ss blanched
his face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that mounted to his
temples. It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the moment of the
power of coherent thought. He was wrong; he had not read aright. It was
incredible, dare-devil beyond belief--and yet in its very audacity lay
success. He finished the letter, read it once more--and his fingers
mechanically began to tear it into little shreds. His brain was in a
whirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions. Had Whitey Mack and Lannigan
left Bristol Bob's yet? Where were they now? Was there time for--this?
He was staring at the little torn scraps of paper in his hand. He thrust
them suddenly into his pocket, and jerked out his watch. It was nearly
midnight. The broad, muscular shoulders seemed to square back curiously,
the jaws to clamp a little, the face to harden and grow cold until it
was like stone. With a swift movement he emptied his glass into the
cuspidor, set the glass back on the table, and stepped out from the
stall. His destination was Max Diestricht's.

The Palace Saloon was near the upper end of the Bowery, and, failing a
taxicab, of which none was in sight, his quickest method was to walk,
and he started briskly forward. It was not far; and it was barely
ten minutes from the time he had left the Palace Saloon when he swung
through Washington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment later, turned
from that thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth Avenue, along one of
those streets which, with the city's northward trend, had quite lost
any distinctive identity, and from being once a modestly fashionable
residential section had now become a conglomerate potpourri of small
tradesmen's stores, shops and apartments of the poorer class. He knew
Max Diestricht's--he could well have done without the aid of the arc
lamp which, even if dimly, indicated that low, almost tumble-down,
two-story structure tucked away between the taller buildings on either
side that almost engulfed it. It was late. The street was quiet. The
shops and stores had long since been closed, Max Diestricht's among
them--the old Hollanders' name in painted white letters stood out
against the background of a darkened workshop window. In the story
above, the lights, too, were out; Max Diestricht was probably fast
asleep--and he was stone deaf!

A glance up and down the street, and Jimmie Dale was standing, or,
rather, leaning against Max Diestricht's door. There was no one to see,
and if ther