s face grew strained and
serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue. Here he
paused for an instant--there was the elevated, the surface cars--which
would be the quicker? He looked up the avenue. There was no train
coming; the nearest surface car was blocks away. He bit his lips in
vexation--and then with a jump he was across the street and hailing a
passing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on.

"Got a fare?" called Jimmie Dale.

"No, sir," answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt.

"Good!" Jimmie Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open. "Do you
know where the Palace Saloon on the Bowery is?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man.

Jimmie Dale held a ten-dollar bank note up before the chauffeur's eyes.

"Earn that in four minutes, then," he snapped--and sprang into the cab.

The taxicab swerved around on little better than two wheels, started on
a mad dash down the Avenue--and Jimmie Dale braced himself grimly in
his seat. The cab swerved again, tore across Waverly Place, circuited
Washington Square, crossed Broadway, and whirled finally into the upper
end of the Bowery.

Jimmie Dale spoke once--to himself--plaintively.

"It's too bad I can't let old Carruthers in on this for a scoop with his
precious MORNING NEWS-ARGUS--but if I get out of it alive myself, I'll
do well! Wonder if the day'll ever come when he finds out that his very
dear friend and old college pal, Jimmie Dale, is the Gray Seal that he's
turned himself inside out for about four years now to catch, and that
he'd trade his soul with the devil any time to lay hands on! Good old
Carruthers! 'The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the
annals of crime'--am I?"

The cab drew up at the curb. Jimmie Dale sprang out, shoved the bill
into the chauffeur's hand, stepped quickly across the sidewalk, and
pushed his way through the swinging doors of the Palace Saloon. Inside
leisurely and nonchalantly, he walked down past the length of the bar to
a door at the rear. This opened into a passageway that led to the side
entrance of the saloon on the cross street. Jimmie Dale emerged from
the side entrance, crossed the street, retraced his steps to the Bowery,
crossed over, and walked rapidly down that thoroughfare for two blocks.
Here he turned east into the cross street; and here, once more, his pace
became leisurely and unhurried.

"It's a strange coincidence, though possibly a very happy one," said
Jimmie