No; gangland struck more swiftly, with less finesse than
that--the "cat-and-mouse" act was never one it favoured, for the mouse
had been known to get away.
Jimmie Dale lighted the gas again, and turned the package over in his
hands. It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box; and it was
wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. He untied the string,
and still suspicious, as a man is suspicious in the knowledge that he is
stalked by peril at every turn, removed the wrapper a little gingerly.
It was still without sign or marking upon it, just an ordinary cardboard
box. He lifted off the cover, and, with a short, sudden laugh, stared, a
little out of countenance, at the contents.
On the top lay a white, unaddressed envelope. HERS! Beneath--he emptied
the box on the table--his black silk mask, his automatic revolver, the
kit of fine, small blued-steel burglar's tools, his pocket flashlight,
and the thin metal insignia case. The Tocsin! Impulsively Jimmie Dale
turned toward the door--and stopped. His shoulders lifted in a shrug
that, meant to be philosophical, was far from philosophical. He could
not, dared not venture far through the tenement dressed as he was; and
even if he could there were three exits to the Sanctuary, a fact that
now for the first time was not wholly a source of unmixed satisfaction
to him; and besides--she was gone!
Jimmie Dale opened the letter, a grim smile playing on his lips.
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