The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale

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An instant later he was downstairs, and, selecting a soft slouch
hat--Jason for the moment not being in evidence--went down the steps to
his waiting limousine.

"The Marleton, Benson," he directed, as he stepped into the car. "And
hurry, please."

The car started forward. It was not far to 88th Street, but the car
would save time--and time was counting now, every minute of it
priceless, if, as the Tocsin had intimated, he was to forestall the game
that was in hand. The Marleton was for Benson's benefit--but the
Marleton, unless he had miscalculated the numbers, was barely more than
a block away from the house he sought.

And then, besides, there was another reason for haste--Colonel Milford
and his wife would probably be at dinner now, and that left the upstairs
part of the house at his disposal, since, apart from the elderly couple,
the household consisted, according to the Tocsin, of only a single maid.
He went over in his mind again the plan the Tocsin had drawn. Yes, she
was quite right, there should be no danger, the whole matter as far as
he was concerned was almost childishly simple and easy--if he were only
in time! He shook his head a little impatiently at that; and, as he saw
that they were approaching his destination, consulted his watch. It was
exactly twenty minutes after seven.

The car rolled up to the curb in front of the fashionable family hotel.
Jimmie Dale alighted.

"I shall not need you any more to-night, Benson," he said.

He walked quietly into the hotel, through the lobby, down a corridor,
and out of the entrance that gave on the cross street--then his pace
quickened. He traversed the block, crossed the road, turned the corner,
and a minute later was approaching the house she had designated. It was
one of a row. His pace slowed to a nonchalant stroll again. It was still
quite light, and he was by no means the only pedestrian on the street;
a moment's preliminary, even if cursory, examination of the exterior
would not be amiss! Counting the numbers ahead of him, he had already
located the house. He frowned a little. A light burned in the upstairs
front room. There was a light in the lower hallway as well, but that was
to be expected. Why the one upstairs? Had the Colonel and Mrs. Milford
already finished their dinner?

Jimmie Dale reached the house--and casually, without hesitation, mounted
the steps--and quite as casually, making a pretence of ringing the
electric bell, opened the unlocked outer door, stepped into the
vestibule, and, without a sound now, closed the door behind him.

He tried the inner door tentatively. It was locked, of course--but it
was locked only for an instant. From the girdle under his vest came a
little steel instrument; there was a faint, almost inaudible, protesting
_snip_ from the interior of the lock; and, his fingers turning the knob
with a steady, silent pressure, he opened the door slightly.

Crouched there, he listened. And then, a smile of relief flickering on
his lips, he pushed the door open, and slipped into the hallway. The
explanation of the light upstairs was that it had probably been left
burning inadvertently. They were still at dinner, for he could hear
voices from the dining room at the rear of the hall.

As silent as a shadow now, Jimmie Dale, closing the inside door, moved
across the hall, and went up the stairs. On the landing he paused; and
then advanced cautiously. The light streamed out from the open door of
the front room, and there was always the possibility that--no, a glance
from where he stood close against the wall at the edge of the door jamb,
showed him that the room was unoccupied.

He entered the room quickly, crossed quickly to a quaint old escritoire
against the opposite wall, and stooped beside it. The lower right-hand
drawer, she had said. The little steel instrument with which he had
opened the vestibule door was still in his hand, but he did not use it
now! Instead, with a low, dismayed ejaculation, as his fingers ran along
the drawer edge, he dropped on his knees for a closer examination--and
his lips closed tightly together.

_He was too late_! The first finger touch had told him that, and now his
eyes corroborated it. The drawer had been forced by a jimmy of some
sort, judging from the indentations in the wood. The lock was broken,
and he pulled the drawer open. Inside lay the steel bond-box, its lid
bent back, and wrenched and twisted out of shape. The box was empty.

Without disturbing the box, Jimmie Dale mechanically closed the drawer
again and stood up, looking around him. In a subconscious way, when he
had entered the room, he had been cognisant of a certain strangeness in
its appointments, but then his mind had been centred only on the work in
hand; now there seemed a sort of pitiful congruity in the surroundings
themselves and in the old heirloom that had been stolen. It seemed as
though the room spoke to him of past glories. The furniture was
out-of-date, and, too, a little in disrepair. It seemed as though there
clung about it the pride and station of other days, a station that it
was finding it hard to maintain in these. And he thought he understood.
It was a fine old family, that of the Milfords of Louisiana, a very
proud old family in the way that it was fine to be proud--proud of its
name, proud that its sons were gentlemen, proud of its loyalty to its
own traditions and standards, a pride that neither condition nor
adversity could mar. And now the diamond pendant was gone! He could well
understand how they had clung to that, and--

He started suddenly. Was he a fool, that he had wasted even a moment in
giving play to his thoughts! Voices were reaching him now from below,
footsteps were sounding from the lower hall, there was a creak upon the
stairs. They were coming!

He had hardly any need for the quick, searching glance he flung around
him--the plan that the Tocsin, had drawn was mapped out vividly in his
mind. He stepped backward softly through half-opened folding doors into
the room in the rear. From this room a door, he knew, opened into the
hallway. His escape, after all, need give him little concern. He had
only to step out into the hall after they passed, and make his way
downstairs. A woman's voice from the stairway came to him:

"My dear, you must have left the light burning."

"Unless, it was you," a man's voice answered in good-humoured banter.
"You were the last one in the room."

"But I am sure I didn't!" the feminine tones asserted positively.

The steps passed along the hall, and from behind the folding doors
Jimmie Dale saw an elderly couple enter the front room. Both were in
evening dress--and somehow, suddenly, at sight of them Jimmie Dale
swallowed hard. The old gentleman, kindly, blue-eyed, white-haired, was
very erect, very straight in spite of the fact that he must have been
close to seventy years of age, and with the sweet-faced, old-fashioned
little lady, with the gray hair, who stood beside him, they made a
stately pair--for all that their clothes, past glories like the
furniture, were grown a little shabby, a little threadbare. But with
what a courtly air they wore them! And with what a courtly air now he
led her to a chair, and bent over her, and lifted up her face, and held
it tenderly between both his hands!

"How well you look to-night in your dress," he said, and his blue eyes
shone. "I am very proud of you."

She stroked the hand against her cheek.

"Do you remember the first time I ever wore it?" She was smiling
up at him.

"Oh, yes!" he nodded his head slowly. "It is strange, isn't it? That was
a long time ago when our friends were married back there in the old
State, and to-night again, way up here in New York, they have not
forgotten us on this their anniversary."

Silence fell for a moment between them.

Then he spoke again, a little sadly:

"Would you wish those days back again, if you could?"

She hesitated thoughtfully.

"I do not know," she said at last. "Sometimes I think so. We had
John then."

"Yes," he said, and turned away his head.

Her hand, as Jimmie Dale watched, seemed to tighten over her husband's;
and now, though her lips quivered, there came a little smile.

"But we have his memory now, dear," she whispered.

Agitated, the old gentleman moved abruptly away from the chair, and
Jimmie Dale could see that the blue eyes were moist.

"That is true--we have his memory." The old colonel's voice trembled.
And then his shoulders squared like a soldier on parade. "Tut, tut!" he
chided. "Why, we are to be gay to-night! And it is almost time for us to
be going. We, too, shall celebrate. You shall wear the pendant, just as
you did that other night."

"Oh, colonel!" There was mingled delight and hesitation in her
ejaculation. "Do you really think I ought to--that it wouldn't be out of
keeping with our present circumstances?"

"Of course, I think you ought to!" he declared. "And see"--he started
across the room--"I will get it for you, and fasten it around your
throat myself."

He reached the escritoire, opened a little drawer at the top, took out a
key, stooped to the lower drawer, inserted the key, turned it once or
twice in a puzzled way, then tried the drawer, pulled it open--and with
a sharp, sudden cry, reached inside for the steel bond-box.

The little old lady rose hurriedly, in a startled way, from her chair.

"What is it? What is the matter?" she cried anxiously.

The box clattered from the colonel's hands to the floor.

"It is gone!" he said hoarsely. "It has been stolen!"

"_Gone!_" She ran wildly forward. "Stolen! No, no--it cannot be gone!"

They stared for a moment into each other's faces, and from each other's
faces stared at the rifled box upon the floor--and then a look of wan
misery crept gray upon the little old lady, and she swayed backward.

With a cry, that to Jimmie Dale seemed one of more poignant anguish than
he had ever heard before, the old gentleman caught her in his arms and
supported her to a chair; then running quickly to the hall, called
loudly for the maid below.

There was a merciless smile on Jimmie Dale's lips. He was retreating now
further back into the room toward the door that gave on the hall.

"I wonder," said Jimmie Dale to himself through set teeth, "I wonder if
a man wouldn't be justified in putting an end _for keeps_ to that devil
Thorold for this!"

He heard the maid come rushing up the stairs. He could no longer see
into the other room now, but a confused mingling of voices reached him:

"... The police ... next door and telephone ... the light ... while we
were at dinner...."

Jimmie Dale opened the door, slipped across the hall, made his way
silently and swiftly down the stairs, and with the single precaution of
pulling his slouch hat far down over his eyes, stepped boldly out of the
front door, walked quietly down the steps, walked briskly, but without
apparent haste, along the street--and turned the first corner.

CHAPTER V

"DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"

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

But he was smiling when he left the subway--only it was that same
merciless smile once more. It was not alone the mere act of robbery
that fanned his anger to a white heat. Again and again, he was picturing
in his mind that fine old gray-haired couple; again and again he saw the
old colonel bend and lift that sweet face to his, and saw them look into
each other's eyes. There was something holy, something reverent in that
love which the years had ripened and mellowed with tenderness; something
that was profound, that made of this night's work a sacrilege in
touching them--and that poor jewel, clung to all too obviously through
adversity for its past associations, was probably the last real thing of
intrinsic value they possessed!

"I am not sure," muttered Jimmie Dale--he was fingering the automatic in
his pocket, "I am not sure that I can trust myself to-night!"

Ten minutes' walk from the subway brought him before a dingy and
dilapidated three-story tenement on the East Side. The Nest, they called
it in the underworld; and worthily so, for its roof sheltered more of
the cheaper and petty class of criminals probably than any other single
dwelling in New York--the steerers, the hangers-on, the stalls, those of
the lesser breed of vultures, and the more vicious therefore, who at
best made but a precarious livelihood from their iniquitous pursuits.

One of Jimmie Dale's shoulders was hunched forward, giving a crude and
ill-fitting set to his fashionably tailored, Fifth Avenue coat; he
staggered slightly, and the flap of his collar protruded, while his tie,
pulled out, sprawled over his vest; also his slouch hat, badly crushed
and looking as though it had rolled in the mire of the street, was
tilted forward at an unhappy angle until it was balanced on the bridge
of his nose. Men, women, and children passed him by--for the street was
crowded--paying him not the slightest attention. He lurched in through
the front door of the tenement, swayed up against the hallway
inside--and stood there, still swaying a little.

It was dark here, and the atmosphere was musty and fetid; a murmur
pervaded the place as of voices behind many closed doors, but apart from
that the tenement might have been empty and deserted for all the signs
of life it evidenced. And then the spot where Jimmie Dale had stood was
vacant, and he was along the narrow hallway without a sound, and,
opening a door at the rear, stood peering out. After a moment, he closed
the door again without fastening it; and, back once more toward the
front of the hallway, began to creep silently up the stairs.

He reached the top landing. Old Attic had two miserable rooms here,
where he conducted his even more miserable business! Jimmie Dale dropped
on his knees before the door that faced the head of the stairs, and
placed his ear to the panel. Noiselessly he tried the door. It was
locked. He was smiling that merciless smile again in the darkness, as
his deft, slim fingers worked at the keyhole. He was not too late this
time! Old Jake was there, and--yes, Thorold, too. They were even now
haggling over the pendant--he could hear them quite distinctly now with
the door open a crack.

He pushed the door open a little wider, but very slowly, scarcely an
inch at a time. He was in luck again! They were in the inner room. He
opened the door still a little wider, stepped softly over the threshold,
and closed the door behind him.

Save for a dim light that filtered out through the half open door of the
inner room, it was dark here. Slowly, with that almost uncanny, silent
tread that he had acquired on the creaky, rickety stairs of the old
Sanctuary, Jimmie Dale began to move forward, the weight of his body
wholly and firmly on one foot before the other was lifted from the
floor; and, as he advanced, the black silk mask, from a pocket in the
leather girdle, was drawn over his face.

He could see them now quite plainly--the twisted, crunched-up form of
old Jake, with his tawny-bearded face, and narrow, shifting little black
eyes; the smooth-shaven, suave, oily, cunning countenance of Thorold,
the super-crook. Both were sitting at a table in the miserly appointed
room, whose only other articles of furniture were a cheap iron bed and a
few chairs. Old Jake was whining; Thorold's voice held an angry rasp.

"Four thousand, you cursed miser, and not a cent less," Thorold
was saying.

"Three," whined the other. "You ain't splitting fair. I got to take the
stones out of their setting, and sell 'em for what I can get. Stolen
stuff's got to go cheap. You know that."

"It's worth ten or twelve, and you'll get at least eight for it,"
growled Thorold. "That's four apiece--and I've got to split mine again
with the guy that pinched it. Hurry up, d'yer hear--I've got a date with
him in half an hour over in my office."

"Ha, ha!" cackled old Jake. "Are you trying to be funny? All the thief
gets out of it from you won't make much of a hole in your share!"

"That's my business!" snapped Thorold. "You come across!"

"Three!" whined old Jake again.

"Four!" Thorold flung back angrily.

"Well, let's have a look at it then; I ain't seen it for years,"
grumbled old Jake. "I ain't trying to do you. We went into this thing
so's we'd each get the same out of it; but I tell you it ain't easy to
shove big stones when there'll be a police description out against
them, and there ain't no big prices for 'em, either."

Thorold reached into his pocket--and even in the dull light of the
single gas-jet that alone illuminated the room, Jimmie Dale caught the
fire and flash of the magnificent stones in the pendant that swung to
and fro now, as the man held it up.

Old Jake, his hand trembling with eagerness, snatched at it, and, as
Thorold laughed shortly, dove his fingers into a greasy vest pocket, and
produced a jeweller's magnifying glass, which he screwed into his eye.

"One of these has got a flaw, and it's cloudy," he mumbled.

"Never mind about the flaw! Flash your wad!" invited Thorold, with a
thin smile.

Jimmie Dale's hand slipped under his vest to a pocket in the leather
girdle, and from the thin metal case, with the aid of the tiny tweezers,
lifted out a gray seal, and laid it lightly on the inside edge of his
left-hand sleeve. He replaced the metal case with his right hand, and
with his right hand drew his automatic from his pocket. He crept forward
again, inch by inch toward the door of the inner room.

Old Jake laid the pendant on the table, and from some mysterious recess
in his clothing pulled out a huge roll of banknotes.

"I'll make it three and a half until I see what I can get for it. That's
all I've got here, anyway." He began to count the money, laying it bill
by bill on the table. "If I get more than seven, I'll split the
difference even. That's fair. That's the way it's been ever since we
started this. I don't know exactly what I can get for this, and--"

And then Jimmie Dale was in the room, his automatic covering the two
men.

"Don't move please, gentlemen!" he said quietly, as he stepped to the
table. His eyes behind the mask travelled from the diamond pendant to
the pile of banknotes, and from the banknotes to the two men, whose
faces had gone suddenly white, and who now sat rigidly in their chairs,
as though turned to stone. "I appear to be in luck to-night!" His lips,
just showing beneath the mask, parted in a hard smile. "I was passing
by, and--" His left hand reached out, swept up the money and the diamond
pendant--and in their place, fluttering from his sleeve, a gray seal
fell upon the table.

There was a sharp, quick cry from Thorold--and the muzzle of Jimmie
Dale's automatic swung like a flash to a level with the man's eyes. Old
Jake had crumpled up now in his chair, and was glaring wildly at the
little diamond-shaped piece of paper; he licked his lips with his
tongue, there was fear in his eyes.

"The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal!" he muttered hoarsely.

"I appear to be in luck to-night!" said Jimmie Dale again. "And"--he
put the money and the diamond pendant coolly in his pocket--"it would
be too bad if I didn't play it up, wouldn't it? It doesn't often come
as easy as this. Amazing carelessness to leave that outside door
unlocked! But, as I was saying, with such a lavish display of opulence
on the table, one is almost led to hope that there might be more where
that came from. Now--"

"I haven't got any more--not another cent! Honest, I haven't!" old Jake
cried hysterically. "I swear to God, I haven't, and--"

"You hold your tongue!" There was a sudden snarl in Jimmie Dale's low
tones. The man's voice was rising dangerously loud. "I'll attend to you
in a moment!" He swung on Thorold again; and, with his pistol pressed
close against the man, felt deftly and swiftly over the other in search
of weapons. He laughed tersely, finding none. "Empty your pockets out on
the table!" he ordered curtly.

The man hesitated.

Jimmie Dale smiled--unpleasantly.

Thorold swept a bead of sweat from his forehead. His lips were working
nervously. All suavity and polish were gone now; there were only
viciousness and fear, each struggling with the other for the mastery in
the man's smug face.

"Damn you, you blasted snitch!" he burst out furiously. "We'll get you
down here some day, and--"

"Some day, perhaps," said Jimmie Dale softly. "But to-night--did I
explain that I was in a hurry--_Thorold!_ Every pocket inside out,
please!"

Thorold's hand went reluctantly to his pockets. He began with the inside
pocket of his coat, laying a pile of letters and papers on the table.

"Anything there you want?" he sneered.

"Go on!" prompted Jimmie Dale.

From vest pockets came a varied assortment of articles--watch, cigars, a
cigar-cutter, a silver-mounted pencil, and a fountain pen. The man's
hands travelled to his outside coat pockets.

"The _inside_ pocket of the vest, Thorold," suggested Jimmie Dale
coldly.

With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest, and turned the
pocket out. There was nothing in it.

Jimmie Dale nodded complacently.

"My mistake, Thorold," he murmured apologetically. "Go on!"

The man continued to denude himself of his effects, but with increasing
savagery and reluctance. There was silence in the room--and then
suddenly, so faint as to be almost inaudible, there was a soft _pat_
upon the floor. Jimmie Dale did not turn his head.

"I think you dropped something, Jake," he observed pleasantly. "Now take
your foot off it, and put it on the table!"

A miserable smile twisting his lips, old Jake stooped, picked up a roll
of bills, and, mumbling and crooning to himself, laid it on the table.
Jimmie Dale immediately transferred it to his pocket.

"Yes," he said, "I certainly seem to be in luck tonight! That all you
got, Thorold?" He reached forward, and possessed himself of a
well-filled wallet that Thorold had added to the heterogeneous
collection in front of him.

Thorold's face was black with fury.

"There's the watch, you cheap poke-getter!" he choked. "Don't forget to
frisk that while you're at it!"

Jimmie Dale examined the collection with a sort of imperturbable
appraisement.

"No," he said judicially. "You can keep your watch, Thorold; I haven't
got the same lay as our friend Jake here, and that sort of thing is too
hard to get rid of to make it worth while. I'll take these, and that's
all." He whipped the pile of letters and papers into his pocket. "You
see, with a man of your profession, there is always the chance of there
being something valuable amongst--"

Jimmie Dale never finished the sentence. With a sudden, low, tigerish
cry, Thorold heaved the end of the table upward between himself and
Jimmie Dale--and, quick as a cat, as Jimmie Dale staggered backward,
leaped from behind it.

"Get him, Jake! Get him, Jake!" he cried. "He won't _dare_ to fire in
here for the noise. Get him, you fool, he--"

But Jimmie Dale was the quicker of the two. A vicious left full on the
point of Thorold's jaw stopped the man's rush--but only for the fraction
of a second. Thorold, recovering instantly, flung his body forward, and
his arms wrapped themselves around Jimmie Dale's neck. And now, old
Jake, screeching like a madman, was circling around them, snatching,
clawing, striking at Jimmie Dale's face and head.

Thorold was a powerful man; and at the first tight-locked grip, as they
swayed together, trained athlete though he was himself, Jimmie Dale
realised that he had met his match. Again and again, with all his
strength he tried to throw the other from him. Around and around the
room they staggered and lurched--and around and around them followed the
wizened, twisted form of old Jake, like a hovering hawk, darting in at
every opportunity for a blow, shrieking, yelling, cursing with
infuriated abandon. And then from below, a greater peril still, came the
opening and shutting of doors, voices calling--the tenement, at the
racket, like a hive of hornets disturbed, was beginning to stir into
life. If they caught him there! If they caught the Gray Seal there! It
brought a desperate strength to Jimmie Dale. He had heard too often that
slogan of the underworld--_death to the Gray Seal_!

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