He moistened the
adhesive side, and, still holding it by the tweezers, dropped it on
his handkerchief and pressed the seal down on the face of the topmost
package of banknotes. He tied the parcel up then, and, picking up the
pen, addressed it in printed characters:
HUDSON-MERCANTILE NATIONAL BANK,
NEW YORK CITY.
"District messenger--some way--in the morning," he murmured.
Jimmie Dale slipped his mask into his pocket, and, with the parcel under
his arm, stepped to the door and unlocked it. He paused for an instant
on the threshold for a single, quick, comprehensive glance around the
room--then passed on out into the street.
At the corner he stopped to light a cigarette--and the flame of the
match spurting up disclosed a face that was worn and haggard. He threw
the match away, smiled a little wearily--and went on.
The Gray Seal had committed another "crime."
CHAPTER VII
THE THIEF
Choosing between the snowy napery, the sparkling glass and silver, the
cozy, shaded table-lamps, the famous French chef of the ultra-exclusive
St. James Club, his own home on Riverside Drive where a dinner fit for
an epicure and served by Jason, that most perfect of butlers, awaited
him, and Marlianne's, Jimmie Dale, driving in alone in his touring car
from an afternoon's golf, had chosen--Marlianne's.
Marlianne's, if such a thing as Bohemianism, or, rather, a concrete
expression of it exists, was Bohemian.
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