His
eyes swept the room with a swift, critical glance--evidences of Larry
the Bat, the clothes, were still about, even if he in the person of
Jimmie Dale, alone damning enough, were not standing there himself.
And he was even weaponless--the Tocsin had taken the revolver from
his pocket, together with those other telltale articles, the mask, the
flashlight, the little blued-steel tools, before she had intrusted him
that night, wounded and unconscious, to Hanson's care.
Jimmie Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched up
the old coat and hat from the pile, put them on, and, without a
sound, reached the gas jet and turned it off. A second had gone by--no
more--the knocking still sounded insistently on the door. It was dark
now, perfectly black. He started across the room, his tread absolutely
silent as the trained muscles, relaxing, threw the body weight gradually
upon one foot before the next step was taken. It was like a shadow,
a little blacker in outline than the surrounding blackness, stealing
across the floor.
Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had ceased. He listened
intently. It was not repeated. Instead, his ear caught a guarded step
retreating outside in the hall. Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief.
He went on again to the door, still listening. Was it a trap--that step
outside?
At the door now, tense, alert, he lowered his ear to the keyhole.
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