The minutes flew by.
It was not the change of clothing that took long--it was the eradication
of Larry the Bat's make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, and
hands. Occasionally his head was turned in a tense, listening attitude;
but always the fingers were busy, working with swift deftness.
It was done at last. Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place
stood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York,
immaculate in well-tailored tweeds. He stooped to the hole in the
flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, took
out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight--his automatic was
already in his possession. His lips parted grimly. Who knew what part
a flashlight might not play--and he would need the mask for Lannigan's
benefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mack. Had he left
any telltale evidence of his visit? It was almost worth the risk of a
light to make sure. He hesitated, then shook his head, and, stooping
again, carefully replaced the flooring and laid the oilcloth over it--he
dared not show a light at any cost.
But now even more caution than before was necessary. At times, the
lodgers had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the Bat,
enter and leave the tenement--none had ever seen Jimmie Dale either
leave or enter. He stole across the room to the door, halted to assure
himself that the hall was empty, slipped out into the hall, and locked
the door behind him.
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