satisfy her. You can leave that to me. She's out from
to-morrow morning."

Beaton held the bottle up to the lamplight.

"It's damned near gone," he grumbled. "I can't think any more. Put those
sparklers away where the--hic!--moths won't get at them, and beat it
upstairs. I'm going to sleep here, and I want to get to bed. Had a hard
night"--he finished the bottle--"hic!--and a hard day."

"I don't know what night he'll come," said Daddy Ratzler in sudden
anxiety, as he began to roll up and replace the strips of cotton wadding
in the original package. "So how are you going to know? And what's the
plan?"

Beaton was beginning to undress.

"I'll hear you coming out there in the cellar," he yawned. "You leave
the rest to me. He'll never get further than just inside the door
here--hic!--alive!"

Jimmie Dale was aching in every limb and muscle, but he made no movement
other than to compress his lips more tightly together. He was intent now
on watching Daddy Ratzler. Daddy Ratzler with the package in his hand
was pulling at one of the bureau drawers--but instead of the drawer
being opened, the entire front of the bureau swung outward, disclosing a
large metal-lined compartment that appeared to be already filled almost
to repletion--but what its contents were, he could not tell at that
distance, though he had little doubt that they were as ill-gotten as the
package that Daddy Ratzler now added to the rest.

Daddy Ratzler was chuckling gleefully as he closed the front of the
bureau again.

"You're a good boy, Harry!" he smirked. "A good boy! God, I ain't scared
any more!"

Beaton had already flung himself on the bed.

"All right!" he grunted. "Blow out the lamp, and beat it!"

"Yes!" chortled Daddy Ratzler happily. "Yes! Good-night."

The place was in darkness. The treads above Jimmie Dale's head
creaked--and then Daddy Ratzler's footsteps died away across the cellar.

Jimmie Dale smiled queerly. It was not every man who was privileged to
hear his own murder planned! A rush of emotions surged over him. He was
conscious of a sense of revolting unreality, of abhorrence, of mental
nausea, of a foul taste that was in his mouth, of contamination. Flesh
and blood! Father and son! Not men! Ghouls!

Stertorous breathing--a snore--sounded from the direction of the bed.
Beaton was fast falling into heavy, drunken slumber.

Jimmie Dale began to flex his muscles--and winced with pain.

A minute, two, went by--and then Beaton, snoring loudly, was alone. And
presently a shadow, that was Jimmie Dale, crept past Daddy Ratzler's
closed and shuttered window and along the veranda to a wide-open,
unlighted window beyond.

"Marie!" he breathed.

"I'm here, Jimmie," she whispered back. "Be careful! Daddy Ratzler has
just come upstairs, and he hasn't gone to bed yet."

"I know it," Jimmie Dale answered. "I ache. I've only just crawled out
from under the steps of that murder hole."

"Oh!" she said. "I wondered where you were, because I couldn't think of
any place in there to hide. I was frightened when I heard Daddy Ratzler
going down into the cellar. I went into his room and listened through
the tube. I heard nearly everything that was said, and it was horrible;
but I soon knew, of course, that, wherever you were, you were all right,
and hadn't been seen. Oh, it was horrible," she repeated; "but I was so
glad, so very, very glad to know that old Pascal wasn't one of them.
Jimmie"--her whisper was suddenly tense--"who was that beast down there
with Daddy Ratzler? I know from what was said that he is Daddy
Ratzler's son, and that he must be the man who murdered Ray; but do you
know _who_ he is?"

"Beaton!" said Jimmie Dale grimly.

"_Jimmie_!" Her hand reached out over the sill and clutched at Jimmie
Dale's arm. "Ray's valet!"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"Still down there. Asleep--and half drunk."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing--yet. We know he killed Ray; but Mother Margot and the Gray
Seal can't testify! I've got to get some other kind of evidence than
that!"

"How?"

"I don't know. Somehow! I only know that he'll never escape now--and
neither will Daddy Ratzler! And now, listen, Marie! You heard Daddy
Ratzler say that he was going to let you go to-morrow?"

"Yes."

"Well, when you say good-bye to Daddy Ratzler to-morrow, say good-bye to
Mother Margot, too. That is what I particularly wanted to say to you.
With your association with Daddy Ratzler severed, your work is finished.
I don't know what the break is going to be, or what the final round is
going to be like; but I want to know that whatever happens you are safe
and completely out of the picture. Do you understand, Marie?"

"Y-yes," she said a little dubiously.

"All right! Go back to that hotel of yours and be 'Agnes Watkins' for
the next few days. We can see each other all we like there, and we can
arrange for Marie LaSalle's 'return' to New York whenever it seems
advisable. You promise, dear?"

"Yes," she said, after another instant's hesitation. "If you think it's
best--I promise."

The whispers died away--but for a little while the shadow that was
Jimmie Dale still lingered there at the window. And then a whisper
again:

"Till to-morrow, Marie. Good-night, dear."

And five minutes later, Jimmie Dale, at the wheel of his car, was
speeding back toward New York.

He drove fast. His eyes were on the road--but his mind was far afield.
The proof of Beaton's guilt! The evidence that would convict the man of
Ray's murder! How? He shook his head. The Tocsin had asked that same
question. He had not known the answer then. He did not know now.

Half an hour passed, and then suddenly Jimmie Dale spoke aloud.

"Carruthers!" he exclaimed--and began to laugh softly. "Carruthers--and
the Gray Seal! Yes! And rather rich, too!"

He looked at his watch. It had seemed as though half the night were
gone, but it was still only half-past ten. Of course! He had reached
Daddy Ratzler's house just after dark. Carruthers would almost certainly
be at the newspaper office for some time yet.

The speed of the car increased. There was only one man in the world
whose word he would dare trust under like circumstances. Carruthers! If
Carruthers gave his word, Carruthers would keep it to the letter. And
Carruthers _would_ give it. Carruthers would do anything to bring the
murderer of Ray Thorne to book.

"Yes!" said Jimmie Dale grimly. "That's the answer! The last round--with
Carruthers as referee!"

Jimmie Dale was eating up the miles now, and it still lacked a few
minutes to eleven when he entered a telephone booth at the Grand Central
station, and, calling the office of the _Morning News-Argus_, asked for
Mr. Carruthers.

A moment's wait, and then Carruthers' voice came over the wire.

"Yes?" demanded Carruthers briskly. "What is it?"

"Is dat Mr. Carruthers?" inquired Jimmie Dale.

"Yes! Who's speaking?"

"Dis is Larry de Bat," said Jimmie Dale. "De Gray Seal."

"_Who_?"

"Aw, can dat fancy surprise stuff!" said Larry the Bat wearily. "I'm
tellin' youse, ain't I, dat it's de Gray Seal? Dis ain't de first time
dat I've slipped youse something juicy over de phone. Youse've made some
dirty cracks about me, but I don't hold dat up against youse partic'lar
'cause some of de other papers has tried to be just as dirty, an'----"

Jimmie Dale stuck his tongue in his cheek--Carruthers was indulging in a
flood of unprintable language.

"Dat's O.K. wid me," interposed Larry the Bat soothingly. "Get it all
off yer chest at once!"

"Well, what do you want this time?" demanded Carruthers savagely.

"Me?" purred Larry the Bat. "I don't want nothin'. I was only tryin' to
slip youse somethin'. I heard youse was a pal of Ray Thorne, an' dat
youse'd like to get de guy dat bumped him off."

An inarticulate sound, as of one in the throes of strangulation, reached
Jimmie Dale from the other end of the wire.

"I didn't get dat," complained Larry the Bat. "Wot did youse say?"

"I said," stuttered Carruthers in his wrath, "that's why I'd give every
cent I'm worth to get my hands on _you_!"

"Well, youse can do it--an' it won't cost youse a nickel," grinned Larry
the Bat. "How about to-morrow night? D'youse think yer office boy would
let youse off fer a few hours?"

"For the second time, what do you want?" barked Carruthers.

"Say, listen!" Larry the Bat's voice was suddenly earnest. "I never
handed youse no bum steer when I called youse up before, did I?"

"N-no," admitted Carruthers grudgingly.

"Well, I ain't handin' youse none now," stated Larry the Bat sharply.
"Mabbe I don't stand in wid de clergy or de police, but I got me pride.
See? I don't pull dat sort of stuff. It wasn't me dat took dat Thorne
guy fer a ride, an' I'm sore on de bird dat's planted it on me. See?
Well, I got after him, dat's all. I know who he is. An' if youse wants
him, I'll hand him over to youse wid de goods on him to-morrow night.
Wot d'youse say?"

"Where?" inquired Carruthers tersely.

"Nix on dat!" said Larry the Bat curtly. "Youse'll say yes or no. An'
youse'll come alone--get me?"

"And suppose I agree," said Carruthers after a moment's silence, "and
bring the police with me to get--_you_?"

"It's fifty-fifty," retorted Larry the Bat. "If youse tries any funny
business dere won't be nothin' doin, dat's all."

Again a silence, and then Carruthers' voice rasped:

"You'll take my word?"

"Sure! I ain't asked youse fer nothin' else, has I?"

"A high compliment! Thank you!"

"Dat's all right!" said Larry the Bat graciously. "But wot d'youse say?"

Again still another silence, and then deliberately:

"I understand that you will point out the man who murdered Ray Thorne?"

"Naw!" snorted Larry the Bat in disgust. "I didn't say nothin' like dat
at all. I said I'd make youse a present of him--wid de goods on him."

"My God!" ejaculated Carruthers heavily. "Is this straight?"

"It ain't de first scoop youse have got from me, is it?" inquired Larry
the Bat querulously. "I asks youse again, did I ever hand youse a bum
steer?"

"No," said Carruthers. "All right! I agree! You said to-morrow night. I
take it, I'm to meet you some place?"

"Youse only needs one guess!" said Larry the Bat. "Dat's de idea.
D'youse remember de time I called youse over de phone about a gazabo dat
was tryin' to bust into de social columns of de papers wid a fake
necklace dat he'd bought fer his wife?"

"You mean----"

"I mean de gazabo wid de fake necklace," cut in Larry the Bat sharply.
"We ain't mentionin' no names ner places in public over de phone. De
gazabo wot got tied to one of his own trees in his pajamas."

"Yes; I remember," said Carruthers crisply. "But I also remember that on
that occasion your voice was--er--quite a lot more cultured and
distinctly different from your voice to-night."

"I've grown older since den, an' me voice has changed," sniffed Larry
the Bat. "Ferget it! Youse knows where de guy I'm talkin' about lived,
don't youse?"

"Yes."

"Well, dat goes! Youse drives out dere in yer car to-morrow night, an'
youse parks yer bus anywhere youse likes near de gates, an' den youse
walks back along de road until youse gets de high sign. An' de time is
nine o'clock. Prompt! See?"

"Look here," said Carruthers, "there's someone just as much interested
in this as I am, and someone that I'll vouch for will play the game with
you. I'd like to bring him along."

"Who's dat?" asked Larry the Bat suspiciously.

"A closer friend of Ray Thorne's than ever I was. His name is Jimmie
Dale."

"T'hell wid him!" snapped Larry the Bat. "Youse comes alone, or youse
don't come at all."

"Would you suggest," Carruthers laughed a little unpleasantly, "that I
also made my will?"

"Youse can do wot youse damned likes!" snarled Larry the Bat. "If
youse've got cold feet, get a hot-water bottle!"

"I will be there," said Carruthers coldly.

"At nine o'clock!"

"At nine o'clock."

"Alone!"

"Alone."

"Good-night!" said Larry the Bat.

"Good-night!" said Carruthers.




CHAPTER XXI

THE TRAP


It was three minutes to nine. The only car that had passed in the last
little while had, as disclosed by the tail light, borne Carruthers'
license plate. And now the road was deserted, save for a single and
somewhat shadowy figure in the darkness, who, though he walked briskly,
kept turning his head constantly from side to side.

Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat, stepped suddenly out from the shelter of
the trees that bordered the main road at the edge of the wagon track,
and accosted the solitary pedestrian.

"I ain't askin' youse to shake hands," he said blandly, "'cause youse
might get leprosy; but I'm pleased to meet yer, Mr. Carruthers."

Carruthers came to an abrupt halt.

"Perhaps it is just as well!" he retorted caustically. He leaned forward
and peered into Larry the Bat's face. "I suppose you _are_ the Gray
Seal, as you call yourself?" he questioned sharply.

"Sure! Dat's me! De Gray Seal an' Larry de Bat all in one. But,
say"--Larry the Bat's voice roughened--"we ain't here to hold no open
air meetin'! If youse wants to do any gassin' come on in here under de
trees. An' spill it quick, 'cause we got to get movin' pretty soon."

"Yes," said Carruthers evenly, as he followed Jimmie Dale a few yards in
along the wagon track, "I certainly do propose to do a little gassing,
as you put it, before I go any further. I'm here. I've kept my
appointment with you; and, though I am perhaps a fool, I have adhered
rigidly to the conditions you imposed, and----"

"Sure, youse have!" agreed Larry the Bat complacently. "Wot's a word
passed between gentlemen if it ain't good fer dat?"

"Gentlemen!" Carruthers choked slightly. "Look here, who in hell are you
anyhow? I mentioned the matter of your voice last night, and I----"

"Mabbe de Gray Seal ain't always Larry de Bat; but dat ain't none of yer
business!" snapped Larry the Bat. "Youse didn't come out to write me
biography, did youse? Youse can do dat fer de other guy dat youse're
going to meet out here. Now, den, anythin' more before we steps along?"

"Where are we going?"

"Into a house a little way down de line here."

"Is this man there--the man you said was the one who killed Mr. Thorne?"

"No; not yet, he ain't," said Larry the Bat tersely. "But he will be. De
idea is dat we'll be waitin' fer him."

"Who is he? You said you knew. What's his name?"

"Youse can bet yer life I knows!" stated Larry the Bat with finality.
"He's a guy dat uster work fer Thorne by de name of Beaton."

"Beaton!" Carruthers' voice was loud with incredulity.

"Don't yell!" snarled Larry the Bat. "Youse don't have to tell all de
world about it yet--save some of it fer one of dem newspaper scoops of
yers!"

"But this is impossible!" exclaimed Carruthers. "It couldn't have been
Beaton. Thorne was murdered before Beaton entered the house. Beaton had
an alibi that thoroughly satisfied the police."

"I don't know nothin' about how good de alibi was," said Larry the Bat
contemptuously; "but I knows dat Beaton handed Thorne de spot wid a rod
dat had a silencer on it dat I slipped over to de police de other day."

"Yes, I heard about that!" There was a new and tense note of interest in
Carruthers' voice. "You say that gun belonged to Beaton?"

"Dat's wot!"

"Where did you get it?"

"Listen to de star reporter interviewin' de Gray Seal!" murmured Larry
the Bat.

"Well, then, why did you send it to the police?"

"An' he ain't so bright, at dat!" observed Larry the Bat pityingly.
"Say, I had ter find out, didn't I, if dat was de cannon dat fired de
fatal slug?"

"And you found out that it was?"

"Sure! De cops wrote me a nice long letter about it!"

"Well, I happen to know that it was, too," said Carruthers meditatively;
"and if you're telling the truth, if that revolver really was Beaton's,
then----"

"Say," interrupted Larry the Bat irritably, "did I ask youse to take me
say-so fer anythin'? Didn't I tell youse dat I'd hand de bird over to
youse wid de goods on him?"

"You'll forgive me," said Carruthers a little sarcastically, "if I am
still slightly skeptical. The circumstances are somewhat unusual, and
your reputation, if you don't mind my saying so, is a bit spotty. Do
you mean to say you can prove that Beaton killed Ray Thorne?"

"Yes--to youse!" asserted Larry the Bat curtly. "An' youse can do de
rest! Dat's why I'm lettin' youse in on it. See? Youse're a friend of de
guy dat went fer de ride, an' I'm out fer de skunk dat made youse hire a
glass wagon, 'cause I ain't standin' fer no dirty job like dat from no
man, no matter wot youse just said about me reputation, damn youse! Get
me? It'll be up to youse. De Gray Seal'd look nice, I don't think,
sittin' in de witness chair an' all booked fer de hot seat himself while
he was handin' out de harrowin' details to de judge an' jury! See?"

"I'm beginning to get a glimmer," admitted Carruthers grimly. "I take it
I'm to occupy--the witness chair?"

"Youse've spilled a mouthful!" declared Larry the Bat. "Well, are youse
drawin' cards, or ain't youse?"

Carruthers was silent for a moment.

"Yes!" he decided abruptly. "I'm not a particularly brave man, and
something keeps telling me I'm a fool to trust you, but I'll take a
chance!"

"T'anks!" said Larry the Bat sourly. "Well, den, dere's two things
youse're goin' to do."

"What are they?" demanded Carruthers.

"De first is dat, no matter wot happens, youse don't make a move, an'
dat youse don't let a peep out of youse."

"All right!" agreed Carruthers laconically.

"All right is all right," growled Larry the Bat; "but it ain't enough.
Youse've got to get me on dis. Even if youse thinks de whole works has
gone fluey, youse're to keep yer face shut. D'youse get dat? If youse
shows yer hand, den it's all off, an' Beaton scoops de pot. Understand?
An' don't make no mistake about it! Youse leaves it to me--_no matter
wot happens_!"

"I agree," said Carruthers icily. "I suppose I have to. What else?"

"De rod youse've parked in yer pocket," requested Larry the Bat coolly.
"I'll trouble youse to hand dat over."

"The trust," said Carruthers ironically, "appears to be all on one
side!"

"Nix!" Larry the Bat's voice was almost friendly. "I ain't lettin' youse
down; but I ain't takin' any chance on youse lettin' me down
either--even if youse don't mean to. Come across!"

Carruthers hesitated--then he produced a revolver from his pocket and
handed it to Larry the Bat.

"'Where angels fear to tread!'" he muttered.

"T'anks again!" said Larry the Bat with sudden cordiality. "I'm
beginnin' to like youse--even if de feelin's ain't mutual. Now, come
on!"

He led the way down the wagon track to the front door of Daddy Ratzler's
house.

"Whose house is this?" asked Carruthers pithily.

Jimmie Dale opened the door deftly with a pick-lock.

"De only guy dat's in here," explained Larry the Bat, "is so deaf dat he
couldn't hear Niagara Falls if he was gettin' splashed by de cataract;
but dat's no reason fer us takin' any chances dat he's awake an' nosin'
around."

"Who is he?"

"His name's Pascal--I dunno his other name," answered Larry the Bat.
"But dere's somethin' else I wants to tell youse about him. He's de only
one dat's got anythin' to do wid dis dump dat's straight, an' I'll ask
youse to remember dat when de rockets goes up."

"I don't know what you mean," said Carruthers in a puzzled tone.

"No," returned Larry the Bat; "but youse will before youse're through.
Youse keep de old man out of de ditch, dat's all--'cause he ain't never
known no more about wot's been pulled out here dan youse have. An' I
guess he's asleep now all right, 'cause I don't hear nothin'. So youse
follow me."

Jimmie Dale produced a flashlight and led the way to the door at the
head of the cellar stairs--but here sudden caution descended upon him.
It was not in any degree likely, for it was still a long way from ten
o'clock, but it _was_ possible that Beaton might have already arrived.

"Youse wait here a minute," he said brusquely, "an' don't make no noise
till youse hears from me. Savvy?"

"Yes," said Carruthers.

There was no creak of stair tread, no echoing footstep as Jimmie Dale
descended the stairs and crossed the cellar, and no sound as he opened
the secret door. The interior was inky black. He listened. Nothing!

He turned, and called softly to Carruthers.

"Shut dat door behind youse, an' come on down here!" he instructed--and
a moment later, focusing his flashlight upon it, he opened and shut the
secret door several times for Carruthers' benefit.

"Good God!" ejaculated Carruthers heavily. "What's in there?"

"Once upon a time, like dey says in de story books," said Larry the Bat
with a short laugh, "dere was a guy named Blotz dat built himself dis
nice little private suite so's nobody wouldn't interrupt him while he
was helpin' de government to increase de circulation of banknotes in de
country, an'----"

"You mean a counterfeiting plant?"

"Sure! Him an' another guy named Daddy Ratzler dat's got his paws on dis
house now. Daddy Ratzler an' Beaton bumps off Blotz, an' takes a bird
called Heinie fer a ride, too. See? Dat's how de estate changed hands.
See? Beaton's de son of Daddy Ratzler, only his name ain't down in de
family Bible."

There was an ugly rasp in Carruthers' voice now.

"But this is abominable!" he cried out.

"Sure!" assented Larry the Bat heartily. "Youse've said it! It ain't got
nothin' to do wid yer pal Thorne, but I thought youse'd like to know de
kind of bird youse was up against. An' maybe now youse're beginnin' to
tumble to de fact dat I'm handin' youse de straight goods."

"I haven't any more doubt of it!" Carruthers' tones were hard and crisp.
"Well, what's the next move?"

Jimmie Dale pointed the way through the opening with his flashlight.

"Go on down in dere," answered Larry the Bat; and then, with a sudden,
inward chuckle, as Carruthers stepped forward: "Youse'll get better
acquainted wid dem steps before youse're through, but look out youse
don't bust yer neck on dem now!"

"They're all right," affirmed Carruthers.

"Sure, dey are!" concurred Larry the Bat pleasantly, as, closing the
door behind him, he followed Carruthers down the steps. "Youse won't be
seen once youse crawls in under dem."

"Under them?"

"Dat's de idea! Now take a look around de place while I gives it de
once-over fer youse wid de flashlight. It's a nice little dump, ain't
it? Well, de minute youse hears anyone out dere in de cellar, youse
ducks under de steps here. See? An' don't youse make a sound no matter
even if youse thinks de whole works is blown up. All youse've got to do
is listen--an' mabbe youse'll get an earful. I'll be up dere at de other
end havin' a spiel wid Beaton. D'youse get dat?"

"Yes," said Carruthers. "I get your idea; but I'm free to say I am a
little doubtful as to the result. The man isn't going to be fool enough
to admit that he killed Mr. Thorne, is he?"

"Well," submitted Larry the Bat philosophically, "youse never can tell!
Mabbe yes, an' mabbe no. But I got a hunch he'll come clean if youse
don't mess it up an' make a fool of _yerself_ by buttin' in!"

"You need not give yourself any concern on that score!" retorted
Carruthers with some asperity. "I quite understand what _I_ have to do!"

"All right, den!" said Larry the Bat. "Mabbe he'll be here in a little
while, an' mabbe it'll be a lot longer; but we don't do no more yappin'.
An' youse be careful when youse crawls in under dem steps dat youse
don't make no noise! All right?"

"Yes!" said Carruthers briefly.




CHAPTER XXII

THE FINAL ROUND


Jimmie Dale ensconced himself in the easy chair near the table at the
far end of the chamber and switched off his flashlight.

The minutes dragged along--five, ten, fifteen of them--twenty. Came then
the sound of a footstep in the cellar. Then Carruthers' whisper:

"All right! I hear him."

Another minute passed. The footfalls were on the steps now, and now they
scuffled on the cement floor; and the ray of a flashlight streamed down
the length of the almost cavern-like place disclosing table, lamp, and
easy chair--but the easy chair was empty.

And now a shadowy form showed at the edge of the table, a match
crackled, the lamp was lighted--and Jimmie Dale, from where he had taken
refuge behind the easy chair, rose suddenly to his feet.

"Hello, Beaton," he said casually, as the automatic in his hand swung to
a level with the other's eyes, "stick 'em up!"

With a sharp, startled cry, Beaton drew back, and his hand went
instinctively toward his pocket.

"I said _stick 'em up_!" repeated Larry the Bat.

A dazed look spread itself over Beaton's face.

"My God," he mumbled, as his hands went up over his head, "how did you
get in here?"

"Aw," sniffed Larry the Bat, as he felt deftly over the other's
clothing, and transferred a revolver from Beaton's pocket to his own,
"someone left de door open! Now youse can put 'em down."

Beaton's hands flopped to his sides. He circled his lips with his
tongue.

"How did you get in here?" he repeated hoarsely. "How did you know about
this place?"

"I knows a lot of things"--Larry the Bat's voice was almost
friendly--"only I ferget a lot of de answers! See? But if youse wants to
know about me gettin' in here, I'll put youse wise. I been watchin' dat
father of yers fer de last few days."

"My father!" The sweat was standing out on Beaton's forehead; he flirted
it away with a sweep of his hand.

"Sure!" asserted Larry the Bat. "Daddy Ratzler! Dat's another thing I
knows."

A bottle of whisky was on the table. Beaton reached out his hand toward
it.

"Do you mind if I take a shot?" he asked shakily.

"Help yerself!" said Larry the Bat graciously. "Youse don't seem to have
de nerve I thought youse had, an' mabbe dat'll buck youse up. I didn't
mean to throw no scare into youse. Wot I wants is to talk business an'
get down to cases."

Beaton poured a generous helping from the bottle into a glass and gulped
it down at a swallow.

"What do you want?" he coughed.

"D'youse knows who I am?" inquired Larry the Bat pleasantly.

"I've never seen you before"--Beaton wiped his lips nervously with the
back of his hand--"but from what you said about Daddy Ratzler I can
make a guess. You're the bird that was out here the other night. You're
Larry the Bat--the Gray Seal."

"Youse're a good guesser!" Larry the Bat wagged his head in assent.
"Sure, dat's me! Well, listen! I comes out here to make a deal wid Daddy
Ratzler, only some old bag he's got hangin' around puts de crimp in it.
See? But I'm still fer de deal. An' dat's wot I wants to talk to youse
about, youse bein' one of de family."

The liquor appeared somewhat to have restored Beaton's self-control.

"Well, that sounds all right to me," he said--and attempted an
encouraging smile. "Go ahead!"

Larry the Bat waved his automatic toward the bottle.

"Have another?" he invited.

"Thanks!" said Beaton--and helped himself again.

"Now, den"--Larry the Bat's voice was suddenly confidential--"I knows a
lot about dis, an' I'm puttin' me cards on de table so's youse can see
dere's no use tryin' to slip anythin' over on me. I knows dat Daddy
Ratzler was de head on dis side of de pond of one of de big rings dat's
been pinchin' sparklers, an' smugglin' 'em in, an' givin' de Secret
Service de horse laugh. An' I knows dat de last bunch of sparklers dat
was sent over is de juiciest of all, which is why youse an' Daddy
Ratzler was goin' to swipe dem fer yerselves an' double-cross de gang."

Beaton's face was white.

"How do you know that?" he stammered.

"Aw, say," said Larry the Bat patiently, "a blind man could see dat!
Listen! De Secret Service ain't so dumb as dey looks. Dey has been
wonderin' about Daddy Ratzler an' his outfit fer a long time, an' dey
starts in havin' a look at Daddy Ratzler's mail in de post office--only
Daddy Ratzler gets tipped off to wot dey're doin'. See? Well, dat puts
de line of communication on de blink, like us uster say in de war, an'
Daddy Ratzler an' de French H.Q. has to find another way. So dey picks
on a guy dat nobody ain't goin' to be suspicious of--an' dey picks on a
guy named Thorne. But de gang don't know dat Thorne's valet is Daddy
Ratzler's son--an' dat's how I knows youse two was goin' to hand de
crowd de frozen mitt. Say, youse wouldn't like to have me spill dat
little piece of infermation to Silky Hines, would youse? Youse knows
wot'd happen, don't youse? He'd take de two of youse fer a long, long
ride--an' he wouldn't keep youse waitin' fer de start, neither!"

There was a hunted look in Beaton's eyes.

"How did you find out all this?" he asked miserably.

Larry the Bat shook his head.

"Dat don't make no difference," he grinned; "an I'm tellin' youse again
to ferget dat end of it. I'm showin' youse me cards, ain't I? An' I'm
talkin' friendly 'cause dere's still a chance to pull off dat deal. I
knows a lot more. A letter was sent from Paree to Thorne, an' inside de
letter was a blue envelope dat was sealed, an' inside de blue envelope
was de dope fixed up nice an' secret about how an' when de sparklers was
to come. An' Daddy Ratzler knows how to read dat dope. An' de idea was
dat youse was to pinch de letter, an' youse an' Daddy Ratzler was to
lift de sparklers while de gang was still wonderin' why de letter didn't
come--only I beat youse to it."

Beaton's eyes narrowed suddenly.

"Yes--and bumped off Thorne in doing it!" he laughed throatily.

Larry the Bat bridled instantly.

"Dat's a lie!" he snapped. "I opened de safe an' took de blue envelope
all right, but I never saw Thorne. Y'understand? It wasn't me!"

"Well," Beaton shrugged his shoulders, "who was it, then?"

"How t'hell does I know!" exclaimed Larry the Bat viciously. "But I'll
slip youse dis! If I ever finds out, he'll get his! I'll put de skids
under him! I'll make him squawk! I ain't standin' fer no lousy murder
jobs dat I didn't do! D'youse get me! It wasn't me dat done it!"

Again Beaton laughed throatily.

"I'm not disputing you," he said hastily.

"Youse'd better not!" growled Larry the Bat threateningly. "Dat's a sore
spot wid me!" And then, his voice amicable once more: "But dis ain't
gettin' down to cases. If I can't read wot's in dat letter, it's no good
to me; an' if youse haven't got de letter _to_ read, youse're out of
luck too! Dat's a cinch, ain't it? I'm askin' youse how to read de dope
in dat letter. I'm makin' de same proposition dat I made de other night.
Dat was a fake envelope I handed Daddy Ratzler, 'cause I wasn't playin'
any chances. But I still got de joker up me sleeve, an' dat's de real
envelope wid de hidden message in dat I'm offerin' youse an' Daddy
Ratzler on a fifty-fifty swop fer whatever dere is in de pot."

A sudden look of relief, veiled the next instant by half-closed lids,
flashed in Beaton's eyes.

"You mean," he asked quickly, "that you think there's still a chance of
getting the stuff before the crowd on the other side get busy and wise
up the gang here where it is and what to do?"

"Sure!" said Larry the Bat complacently. "Dat's wot I'm talkin' about.
I got de dope an' youse haven't. Mabbe it's kind of tough on youse an'
Daddy Ratzler to have to cough up to me, but dat's yer own fault."

"What do you mean--our own fault?" Beaton was almost at his ease now.

"Well," chuckled Larry the Bat, "it looks to me dat, bein' Thorne's
valet, an' bein' in de house, an' knowin' it was comin', an' bein' able
to pick out anythin' wid French stamps on it, youse made a bum play on
yer end of it by not pinchin' de letter before Thorne got it, an' den
gettin' away wid de goods while de bunch was guessin' why it never
came."

"Look here," said Beaton with sudden heartiness, "this looks good to me.
I'll say right now that I'll come in on it with you--and so will Daddy
Ratzler. You can leave him to me, no matter what he said the other
night. He's getting old and feeble-minded, and I guess he thought you
were bluffing; but you've said enough so's I can see it's the only
chance we've got left. You're on--and that goes! And to show you that
I'm on the level, I'll put some cards on the table, too. It wasn't my
fault that Thorne ever even saw that letter--it was just damned tough
luck. I knew it was coming just about that time and I was keeping my
eyes peeled for it--the postman never made a round that I wasn't on the
job. Get that? But the afternoon that it _did_ come, Thorne was standing
there in the hall, and he held out his hand for the little bunch of
letters with that one amongst them, that the postman had just
brought--and I had to give them to him."

Larry the Bat was intensely interested--his mouth gaped a little.

"Wouldn't dat jar youse!" he ejaculated heavily.

"It did!" said Beaton, with a vicious oath. "It put everything on the
rocks! The letter that came from France with the blue envelope in it was
from a fellow named Keane who was batman for Thorne for a while in the
war; and Keane said in the letter that he'd just heard that an old pal
of his who was somewhere in New York called Peter Halstead--who was a
fake, of course, and didn't exist--was on his uppers, and that there was
a small draft in the letter which, though it wasn't much, he wanted
Halstead to have, only he didn't know Halstead's address, and that the
friend he'd met in Paris who had told him about Halstead didn't know
Halstead's address either. So he didn't know who to turn to except his,
meaning Keane's, old captain, and he asked Thorne to please put a
'personal' in his newspaper the next morning requesting Halstead to
call--and to keep the envelope in his safe until Halstead turned up."

Larry the Bat was leaning over the table now and was apparently so
absorbed in Beaton's recital that, though he still retained his
automatic in his hand, it no longer covered the other.

"I get youse!" he said--and nodded admiringly. "So dat's why youse took
a job wid Thorne?"

Beaton shook his head--and reached for the bottle.

"Have one!" he suggested.

The relations between the two men were becoming almost cordial.

"Mabbe I will in a minute," said Larry the Bat, "but I'd rather hear de
rest of yer spiel first. De job's a peach so far--I got to hand it to
youse fer dat!"

Beaton's eyes over the rim of his glass rested for a fleeting second on
the automatic in Larry the Bat's hand, and for another on the
innocent-looking tier of bureau drawers--and a queer smile, almost but
not entirely hidden by the glass, and which Larry the Bat did not appear
to notice, crossed his lips.

"No," he said, "that wasn't why I took a job with Thorne. I didn't know
that Thorne had ever had anything to do with Keane then. I went with
Thorne because it's always a safe play to have some visible means of
support and be an honest-to-God respectable citizen--while you're
working side lines! Get the idea? Thorne's was an easy berth. I got a
lot of time off--for my own business."

"Youse're a bird!" murmured Larry the Bat with wholesome respect.

Beaton acknowledged the compliment with a deprecating wave of his hand.

"But I knew Keane," he said. "Keane, before the war, used to do a lot of
jobs with Daddy Ratzler, and after the war he went back to France on the
diamond lay as sort of representing Daddy Ratzler over there. Maybe you
know him--Cokey Keane?"

"I never had de pleasure," regretted Larry the Bat.

"Well, you never will now," said Beaton; "for, according to the papers,
he had a run-in with the Paris police and got bumped off--and, as near
as I can figure it, just about the time he posted that letter to Thorne.
But that doesn't matter now. What happened was this. A few months ago
the Big Chief of the ring, Frenchy Jacob, who lives in Paris, came over
here. Communications were getting difficult, and there was a special
shipment that was going to be sent along as soon as they could make
arrangements with a new 'runner' that they were trying to get away from
the London outfit. Daddy Ratzler had got a tip that his mail was being
censored. Well, just about that time and while Frenchy Jacob was still
here, I heard Thorne say one day that Keane had been a batman of his
during part of the war. That sounded good to me, and I slipped it over
to Daddy Ratzler, and Daddy Ratzler slipped it over to Frenchy
Jacob--and Frenchy Jacob fell for it. Nobody was going to interfere with
any mail addressed to a man like Thorne, and that gave Daddy Ratzler and
me the open-and-shut for a play to get away with the whole pool--and no
risk to it. Get it?"

Larry the Bat licked his lips greedily.

"Dat's a pippin!" he applauded.

"Yes," said Beaton; "and it would have gone across like clockwork if
Thorne hadn't been standing in the hall that afternoon just when the
letter arrived. And that brings me back to where I was saying he took
the whole bunch of mail away from me. He took the letters into that
little room of his--you ought to know the one I mean!"

"Let dat go!" smirked Larry the Bat.

"All right! Later on he went out. I went into the room; but, though I
saw Keane's letter lying on the desk, I couldn't find the blue envelope,
so I knew Thorne had put it in the safe as Keane had asked him to do. I
had the combination of the safe and a key to the little steel drawer
that I'd got from a wax impression, but I didn't monkey with anything
then because it would look too much like an _inside_ job, and I wasn't
asking for trouble. I knew that Thorne was dining at the club, and
wasn't likely to be home before eleven or twelve o'clock, and besides it
was my night out. I got hold of Daddy Ratzler, told him what had
happened, and we doped out a little plan. Daddy Ratzler telephoned
Thorne at the club and pretended to be Halstead. He told Thorne that he
had met a friend who had just worked his way back from the other side,
and this friend had seen a pal of his named Keane in Paris, and they had
talked about him, Halstead, having run into hard luck, and Keane had
said he was going to send over a little money through Thorne. You
understand? The same story as the letter. He said he didn't want to
bother Thorne, but that he was in desperate circumstances, and though he
hadn't seen any 'personal' yet in the papers, perhaps Thorne might
possibly have heard from Keane and hadn't had time to attend to it, or,
if no letter had yet come, perhaps Thorne himself would let him have a
few dollars in the meanwhile. Thorne, of course, said that the letter
had come that afternoon and that there was an envelope in his safe at
home for Halstead. Daddy Ratzler thanked Thorne with tears in his voice,
and said he'd go round and get it in the morning, and asked Thorne
please not to say anything about it at all to anybody as it was the
first time in his life that he had ever begged or received charity.
Thorne promised, and----"

"Which," interrupted Larry the Bat sententiously, "accounts fer de fact
dat even Thorne's friends didn't know nothin' about it 'cause, if dey'd
had, dey'd have spilled it to de cops."

"Yes," said Beaton.

"Wot'd youse do next?"

"Daddy Ratzler sent for Silky Hines and tipped him off to what he had
done. He said he'd been getting nervous and worried, just as they all
were with nothing showing up in the newspaper, and so he had taken a
chance and telephoned. That let Daddy Ratzler out with the gang--he was
laying all _his_ cards on the table. When the safe was found cracked
open, and the envelope gone, and Thorne told the police about the
telephone conversation with a man named Halstead, as he would then have
to do, it wouldn't be anything that the gang didn't know already."

"Sure," agreed Larry the Bat, "dat was de only play Daddy Ratzler could
make. Anybody could see dat in de dark. An' den wot?"

Beaton's glance traveled from the bottle to the carelessly held weapon
in Larry the Bat's hand and back again to the bottle.

"Daddy Ratzler fixed it up with Silky Hines to have one of the gang go
around in the morning and play Halstead and get the envelope; and the
idea was, of course, that I was to pinch the envelope during the night.
I had it all doped out so that no one would suspect me, and I would have
got away with it all right, too--if you hadn't butted in!"

"Well, ferget dat!" advised Larry the Bat placatingly. "Youse're goin'
to get a look-in anyway, ain't youse? But, say"--Larry the Bat's tones
grew puzzled--"it's a funny thing de police ner nobody else didn't find
dat letter dat Cokey Keane wrote. An' I'm tellin' youse straight dat I
didn't take it, neither."

Beaton indulged in a faintly amused smile.

"Thorne didn't put _that_ in the safe," he said. "I told you I'd seen it
on his desk, and it was still lying there when I went into the room and
found him dead on the floor. It looked as though Daddy Ratzler's little
game and mine was all up, but that was no reason why I should give the
police a chance to dig up anything about how the gang was operating,
and, with a murder on their hands, they might have got the French
police working and gone pretty far with that letter. So, after I had
telephoned headquarters and while I was waiting, I got rid of it, burned
it--and, if you want to know the ugly details, stirred the charred
remains up in the garbage can."

"Some nifty piece of work"--Larry the Bat's voice was awed--"de whole of
it! Say, I ain't so sure dat I'm stuck on meself fer puttin' it on de
blink!"

"That's nice of you," returned Beaton magnanimously, "though I've got to
be honest enough to admit that I'm not happy about it myself; but,
believe me, I'm for picking up the pieces, and I've come across wide
enough and clean enough to show that I'm on the level, haven't I?"

"Youse sure has!" declared Larry the Bat enthusiastically.

"Fine!" said Beaton, with equal enthusiasm. "And now with the smoke
cleared away, we'll get down to business. You're to hand over the
original blue envelope, and we're to decipher what's in it--and then go
out after the goods. If it's too late, we all lose; but, if it isn't,
it's to be a fifty-fifty split. Fifty for you and fifty for Daddy
Ratzler and me--is that right?"

"Dat's de contract!" confirmed Larry the Bat amiably.

"Well, I agree. I've got to"--Beaton laughed philosophically--"because
otherwise I wouldn't get anything out of it at all. Daddy Ratzler, of
course, would get his share from the gang if we don't beat them to it;
but he'll get a lot more this way, and he'll agree, too--I'll see to
that, as I said before. Have you got the envelope with you?"

"No," said Larry the Bat, "'cause until I was sure wot was goin' to
break, I wasn't carryin' _dat_ around wid me; but dat don't cut no ice,
fer I can get it in a couple of hours."

"All right!" Beaton nodded. "You go and get it, and I'll go over to the
village and telephone Daddy Ratzler to come out here. One thing is sure,
we haven't got any time to lose--there've been too many days by a whole
lot that have gone by already. We'll say midnight if you can get back by
then. Does that suit you?"

"Sure, it does!" said Larry the Bat heartily. "I can make dat easy."

"Shake!" said Beaton.

Larry the Bat laid his automatic spontaneously down on the edge of the
table and extended his hand.

"Atta boy!" he grinned.

"Fifty-fifty," Beaton grinned back, "and we'll have a drink to seal the
bargain." He leaned over the table and pushed bottle and glass toward
Larry the Bat. "It's the real stuff right off a ship. Help yourself!"

Larry the Bat reached out and picked up the bottle and glass.

"Sure, I'll have a drink wid youse now," he said genially, "an' here's
to----"

The bottle and glass slipped from his fingers and crashed down on the
table. It had been quickly done--done in the winking of an eye. Already
leaning half over the table, Beaton had lunged swiftly forward--and
Larry the Bat, a stunned look in his face, was staring into the muzzle
of his own automatic.

And Beaton was a man transformed--his face in fury, his lips working.

"So you'd squeal to Silky Hines, would you!" he screamed. "Well, you'll
never squeal to anyone because you're going for a ride! You fool! What
did you think you were getting away with? I got all that stuff last
night. I thought you'd fall for a come-on game before you were through.
And you're the Gray Seal that they talk about in hushed voices, are you?
You're a laugh! And you're the bird that was boasting a few minutes ago
about how you'd put the skids under the fellow who killed Thorne and
make him squawk if you ever found out who he was, are you? Well, you've
found him! And now what are you going to do about it?"

Larry the Bat, moistening his lips, found his voice.

"What d'youse mean?" he quavered.

Beaton moved around the table--and leered into Larry the Bat's face.

"You won't tell anybody, will you?" Beaton was snarling like a beast
now. "Not till you bump into whoever's on the station platform in
hell--because you're going to make a quick trip there, and no
stop-overs! I shot Thorne--just the way I'm going to plug you! So what
about those skids? You cheap skate!"

Larry the Bat's nerve seemed utterly to have deserted him. He shrank
back, a cringing, spineless thing, twisting and wringing his hands
together in terror.

"Aw, say, youse wouldn't do dat!" he pleaded desperately. "Say, listen!
I was only kiddin' about Silky Hines just to make youse come across. I
wouldn't have spilled nothin' to him even if youse had said youse
wouldn't make de split. Honest to Gawd, I wouldn't! An' youse ain't got
nothin' against me fer wot I said about de guy dat bumped Thorne off,
'cause I knows youse're only kiddin' when youse says it was youse dat
gave him de spot. I read in de papers all about de two dames dat brought
youse home, an' youse was so drunk youse couldn't have killed nobody,
an' besides dat youse had a time alibi dat let youse out."

"Drunk!" There was ugly glee in Beaton's laugh. "Didn't I tell you that
I'd fixed it up with Daddy Ratzler to open that safe? Do you think I'd
get drunk with a job like that to do? I wasn't drunk--but the girls
thought I was. That's where the time alibi came from--when I let my
watch fall out of my pocket, and they told me what time it was because I
was too drunk to tell it myself! I'd set my watch ahead twenty minutes.
Do you get that, Mister Gray Seal--or can't you count that far? You
brainy bird, you underworld terror--_not_! Open your face, and answer
me! Do you get that, you louse?"

"Yes," mumbled Larry the Bat weakly.

"Oh, you do! But you don't know why I wanted those twenty minutes, do
you? Answer me!" Beaton prodded Larry the Bat viciously with the muzzle
of the automatic. "That's too deep for the Gray Seal, isn't it?"

There was a miserable, hunted look in Larry the Bat's face, and twice he
swallowed hard.

"I--I don't know"--his words were almost inarticulate.

"I'll tell you, then! You'll make a hit with the story--_where you're
going_!" Beaton was gloating now, jeering, his eyes blazing with an
almost maniacal light. "Maybe it will help you to save the Gray Seal's
face if you tell them down there in hell that it was one of your own
jobs! That'll save you from getting the laugh as a piker, because you're
going to be among a lot of wise guys from now on! I knew the combination
and I had the key to the little drawer, and I could have got into the
safe in a minute or two, but I told you I was leery about anything that
looked like an inside job. Who else would it be but me that did it? And
even if they couldn't prove it, they'd have got too damned inquisitive
about my record. Get that?" He thrust viciously again with the
automatic. "Don't forget the fine points when you're telling the story!
I needed that twenty minutes to fix things up. After I'd got the
envelope I was going to 'soup' the safe and the drawer--using time
fuses. That's another point--cut so's they'd burn just so long. Then I
was going to set my watch right and leave the house again--and just
about the time when the bang went off and the household was running
around in their nighties, I'd be drunk and trying to find the keyhole to
let myself in, and according to the girls, who could prove the time, I
would have been with them not only all night, but they'd only have just
left me not more than a minute or so when the break was pulled, so it
couldn't have been me. It was ironclad. There was nothing to it. But
you"--his voice rose furiously--"you, damn you, you queered it!"

Larry the Bat cowered.

"Fer Gawd's sake, Beaton," he whimpered, "youse ain't goin' to do wot
youse said, are youse?"

Beaton bared his teeth in a cat-and-mouse grin.

"How do you like the story?" he leered. "Listen to the rest of it--and
the last few words you'll ever hear in this little old world! It'll
interest you, seeing you feel so badly about the Thorne killing and that
it's a sore spot with you! When I got into that room, you, you mangy
rat, had beaten me to it, and the envelope was gone. And then Thorne
walked into the room. I don't know what brought him down there, whether
he couldn't sleep and had just come for a book or something, or what;
but he wasn't walking in his sleep, as one of his fool pals suggested
when the police were nosing around, because he recognized me. Thorne's
the only one that knows why he came downstairs, and, if you're curious
about it, you can ask him--you'll be talking to him in a minute or two!"

Larry the Bat licked at his lips feverishly.

"Wot--wot d'youse kill him fer?" he mouthed piteously. "Dere wouldn't
have been nothin' like dis if youse hadn't."

"What did I kill him for!" echoed Beaton sardonically. "I killed him for
one of the same reasons that I'm going to kill you! Didn't I tell you he
_recognized_ me! The safe was open, and its insides were all over the
floor, and the blue envelope was gone. If I'd made an escape from the
house and left him alive to tell about it, it wouldn't have been only
the police I'd have had to duck--I'd have gone for a ride with Silky
Hines' crowd if they ever found me, because they'd never believe I
hadn't swiped the envelope. I had a silencer on my rod and I plugged
Thorne with it. He never knew what hit him--he went down on the floor
dead. It was a safe play--just as safe as the one I'm playing with you
right now! Nobody heard the shot, and I still had that time alibi up my
sleeve--and I used that to get rid of the 'soup' and stuff I'd brought
with me, and to burn up Keane's letter; and then I waited until it would
look as though I had had just about time enough to get into the house
after the girls left me, then I set my watch back, and telephoned down
to headquarters to tell them what I'd _found_. Have you got it all?"
Beaton broke suddenly into wicked laughter. "Don't forget any of the
fine points! And tell Thorne I'm wearing mourning for him, will you? And
now, you----"

The cringing figure of Larry the Bat was gone--and swift as a lightning
flash, while the mechanism of the automatic in the other's hand clicked
harmlessly, Jimmie Dale's fist, with every ounce of his strength and
weight behind the blow, crashed to the point of Beaton's chin--and
Beaton lay sprawled, inert and stunned, upon the floor. And it was
Jimmie Dale, too, the next instant who whipped a pair of handcuffs from
his pockets, and bending down, slipped them deftly over Beaton's
wrists--but it was Larry the Bat, tonguing his lips complacently, who
stood up as Carruthers, white-faced, came running toward him.

"My God," Carruthers whispered shakily, "I--I didn't know what to do!
I--I thought you----"

"Aw, say," said Larry the Bat soothingly, "dere wasn't nothin' to worry
about. Didn't I tell youse all youse had to do was listen? Dere wasn't
nothin' to it at all after I'd given him de chance to grab dat gun. It
wasn't loaded. Sure, he talked his head off! Dey're all alike when dey
thinks dey has got youse cold--dey likes to see youse squirm an' hear
demselves gloat before dey bumps youse off. Well, dere he is all made up
into a nice little package fer youse. Are youse satisfied wid wot youse
heard?"

"Very fully!" said Carruthers grimly. "And I'll see that----"

"Youse needn't make a speech about it," interrupted Larry the Bat
coolly, "'cause wot youse said before goes wid me, an' I got to be on me
way. All youse've got to do is see dat he don't get gay while youse're
waitin' fer de police to come. I'll send Pascal over to de village fer
'em. An' here's yer gun, an' here's his." Larry the Bat took the two
weapons from his pocket and laid them on the table; then, stooping down,
he picked up his own automatic from where it had fallen to the floor
from Beaton's hand. "I got another dat _is_ loaded," he informed
Carruthers casually.

Carruthers smiled queerly.

"That's all right," he said quietly; and then abruptly: "Look here! I
can quite understand that you can't afford to be found hanging around
here when the police come, and I am quite prepared to see this man
behind the bars, but there's something I'd like to know a little more
about--I mean that blue envelope."

Larry the Bat nodded his head.

"Sure!" he agreed. "Dat's all right--an' mabbe de judge 'ud like to see
how it was worked, too. I'll send it to youse by mail--as soon as I get
me fingerprints rubbed off it. An' mabbe dere's somethin' else dat youse
an' de judge 'ud like to see, too. De night before last, up on de St.
Lawrence River, Beaton bumped off dat 'runner' he was yappin' about, so
when de police comes, get dem to bust open dat bureau--youse'll find de
sparklers in dere, an' mabbe dat ain't all neither--mabbe dere's some
things of Daddy Ratzler's dat he's been keepin' private from de world!
An' say, listen, dere's one more thing. Slip it to de police to keep
dere faces shut until dey gets dere claws on Daddy Ratzler, 'cause if
dey don't it'll be a race between de police and de gang dat he gyped to
see who grabs him first. See?"

"Where does this Daddy Ratzler live?" demanded Carruthers tersely.

"Youse can leave dat to de cops," grinned Larry the Bat reassuringly;
"dey've had his address for a long time, only dey ain't never been
invited to none of his 'at homes' until to-night!" He glanced
speculatively down at the floor--Beaton was beginning to recover
consciousness. "I don't think dis bird'll make any more trouble," he
observed judicially; "but mabbe if youse tapped him on de bean every
once in a while wid one of dem guns youse'd be sure of it!"

"I'll take care of him!" promised Carruthers with a hard smile.

"Sure, youse will!" conceded Larry the Bat cordially. "Well, as I said,
I'll be on me way, an' I'll see dat de cops gets here on de jump.
Good-night, Mr. Carruthers!"

"Wait a minute!" said Carruthers.

Larry the Bat, already half-turned, faced around again.

Carruthers was holding out his hand.

"Well, wot d'youse knows about dat!" gasped Larry the Bat.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not yet daylight as Jimmie Dale, awakened out of a sound sleep,
sat up in bed. The telephone was ringing. He got up and lifted the
receiver from the hook.

It was Carruthers' voice that answered him.

"What! Again!" complained Jimmie Dale plaintively. "Look here,
Carruthers, did it ever occur to you that there are certain amenities in
life that one does not wantonly profane, and this habit of calling
people out of bed at ungodly hours is----"

"Oh, shut up, Jimmie!" Carruthers broke in violently. "Listen! We've got
Ray's murderer!"

"Say that again!" Jimmie Dale drew in his breath sharply. "You mean the
Gray Seal has been caught?"

"No! It wasn't the Gray Seal. It was Beaton!"

"_What_?" shouted Jimmie Dale.

"Yes!" asserted Carruthers feverishly. "Beaton and his father--a crook
known as Daddy Ratzler. We've got them both! And it was the Gray Seal
that landed them. There's a house with a secret cellar, and heaven knows
how many thousands of stolen bonds, to say nothing of half a million in
diamonds. I've just got back to town, and though it's far too long a
story for the phone, I had to give you a ring to break the news; but I'm
on my way uptown now to tell you all about it."

"Then for heaven's sake step on it, old man!" urged Jimmie Dale
frantically--and winked confidentially at the receiver as he replaced it
on the hook.

THE END



                         +-----------------------+
                         |                       |
                         | _Whether you were     |
                         | keen enough to solve  |
                         | this Crime Club       |
                         | mystery in its early  |
                         | stages, or whether    |
                         | the author succeeded  |
                         | in keeping you in     |
                         | suspense up to the    |
                         | last chapter,         |
                         | Mastermind requests   |
                         | that you add to the   |
                         | next reader's         |
                         | enjoyment by          |
                         | remembering that--_   |
                         |                       |
                         | CRIME CLUB READERS    |
                         | NEVER TELL            |
                         |                       |
                         +-----------------------+



FOOTNOTES:

[1] _The Adventures of Jimmie Dale_.

[2] _The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale_.

[3] _Jimmie Dale and the Phantom Clue_.

[4] _The Adventures of Jimmie Dale_.




+--------------------------------------------------------------+
|                                                              |
| Transcriber's note:--                                        |
|                                                              |
| Italics are represented in this text version by underscores. |
|                                                              |
| The following printing errors have been corrected.           |
|                                                              |
| Page 4   'fine' to 'find'                                    |
| 'but he'd find thirty-two'                                   |
|                                                              |
| Page 42  'let's' to 'lets'                                   |
| 'that lets me out'                                           |
|                                                              |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+




[End of _Jimmie Dale and the Blue Envelope Murder_ by Frank L. Packard]
