Usually, to
the smallest detail, everything was laid open, clear before him in
those astounding letters. To-night, it was vague at best. A man had been
murdered. Connie Myers had committed the murder under circumstances that
pointed strongly to some hidden motive behind and beyond the mere chance
it afforded him to search his victim's house for the hidden cash. What
was it?
Jimmie Dale stared out at the black subway walls. The answer would not
come. Station after station passed. At Fourteenth Street he changed from
the express to a local, got out at Astor Place, and a few minutes later
was walking rapidly down the upper end of the Bowery.
The answer would not come--only the fact itself grew more and more
deeply significant. The ghastly, callous fiendishness that lured an
old, half-witted man to his death had Jimmie Dale in that grip of cold,
merciless anger again, and there was a dull flush now upon his cheeks.
Whatever it meant, whatever was behind it, one thing at least was
certain--HE WOULD GET CONNIE MYERS!
He was close to the Sanctuary now--it was down the next cross street. He
reached the corner and turned it, heading east; but his brisk walk had
changed to a nonchalant saunter--there were some people coming toward
him. It was the Gray Seal now, alert and cautious. The little group
passed by. Ahead, the tenement bordering on the black alleyway loomed
up--the Sanctuary, with its three entrances and exits; the home of Larry
the Bat.
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