beside him--where she might never be again!

She seemed to divine his thoughts, for she spoke again, a strange new
note of tenderness in her voice that thrilled him.

"You must never let them get you, Jimmie--for my sake. It will not last
much longer--it is near the end--and I shall keep my promise. But go,
now, Jimmie--go!"

"Go?" he repeated numbly. "Go? But--but you?"

"I?" She slipped suddenly away from him, retreating back down the room.
"I will go--as I came."

"Wait! Listen!" he pleaded.

There was no answer.

She was there--somewhere back there in the darkness still. He stood
hesitant at the door. It seemed that every faculty he possessed urged
him back there again--to her. Could he let her escape him now when she
was so utterly in his power, she who meant everything in his life! And
then, like a cold shock, came that other thought--she who had trusted to
his honour! With a jerk, his hand swept out, felt for the doorknob, and
closed upon it.

"Good-night!" he said heavily, and stepped out into the hall.

It seemed for a while, even after he had gained the street and made his
way again to the subway, that nothing was concrete around him, that
he was living through some fantastical dream. His head whirled, and he
could not think rationally--and then slowly, little by little, his grip
upon himself came back. She had come--and gone! With the roar of the
subway in his ears, its raucous note seeming to strike so perfectly in
consonance with the turmoil within him, he smiled mirthlessly. After
all, it was as it always was! She was gone--and ahead of him lay the
chances of the night!

"Dicing with death!" The words, unbidden, came back once more. If they
were true before, they were doubly applicable now. It was different
to-night from what it had ever been before, as she had said. Usually, to
the smallest detail, everything was laid open, clear before him in
those astounding letters. To-night, it was vague at best. A man had been
murdered. Connie Myers had committed the murder under circumstances that
pointed strongly to some hidden motive behind and beyond the mere chance
it afforded him to search his victim's house for the hidden cash. What
was it?

Jimmie Dale stared out at the black subway walls. The answer would not
come. Station after station passed. At Fourteenth Street he changed from
the express to a local, got out at Astor Place, and a few minutes later
was walking rapidly down the upper end of