hat she did not know Larry the Bat as an alias of
Jimmie Dale was no more than--an illusion. Well, it had been a piece of
consummate egotism on his part, that was all. But, after all, what did
it matter? He had had his innings, tried in the role of Larry the Bat
to solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the attempt--and failed.
Some day, perhaps, his turn would come; some day, perhaps, she would no
longer be able to elude him, unless--the letter crackled suddenly in
his fingers--unless the house that they had built on such strange
and perilous foundations crashed at some moment, without an instant's
warning, in disaster and ruin to the ground. Who knew but that this
letter now, another call to the Gray Seal to act, another peril invited,
would be the LAST? There must be an end some day; luck and nerve had
their limitations--it had almost ended last week!

"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--it was the same inevitable beginning. "You
are well enough again, aren't you, Jimmie?--I am sending these little
things back to you, for you will need them to-night."--Jimmie Dale read
on, muttering snatches of the letter aloud: "Michael Breen prospecting
in Alaska--map of location of rich mining claim--Hamvert, his former
partner, had previously fleeced him of fifteen thousand dollars--his
share of a deal together--Breen was always a very poor man--Breen later
struck a claim alone; but, taking sick, came back home--died on
arrival in New York after giving map to his wife--wife in very
needy circumstances--lives with little daughter of seven in New
Rochelle--works out by the day at Henry Mittel's house on the
Sound near-by--wife intrusted map for safe-keeping and advice to
Mittel--Hamvert after map--telephone wires cut--room one hundred
and forty-eight, corner, right, first floor, Palais-Metropole
Hotel, unoccupied--connecting doors--quarter past nine to-night--the
Weasel--Mittel's house later--the police--look out for both the Weasel
and the police, Jimmie--"

There was more, several pages of it, explanations, specific details down
to a minute description of the locality and plan of the house on the
Sound. Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on silently. At the
end he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly, as his face hardened.
Then his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds, tearing it
over and over again, tearing the shreds into tiny particles. He had not
been far wrong. From what the night promised now,