"In a month or two or three, as the case may be," explained Jimmie
Dale brightly. "Whenever you insert a personal in the NEWS-ARGUS to
the effect that the mother lode has given you the cash to meet it." He
replaced the note in the cash box, slipped down to his feet from the
desk--and then he choked a little. Wilbur, the tears streaming down
his face, unable to speak, was holding out his hands to Jimmie Dale.
"I--er--good-night!" said Jimmie Dale hurriedly--and stepped quickly
from the room.
Halfway down the first flight of stairs he paused. Steps, running after
him, sounded along the corridor above; and then Wilbur's voice.
"Don't go--not yet," cried the old man. "I don't understand. How did you
know--who told you about the note?"
Jimmie Dale did not answer--he went on noiselessly down the stairs. His
mask was off now, and his lips curved into a strange little smile.
"I wish I knew," said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself.
CHAPTER IV
THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE
It was still early in the evening, but a little after nine o'clock.
The Fifth Avenue bus wended its way, jouncing its patrons, particularly
those on the top seats, across town, and turned into Riverside Drive. A
short distance behind the bus, a limousine rolled down the cross street
leisurely, silently.
As the lights of passing craft on the Hudson and a myriad scintillating,
luminous points dotting the west shore came into view, Jimmie Dale rose
impulsively from his seat on the top of the bus, descended the little
circular iron ladder at the rear, and dropped off into the street.
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