It was Jimmie Dale in his
own person again who stood there now in Larry the Bat's disreputable
den, an incongruous figure enough against the background of his
miserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, the
broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in the
poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet.
Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound for
many days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork--it was not far
from eight o'clock--and replaced it in his pocket. Carefully then, one
at a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim, sensitive, tapering
fingers, magical masters of safes and locks and vaults of the most
intricate and modern mechanism--no single trace of grime remained,
they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat. He
nodded in satisfaction; and picked up the mirror for a final inspection
of himself, that, this time, did not miss a single line in his face or
neck. Again Jimmie Dale nodded. As though he had vanished into thin
air, as though he had never existed, not a trace of Larry the Bat
remained--except the heap of rags upon the floor, the battered slouch
hat, the frayed trousers, the patched boots with their broken laces, the
mismated socks, the grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he had
just discarded.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315