n that Whitey Mack would
know the Gray Seal as Larry the Bat. Did he also know him as Jimmie
Dale? Yes, or no? It was a vital question. His life hung on it.

That keen, facile brain, numbed for the moment, was beginning to work
with lightning speed. It was four o'clock that afternoon when he had
assumed the character of Larry the Bat--some time between four o'clock
and the present, it was now well after eleven, the case had dropped from
his pocket. There had been ample time then for Whitey Mack to have
made that appointment with Lannigan--and ample time to have made a
surreptitious visit to the Sanctuary. Had Whitey Mack gone there? Had
Whitey Mack found that hiding place in the flooring under the oilcloth?
Had Whitey Mack discovered that the Gray Seal was not only Larry the
Bat--but Jimmie Dale?

Jimmie Dale swept his hand across his forehead. It was damp from
little clinging beads of moisture. Should he go to the Sanctuary and
change--become Jimmie Dale again? Was it the safest thing to do--or the
most dangerous? Even if Whitey Mack had been there and discovered the
dual personality of Larry the Bat, how would he, Jimmie Dale, know it?
The man would have been crafty enough to have left no sign behind him.
Was it to the Sanctuary that Whitey Mack meant to lead Lannigan that
evening--or did Whitey Mack know him as Jimmie Dale, and to make it
the more sensational, plan to carry out the coup, say, at the St. James
Club? Whitey Mack and Lannigan were still at Bristol Bob's; he had
probably time, if he so elected, to reach the Sanctuary, change, and get
away again. But every minute was priceless now. What should he do? Run
from the city as he was for cover--or take the gambler's chance? Whitey
Mack knew him as Larry the Bat--it was not certain that Whitey Mack knew
him as Jimmie Dale.

He had halted, absorbed, in front of a moving-picture theatre. Great
placards, at first but a blur of colour, suddenly forced themselves in
concrete form upon his consciousness. Letters a foot high leaped out at
him: "THE DOUBLE LIFE." There was the picture of a banker in his private
office hastily secreting a forged paper as the hero in the guise of a
clerk entered; the companion picture was the banker in convict stripes
staring out from behind the barred doors of a cell. There seemed a
ghastly augury in the coincidence. Why should a thing like that be
thrust upon him to shake his nerve when he needed nerve now more than he
had ever neede