! The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath of
relief--and he was on the cross street.

A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery--and he was bending
down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic, from his side pocket,
concealed in his hand. WAS THAT SOME ONE THERE? He could have sworn he
saw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps of the house on
the opposite side of the street as he had emerged from the alleyway.
In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his eyes swept
sharply up and down the other side of the ill-lighted street. Nothing!
There was not even a pedestrian in sight on the block from there to the
Bowery.

Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantly
again, as though the lace were still proving refractory. Again that
sharp, searching glance. Again--nothing! He went forward now in apparent
unconcern; but his right hand, instead of being buried in his coat
pocket, swung easily at his side.

It was strange! His ineffective ruse to the contrary, he was certain
that he had not been mistaken. Was it Whitey Mack? Was the question
answered? Was the Gray Seal known, too, as Jimmie Dale? Were they
trailing him now, with the climax to come at the club, at his own
palatial home, wherever the surroundings would best lend themselves
to assuaging that inordinate thirst for the sensational that was so
essentially a characteristic of the confirmed criminal? What a headline
in the morning's papers it would make!

At the corner he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette--still not a
soul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except a couple
of Italians who had just passed by. Strange again! The intuition, if it
were only intuition, was still strong. He swung abruptly on his heel,
mingled with the passers-by on the Bowery, walked a rapid half dozen
steps until the building hid the cross street, then ran across the road
to the opposite side of the Bowery, and, in a crowd now, came back to
the corner. He crossed from curb to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringe
of people that, however, in no way obstructed his view down the side
street. And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He had evidently
been mistaken, after all. He was overexcited; his nerves were raw--that,
perhaps, was the solution. Meanwhile, every minute was counting, if
Whitey Mack and Lannigan should still be at Bristol Bob's.

He kept on down the Bowery, hurrying w