Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on silently. At the
end he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly, as his face hardened.
Then his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds, tearing it
over and over again, tearing the shreds into tiny particles. He had not
been far wrong. From what the night promised now, this might well be the
last letter. Who knew? There would be need of all the wit and luck and
nerve to-night that the Gray Seal had ever had before.
With a jerk, Jimmie Dale roused himself from the momentary reverie into
which he had fallen; and, all action now, stuffed the torn pieces of the
letter into his trousers pocket to be disposed of later in the street;
took off the old coat and slouch hat again, and resumed the disposal of
Larry the Bat's effects under the flooring.
This accomplished, he replaced the planking and oilcloth, stood up, put
on his dress coat and light overcoat, and, from the table, stowed the
black silk mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools, the flashlight,
and the thin metal case away in his pockets.
Jimmie Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture, circled the room with a
glance that missed no single detail--then the light went out, the door
closed behind him, locked, a dark shadow crept silently down the stairs,
out through the side door into the alleyway, along the alleyway close to
the wall of the tenement where it was blackest, and, satisfied that
for the moment there were no passers-by, emerged on the street, walking
leisurely toward the Bowery.
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