r of happenings, and
the night was not over yet--there was the letter! It had already cost
one life; was it to cost another--or what?

It began as it always did. He read it through once, in amazement; a
second time, with a flush of bitter anger creeping to his cheeks; and
a third time, curiously memorising, as it were, snatches of it here and
there.

"DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Robbery of Hudson-Mercantile National
Bank--trusted employee is ex-convict, bad police record, served term in
Sing Sing three years ago--known to police as Bookkeeper Bob, real name
is Robert Moyne, lives at ---- Street, Harlem--Inspector Burton
and Lannigan of headquarters trailing him now--robbery not yet made
public--"

There was a great deal more--four sheets of closely written data. With
an exclamation almost of dismay, Jimmie Dale pulled out his watch. So
that was what Burton and Lannigan were up to! And he had actually run
into them! Lord, the irony of it! The--And then Jimmie Dale stared at
the dial of his watch incredulously. It was still but barely midnight!
It seemed impossible that since leaving the theatre at a few minutes
before eleven, he had lived through but a single hour!

Jimmie Dale's fingers began to pluck at the letter, tearing it into
pieces, tearing the pieces over and over again into tiny shreds. The
train stopped at station after station, people got on and off--Jimmie
Dale's hat was over his eyes, and his eyes were glued again to the
window. Had Bookkeeper Bob returned to his flat in Harlem with the
detectives at his heels--or were Burton and Lannigan still trailing the
man downtown somewhere around the cafe's? If the former, the theft
of the letter and its incident loss of time had been an irreparable
disaster; if the latter--well, who knew! The risk was the Gray Seal's!

At One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street Jimmie Dale left the train; and,
at the end of a sharp four minutes' walk, during which he had dodged in
and out from street to street, stopped on a corner to survey the block
ahead of him. It was a block devoted exclusively to flats and apartment
houses, and, apart from a few belated pedestrians, was deserted. Jimmie
Dale strolled leisurely down one side, crossed the street at the end of
the block, and strolled leisurely back on the other side--there was no
sign of either Burton or Lannigan. It was a fairly safe presumption then
that Bookkeeper Bob had not returned yet, or one of the detectives at
least