And then, taking out the Tocsin's letter, he laid it
upon the table, placed what money he had in his pockets beside it, and
began rapidly to remove his clothes. The Sanctuary had not been invaded
since his last visit there.
He turned back the oilcloth in the far corner of the room, took up the
piece of loose flooring, which, however, strangely enough, fitted
so closely as to give no sign of its existence even should it
inadvertently, by some curious visitor again be trod upon; and from the
aperture beneath lifted out a bundle of clothes and a small box.
Undressed now, he carefully folded the clothes he had taken off, laid
them under the flooring, and began to dress again, his wardrobe supplied
by the bundle he had taken out in exchange--an old pair of shoes, the
laces broken; mismated socks; patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms; a
soiled shirt, collarless, open at the neck. Attired to his satisfaction,
he placed the box upon the table, propped up a cracked mirror, sat down
in front of it, and, with a deft, artist's touch, began to apply stain
to his hands, wrists, neck, throat, and face--but the hardness, the grim
menace that now grew into the dominant characteristic of his features
was not due to the stain alone.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--his eyes were on the Tocsin's letter that
lay before him. He read on--for once, even to Jimmie Dale's keen, facile
mind, a first reading had failed to convey the full significance of what
she had written.
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