A sort of cold horror had settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his forehead
was clammy wet. The inhuman irony of it! That he should stand there and
watch, impotent to prevent it, the destruction of what he would have
given his life to secure! And then slowly, a grim, hard, merciless smile
came to his lips. He had recognised the leader's voice--now he would
recognise the leader's FACE. At least, that was left to him--perhaps the
master trump of all. It would not be very hard to find the Crime Club
now--with that man to lead the way!

The scraps of paper, tiny shreds, mounted into a heap on the table--and
with the last of the contents of the package destroyed, the leader stood
up.

"Put these pieces in your pockets; we don't want to leave them here," he
directed quietly. "And then let's get out."

In scarcely a moment, the last scrap of paper had vanished. The three
men walked to the door, passed through it, and joined Spider Jack in the
store--and Jimmie Dale, slipping out from behind the curtain, gained the
door of the rear room, crept through it, reached the stoop, and then,
darting like the wind across the yard, was over the fence in a second,
and in another was out of the alleyway and on the street.

He was in time--in plenty of time. They had just left Spider Jack's,
and were, perhaps, fifty yards or so ahead of him. He slouched on behind
them--the cold, grim smile on his lips once more. It was the Crime Club
now, that hell's cradle where their devil's schemes were hatched,
that was the one thing left to him; they would lead him to that, and
then--and then it would be his turn to STRIKE!

They turned the first corner. And suddenly, as the racing engine of an
automobile caught his ear, he broke into a run, and dashed around the
corner after them--in time to see them jump into a car, and the car
speed off along the street! He halted, as though he were suddenly
dazed--started involuntarily to run forward again--stopped with a hollow
laugh at the futility of it--and stood still and motionless on the
sidewalk.

And then he swayed a little, and his face grew gray. Failure, defeat,
ruin--in that moment he knew them all to their bitterest dregs. How
could he go to her! How could he face her, and tell her that they were
beaten, that the last hope was gone, that he had failed!

"God!" he cried aloud, and clenched his hands.

Then deep in his consciousness a thought stirred, and he swept a shaking
hand across his eyes. Why h