Presently Jimmie Dale picked up the vial--and dropped it back on the
floor again. There was no label on it, but it needed none--the strong,
penetrating odor of bitter almonds was telltale evidence enough. It was
prussic, or hydrocyanic acid, probably the most deadly poison and the
swiftest in its action that was known to science--Carling had provided
against that "some day" in his confession!

For a little space, motionless, Jimmie Dale stood looking down at the
silent, outstretched form--then he walked slowly back to the desk, and
slowly, deliberately picked up the signed confession and the steamship
ticket. He held them an instant, staring at them, then methodically
began to tear them into little pieces, a strange, tired smile hovering
on his lips. The man was dead now--there would be disgrace enough for
some one to bear, a mother perhaps--who knew! And there was another way
now--since the man was dead.

Jimmie Dale put the pieces in his pocket, went to the safe, opened it,
and took out a parcel, locked the safe carefully, and carried the parcel
to the desk. He opened it there. Inside were nearly two dozen little
packages of hundred-dollar bills. The other two packages that he had
brought with him he added to the rest. From his pocket he took out the
thin metal insignia case, and with the tiny tweezers lifted up one of
the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped paper seals. He moistened the
adhesive side, and, still holding it by the tweezers, dropped it on
his handkerchief and pressed the seal down on the face of the topmost
package of banknotes. He tied the parcel up then, and, picking up the
pen, addressed it in printed characters:

HUDSON-MERCANTILE NATIONAL BANK,

NEW YORK CITY.

"District messenger--some way--in the morning," he murmured.

Jimmie Dale slipped his mask into his pocket, and, with the parcel under
his arm, stepped to the door and unlocked it. He paused for an instant
on the threshold for a single, quick, comprehensive glance around the
room--then passed on out into the street.

At the corner he stopped to light a cigarette--and the flame of the
match spurting up disclosed a face that was worn and haggard. He threw
the match away, smiled a little wearily--and went on.

The Gray Seal had committed another "crime."

CHAPTER VII

THE THIEF

Choosing between the snowy napery, the sparkling glass and silver, the
cozy, shaded table-lamps, the famous French chef of the ultra-exclusive
St