onditions in West
Broadway, how did she know about Metzer's murder, how did she know about
Markel and Wilbur--how did she know about a hundred other affairs of the
same sort that had happened since that night, years ago now, when out of
pure adventure he had tampered with Marx's, the jeweller's strong
room in Maiden Lane, and she had, mysteriously then, too, solved HIS
identity, discovered him to be the Gray Seal?

Jimmie Dale, wrapped up in his own thoughts, entirely oblivious to his
surroundings, traversed another block. There had never been since the
world began, and there would never be again, so singular and bizarre a
partnership as this--of hers and his. He, Jimmie Dale, with his strange
double life, one of New York's young bachelor millionaires, one whose
social status was unquestioned; and she, who--who WHAT? That was just
it! Who what? What was she? What was her name? What one personal,
intimate thing did he know about her? And what was to be the end?
Not that he would have severed his association with her--not for
worlds!--though every time, that, by some new and curious method, one of
her letters found its way into his hands, outlining some fresh coup
for him to execute, his peril and danger of discovery was increased in
staggering ratio. To-day, the police hunted the Gray Seal as they hunted
a mad dog; the papers stormed and raved against him: in every detective
bureau of two continents he was catalogued as the most notorious
criminal of the age--and yet, strange paradox, no single crime had ever
been committed!

Jimmie Dale's strong, fine-featured face lighted up. Crime! Thanks to
her, there were those who blessed the name of the Gray Seal, those
into whose lives had come joy, relief from misery, escape from death
even--and their blessings were worth a thousandfold the risk and peril
of disaster that threatened him at every minute of the day.

"Thank God for her!" murmured Jimmie Dale softly. "But--but if I could
only find her, see her, know who she is, talk to her, and hear her
voice!" Then he smiled a little wanly. "It's been a pretty tough
month--and nothing to show for it!"

It had! It had been one of the hardest months through which Jimmie Dale
had ever lived. The St. James, that most exclusive club, his favourite
haunt, had seen nothing of him; the easel in his den, that was his
hobby, had been untouched; there had been days even when he had not
crossed the threshold of his home. Every resource at