"You can suit yerself," said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. "We know the paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here--see? You can take yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an' opens it yerself, or else"--he paused and produced a small bottle from his pocket--"this is nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you with this. Only if we does the job we does it proper. We ties you up and sets you against the door of the safe before we touches off the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a good guesser you can guess the rest."

There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope.

Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips again--none was in a better position than himself to know that there would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out the threat.

"Suppose," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "suppose I open the safe--what then--afterward?"

"We ain't got the safe open yet," countered Clarie Deane uncompromisingly. "An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it, either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike ties you up! One--"

Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for the second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room to the safe.

He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the others crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver again club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, and Jimmie Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath--a smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The end was not far off now; and then--WHAT?

Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now--and now the inner door swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out the envelope--and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet.

"My G.o.d!" he screamed out. "What's--what's this!"

Clarie Deane s.n.a.t.c.hed the envelope from him.

"THE GRAY SEAL!"--the words came with a jerk from his lips. He ripped the envelope open frantically--and like a man stunned gazed at the four blank sheets, while the colour left his face. "IT'S GONE!" he cried out hoa.r.s.ely.

"Gone!" There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. "Gone! Den we're nipped--de lot of us!"

The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist.

"Sure!" he croaked. "But youse gets yers first, youse--"

With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward--into the portieres--and with a rip and tear the hangings were wrenched apart.

It came instantaneously--a yell of mingled surprise and fury from the three--the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired one shot at the floor to stop their rush--then he flung himself at the window, through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground.

A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by his head--another--and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, and running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud behind him, still another, and yet a third--they were dropping through the window after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of the bullet closer than before--then the pound of racing feet.

Jimmie Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top speed.

Something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and seared along the side of his head just above the ear. He reeled, staggered, recovered himself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that stinging in his head, and all at once seemed to be draining his strength away. The shouts, the shots, the running feet became like a curious buzzing in his ears. It seemed strange that they should have hit him, that he should be wounded!

If he could only reach the low stone wall by the road, he could at least make a fight for his life on the other side!

Red streaks swam before Jimmie Dale's eyes. The wall was such a long way off--a yard or two was a very long way more to go--the weakness seemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No, here was the wall--they hadn't hit him again--he laughed in a demented way--and rolled his body over, and fell to the other side.

"JIMMIE!"

The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send the blood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her--HERS! The Tocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in the road. He won to his feet--dark, rushing forms were almost at the wall.

He fired--once--twice--fired again--and turned, staggering for the car.

"Jimmie! Jimmie--QUICK!"

Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped forward, yells filled the air--but only one thing was dominant in Jimmie Dale's reeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet, and leaned over the back of the seat, reaching for the slim figure that was bent over the wheel.

"It's you--you at last!" he cried. "Your face--let me lee your face!"

A bullet split the back panel of the car--little spurting flames were dancing out from the roadway behind.

"Are you mad!" she shouted back at him. "Let me steer--do you want them to hit me!"

"No-o," said Jimmie Dale, in a queer singsong sort of way, and his head seemed to spin dizzily around. "No--I guess--" He choked. "The paper--it's in--my pocket"--and he went down unconscious on the floor of the car.

When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainly furnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmerish looking, was bending over him.

"Where am I?" he demanded finally, propping himself up on his elbow.

"You're all right," replied the man. "She said you'd come around in a little while."

"Who said so?" inquired Jimmie Dale.

"She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago. She said she ran you down with her car."

"Oh!" said Jimmie Dale. He felt his head--it was bandaged, and it was bandaged, he was quite sure, with a piece of torn underskirt. He looked at the man again. "You haven't told me yet where I am."

"Long Island," the other answered. "My name's Hanson. I keep a bit of a truck garden here."

"Oh," said Jimmie Dale again.

The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and came back to Jimmie Dale.

"She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked us to put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and paid us for it, too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to hold the accident up against her, she was mighty sorry about it. And now I'll go and see if the old lady's got your room ready while you're readin' your letter."

The man left the room.

Jimmie Dale sat up on the couch, and tore the envelope open. The note, scrawled in pencil, began abruptly:

"You were quite a problem. I couldn't take you HOME--could I? I couldn't take you to what you call the Sanctuary could I? I couldn't take you to a hospital, nor call in a doctor--the stain you use wouldn't stand it.

But, thank G.o.d! I know it's only a flesh wound, and you are all right where you are for the day or two that you must keep quiet and take care of yourself. By the time you read this the paper will be on the way to the proper hands, and by morning the four where they should be. There were a few articles in your clothes I thought it better to take charge of in case--well, in case of ACCIDENT."

Jimmie Dale tore the note up, and smiled wryly at the door. He felt in his pockets. Mask, revolver, burglar's tools, and the thin metal insignia case were gone.

"And I had the sublime optimism," murmured Jimmie Dale, "to spend months trying to find her as Larry the Bat!"

CHAPTER IX

TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE

The bullet wound along the side of his head and just above his ear would have been a very awkward thing indeed, in more ways than one, for Jimmie Dale, the millionaire, to have explained at his club, in his social set, or even to his servants, and of these latter to Jason the Solicitous in particular; but for Jimmie Dale as Larry the Bat it was a matter of little moment. There was none to question Larry the Bat, save in a most casual and indifferent way; and a bandage of any description, primarily and above all one that he could arrange himself, with only himself to take note of the incongruous hues of skin where the stain, the grease paint, and the make-up was washed off, would excite little attention in that world where daily affrays were common-place happenings, and a wound, for whatever reason, had long since lost the tang of novelty. Why then should it arouse even a pa.s.sing interest if Larry the Bat, credited as the most confirmed of dope fiends, should have fallen down the dark, rickety stairs of the tenement in one of his orgies, and, in the expressive language of the Bad Lands, cracked his bean!