The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as though in acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmie Dale's shoulders--and Jimmie Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror that was propped up on the broken-legged table, knotted his dress tie almost fastidiously.The hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar on his head now, the wound no longer required a bandage, and Larry the Bat, for the time being at least, had disappeared.Across the foot of the bed, neatly folded, lay his dress coat and overcoat, but little creased for all that they had lain in that hiding-place under the flooring since the night when, hurrying from the club, he had placed them there to assume instead the tatters of Larry the Bat.It was Jimmie Dale in his own person again who stood there now in Larry the Bat's disreputable den, an incongruous figure enough against the background of his miserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, the broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in the poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet.
Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound for many days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork--it was not far from eight o'clock--and replaced it in his pocket.
Carefully then, one at a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim, sensitive, tapering fingers, magical masters of safes and locks and vaults of the most intricate and modern mechanism--no single trace of grime remained, they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat.He nodded in satisfaction; and picked up the mirror for a final inspection of himself, that, this time, did not miss a single line in his face or neck.Again Jimmie Dale nodded.
As though he had vanished into thin air, as though he had never existed, not a trace of Larry the Bat remained--except the heap of rags upon the floor, the battered slouch hat, the frayed trousers, the patched boots with their broken laces, the mismated socks, the grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he had just discarded.
The mirror was replaced on the table; and, pushing the heap of clothes before him with his foot, Jimmie Dale knelt down in the corner of the room where the oilcloth had been turned up and the loose planking of the floor removed, and began to pack the articles away in the hole.Jimmie Dale rolled the trousers of Larry the Bat into a compact little bundle, and stuffed them under the flooring.
The gas jet seemed to blink again in a sort of confidential approval, as though the secret lay inviolate between itself and Jimmie Dale.Through the closed window, shade tightly drawn, came, low and muffled, the sound of distant life from the Bowery, a few blocks away.The gas jet, suffering from air somewhere within the pipes, hissed angrily, the yellow flame died to a little blue, forked spurt--and Jimmie Dale was on his feet, his face suddenly hard and white as marble.
SOME ONE WAS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR!
For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale stood motionless.Found as Jimmie Dale in the den of Larry the Bat, and the consequences required no effort of the imagination to picture them; police or denizen of the underworld who was knocking there, it was all the same, the method of death would be a little different, that was all--one legalised, the other not.Jimmie Dale, Larry the Bat, the Gray Seal, once uncovered, could expect as much quarter as would be given to a cornered rat.His eyes swept the room with a swift, critical glance--evidences of Larry the Bat, the clothes, were still about, even if he in the person of Jimmie Dale, alone damning enough, were not standing there himself.And he was even weaponless--the Tocsin had taken the revolver from his pocket, together with those other telltale articles, the mask, the flashlight, the little blued-steel tools, before she had intrusted him that night, wounded and unconscious, to Hanson's care.
Jimmie Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched up the old coat and hat from the pile, put them on, and, without a sound, reached the gas jet and turned it off.A second had gone by--no more--the knocking still sounded insistently on the door.It was dark now, perfectly black.He started across the room, his tread absolutely silent as the trained muscles, relaxing, threw the body weight gradually upon one foot before the next step was taken.
It was like a shadow, a little blacker in outline than the surrounding blackness, stealing across the floor.
Halfway to the door he paused.The knocking had ceased.He listened intently.It was not repeated.Instead, his ear caught a guarded step retreating outside in the hall.Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief.He went on again to the door, still listening.
Was it a trap--that step outside?
At the door now, tense, alert, he lowered his ear to the keyhole.
There came the faintest creak from the stairs.Jimmie Dale's brows gathered.It was strange! The knocking had not lasted long.
Whoever it was was going away--but it required the utmost caution to descend those stairs, rickety and tumble-down as they were, with no more sound than that! Why such caution? Why not a more determined and prolonged effort at his door--the visitor had been easily satisfied that Larry the Bat was not within.TOO easily satisfied!
Jimmie Dale turned the key noiselessly in the lock.He opened the door cautiously--half inch--an inch, there was no sound of footsteps now.Occasionally a lodger moved about on the floor above;occasionally from somewhere in the tenement came the murmur of voices as from behind closed door--that was all.All else was silence and darkness now.