ed Chang Foo's tea-shop. A glance in that direction, and
Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief. A patrol wagon was backed up to
the curb, and a half dozen officers were busy loading it with what was
evidently Chang Foo's far from meagre stock of gambling appurtenances;
while Chang Foo himself, together with Sam Wah and another attendant,
were in the grip of two other officers, waiting possibly for another
patrol wagon. There was a crowd, too, but the crowd was at a respectful
distance--on the opposite side of the street.

Jimmie Dale still hugged the corner. A man swaggered out from a doorway,
quite close to Chang Foo's, and came on along the street. As the other
reached the corner, Jimmie Dale sidled forward.

"'Ello, Chick!" he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "Wot's de lay?"

"'Ello, Larry!" returned the other. "Aw, nuthin'! De nutcracker on
Chang, dat's all."

"I t'ought mabbe dey was lookin' for some guy dat was in dere," observed
Jimmie Dale.

"Nuthin' doin'!" the other answered. "I was in dere meself. De whole mob
beat it clean, an' de bulls never batted an eye. Didn't youse pipe me
make me get-away outer Shanghai's a minute ago? De bulls never went
nowhere except into Chang's. Dere's a new lootenant in de precinct
inaugeratin' himself, dat's all. S'long, Larry--I gotta date."

"S'long, Chick!" responded Jimmie Dale--and started slowly back along
the cross street.

It was not the police, then, who were interested in his movements! Then
who? He shook his head with a little, savage, impotent gesture. One
thing was clear: it was too early to risk a return to the Sanctuary and
attempt the rehabilitation of Jimmie Dale. If any one was on the
hunt for Larry the Bat, the Sanctuary would be the last place to be
overlooked.

He turned the next corner, hesitated a moment in front of a garishly
lighted dance hall, and finally shuffled in through the door, made his
way across the floor, nodding here and there to the elite of gangland,
and, with a somewhat arrogant air of proprietorship, sat down at a table
in the corner. Little better than a tramp in appearance, certainly
the most disreputable-looking object in the place, even the waiter who
approached him accorded him a certain curious deference--was not Larry
the Bat the most celebrated dope fiend below the dead line?

"Gimme a mug o' suds!" ordered Jimmie Dale, and sprawled royally back in
his chair.

Under the rim of his slouch hat, pulled now far over his