from his feet, was hurled violently
forward with the shock, and all went black before his eyes.

CHAPTER III

THE CRIME CLUB

For what length of time he had remained unconscious, Jimmie Dale had not
the slightest idea. He regained his senses to find himself lying on a
couch in a strange room that had a most exquisitely brass-wrought dome
light in the ceiling. That was what attracted his attention, because
the light hurt his eyes, and his head was already throbbing as though a
thousand devils were beating a diabolical tattoo upon it.

He closed his eyes against the light. Where was he? What had happened?
Oh, yes, he remembered now! That smash on Lower Broadway! He had been
hurt. He moved first one limb and then another tentatively, and was
relieved to find that, though his body ached as if it had been severely
shaken, and his head was bad, he had apparently escaped without serious
injury.

Where was he? In a hospital? His fingers, resting at his side upon the
couch, supplied him with the information that it was a very expensive
couch, upholstered in finest leather. If he were in a hospital, he would
be in a cot.

He opened his eyes again to glance curiously around him. The room was
quite in keeping with the artistic lighting fixture and the refined, if
expensive, taste that was responsible for the couch. A heavy velvet
rug of rich, dark green was bordered by a polished hardwood floor;
panellings of dark-green frieze and beautifully grained woodwork made
the lower walls; while above, on a background of some soft-toned paper,
hung a few, and evidently choice, oil paintings. There was a big,
inviting lounging chair; a massive writing table, or more properly, a
desk of walnut; and behind the desk, his back half turned, apparently
intent upon a book, sat a man in immaculate evening dress.

Jimmie Dale closed his eyes again. There was something reassuring about
it all, comfortably reassuring. Though why there should be any occasion
for a feeling of reassurance at all, he could not for the moment make
out. And then, in a sudden flash, the details of the night came back to
him. The Tocsin's letter--the package he was to get--the taxicab--the
chauffeur, who was not a chauffeur--the chase--the trap. He lay
perfectly still. It was the professional Jimmie Dale now whose brain, in
spite of the throbbing, brutally aching head, was at work, keen, alert.

The chauffeur! What had happened to him? Had the man been killed in