Will you come along, or meet me at headquarters
later? Clayton said in two hours he'd--"
"Neither," said Jimmie Dale. "I'm not interested in headquarters. I'm
going home."
"Well, all right then," Carruthers returned. "You can bank on me for
to-morrow. Good-night, Jimmie."
"Good-night, old man," said Jimmie Dale, and, turning, walked briskly
toward the Bowery.
But Jimmie Dale did not go home. He walked down the Bowery for three
blocks, crossed to the east side, and turned down a cross street. Two
blocks more he walked in this direction, and halfway down the next.
Here he paused an instant--the street was dimly lighted, almost dark,
deserted. Jimmie Dale edged close to the houses until his shadow blended
with the shadows of the walls--and slipped suddenly into a pitch-black
areaway.
He opened a door, stepped into an unlighted hallway where the air was
close and evil smelling, mounted a stairway, and halted before another
door on the first landing. There was the low clicking of a lock, three
times repeated, and he entered a room, closing and fastening the door
behind him.
Jimmie Dale called it his "Sanctuary." In one of the worst
neighbourhoods of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the
rent was paid, it had the further advantage of three separate exits--one
by the areaway where he had entered; one from the street itself; and
another through a back yard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on
the next street.
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