"Your chauffeur, sir," replied the other. "Your chauffeur gave it to the
hall porter a moment ago, sir."

"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale again.

The door closed.

Jimmie Dale glanced around the room. It was the caution of habit, that
glance; the habit of years in which his life had hung on little things.
He was alone in one of the club's private library rooms. He picked up
the envelope, tore it open, took out the folded sheets inside, and began
to read. At the first words he leaned forward, suddenly tense in his
chair. He read on, turning the pages hurriedly, incredulity, amazement,
and, finally, a strange menace mirroring itself in turn upon his face.

He stood up--the letter in his hand.

"My God!" whispered Jimmie Dale.

It was a call to arms such as the Gray Seal had never received
before--such as the Tocsin had never made before. And if it were true
it--True! He laughed aloud a little gratingly. True! Had the Tocsin,
astounding, unbelievable, mystifying as were the means by which she
acquired her knowledge not only of this, but of countless other affairs,
ever by so much as the smallest detail been astray. If it were true!

He pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine. Benson, his chauffeur,
had sent the letter into the club. Benson had been waiting outside
there ever since dinner. Jimmie Dale, for the first time since the
first communication that he had ever received from the Tocsin, did not
immediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket--and
stepped quickly from the room.

In the cloakroom downstairs he secured his hat and overcoat, and,
though it was a warm evening, put on the latter since he was in evening
clothes, then walked leisurely out of the club.

At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and, touching
his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine.

Jimmie Dale shook his head.

"I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson," he said. "You may
take the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night."

"Very good, sir," replied the chauffeur.

"You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?" observed Jimmie Dale
casually, opening his cigarette case.

"Yes, sir," said Benson. "I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it was
important, and that you were to have it at once."

"He?" Jimmie Dale was lighting his cigarette now.

"A boy, sir," Benson amplified. "I couldn't get anything out of him. He
just said he'd been told to give it