Jimmie Dale reached the corner of the street, where it intersected the Bowery, and paused languidly by the curb. No one appeared to be following. He had not expected that there would be--but it was as well to be sure. He walked then a few steps along the Bowery--and slipped suddenly into a doorway, from where he could command a view of the street corner that he had just left. At the end of ten minutes, satisfied that no one had any concern in his immediate movements, he shambled on again down the Bowery.
There was a saloon two blocks away that boasted a private telephone booth. Jimmie Dale made that his destination.
Larry the Bat was a very well-known character in that resort, and the bullet-headed dispenser of drinks behind the bar nodded unctuously to him over the heads of those clustered at the rail as he entered; Larry the Bat, as befitted one of the elite of the underworld, was graciously pleased to acknowledge the proletariat salutation with a curt nod. He walked down to the end of the room, entered the telephone booth--and was carelessly careful to close the door tightly behind him.
He gave the number of his residence on Riverside Drive, and waited for the connection. After some delay, Jason's voice answered him.
“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, in matter-of-fact tones, “I shall be out of the city for another three or four days, possibly a week, and--” he stopped abruptly, as a sort of gasp came to him over the wire.
“Thank God that's you, sir!” exclaimed the old butler wildly. “I've been near mad, sir, all day!”
“Don't get excited, Jason!” said Jimmie Dale a little sharply. “The mere matter of my absence for the last two days is nothing to cause you any concern. And while I am on the subject, Jason, let me say now that I shall be glad if you will bear that fact in mind in future.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered Jason. “But, sir, it ain't that--good Lord, Master Jim, it ain't that, sir! It's--it's one of them letters.”
Something like a galvanic shock seemed to jerk the disreputable, loose-jointed frame of Larry the Bat suddenly erect--and a strained whiteness crept over the dirty, unwashed face.
“Go on, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, without a quiver in his voice.
“It came this morning, sir--that shuffer with his automobile left it. I had just time to say you weren't at home, sir, and he was gone. And then, sir, there ain't been an hour gone by all through the day that a woman, sir--a lady, begging your pardon, Master Jim--hasn't rung up on the telephone, asking if you were back, and if I could get you, and where you were, and half frantic, sir, half sobbing, sometimes, sir, and saying there was a life hanging on it, Master Jim.”