w odd pennies thoughtfully against the keys in his pocket.

To a certain extent, old Jason, his butler, could be trusted. Jason even
knew that mysterious letters of tremendous secretive importance came
to the house, and the old man always meant well--but he dared not trust
even Jason with the secret of his dual personality. What was he to do?
He needed money imperatively--at once. Thanks to Kline, for the time
being, at least, he could not rid himself of the personality of Larry
the Bat by the simple expedient or slipping into the clothes of Jimmie
Dale--he must live, act, and remain Larry the Bat until the secret
service officer gave up the hunt. How bridge the gulf between Jimmie
Dale and Larry the Bat in old Jason's eyes!

Nor was that all. There was still another matter, and one that, in order
to counteract it, demanded at once a serious inroad--to the extent of
a telephone call--upon his slender capital. A too prolonged and
unaccounted-for absence from home, and old Jason, in his anxious,
blundering solicitude, would have the fat in the fire at that end--and
the city, and the social firmament thereof, would be humming with the
startling news of the disappearance of a well-known millionaire. The
complications that would then ensue, with himself powerless to lift a
finger, Jimmie Dale did not care to think about--such a contretemps must
at all hazards be prevented.

Jimmie Dale reached the corner of the street, where it intersected
the Bowery, and paused languidly by the curb. No one appeared to be
following. He had not expected that there would be--but it was as well
to be sure. He walked then a few steps along the Bowery--and slipped
suddenly into a doorway, from where he could command a view of the
street corner that he had just left. At the end of ten minutes,
satisfied that no one had any concern in his immediate movements, he
shambled on again down the Bowery.

There was a saloon two blocks away that boasted a private telephone
booth. Jimmie Dale made that his destination.

Larry the Bat was a very well-known character in that resort, and the
bullet-headed dispenser of drinks behind the bar nodded unctuously to
him over the heads of those clustered at the rail as he entered; Larry
the Bat, as befitted one of the elite of the underworld, was graciously
pleased to acknowledge the proletariat salutation with a curt nod. He
walked down to the end of the room, entered the telephone booth--and was
carelessly car