It was too late
for that now--he had already let his chance slip through his fingers.
Around the corner was Sixth Avenue, surface cars, the elevated,
taxicabs, a multitude of people, any one of a hundred ways in which
she could, and would, already have discounted pursuit from him--and,
besides, he would not even have been able to recognise her if he saw
her!
Jimmie Dale's smile was mirthless as he turned back to the car, and
picked up the glove. Why had she dropped it there? It could not have
been intentional. Why had--he began to tear suddenly at the glove's
little finger, and in another second, kneeling on the car's step, his
shoulders inside, he was holding a ring close under the little electric
bulb.
It was a gold seal ring, a small, dainty thing that bore a crest:
a bell, surmounted by a bishop's mitre--the bell, quaint in design,
harking the imagination back to some old-time belfry tower. And
underneath, in the scroll--a motto. It was a full minute before Jimmie
Dale could decipher it, for the lettering was minute and the words, of
course, reversed. It was in French: SONNEZ LE TOCSIN.
He straightened up, the glove and ring in his hand, a puzzled expression
on his face. It was strange! Had she, after all, dropped the glove
there intentionally; had she at last let down the barriers just a little
between them, and given him this little intimate sign that she--
And then Jimmie Dale laughed abruptly, self-mockingly.
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