At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and, touching
his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
"I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson," he said. "You may
take the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night."
"Very good, sir," replied the chauffeur.
"You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?" observed Jimmie Dale
casually, opening his cigarette case.
"Yes, sir," said Benson. "I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it was
important, and that you were to have it at once."
"He?" Jimmie Dale was lighting his cigarette now.
"A boy, sir," Benson amplified. "I couldn't get anything out of him. He
just said he'd been told to give it to me, and tell me to see that you
got it at once. I hope, sir, I haven't--"
"Not at all, Benson," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "It's quite all
right. Good-night, Benson."
"Good-night, sir," Benson answered, climbing back to his seat.
There was a queer little smile on Jimmie Dale's lips, as he watched the
great car swing around in the street and glide noiselessly away--a queer
little smile that still held there even after he himself had started
briskly along the avenue in a downtown direction. It was invariably the
same, always the same--the letters came unexpectedly, when least
looked for, now by this means, now by that, but always in a manner that
precluded the slightest possibility of tracing them to their source.
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