It was locked. The slim, sensitive,
tapering fingers of Jimmie Dale, unrecognisable now in the grimy digits
of Larry the Bat, felt tentatively over the lock. To fingers that seemed
in their tips to possess all the human senses, that time and again
in their delicate touch upon the dial of a safe had mocked at human
ingenuity and driven the police into impotent frenzy, this was a pitiful
thing. From his pocket came a small steel instrument that was quickly
and deftly inserted in the keyhole. There was a click, the door swung
open, and Jimmie Dale, alias Larry the Bat, stepped outside into a back
yard half a block away from the entrance to Chang Foo's.
Again he listened. There did not appear to be any unusual excitement in
the neighbourhood. From open windows above him and from adjoining houses
came the ordinary, commonplace sounds of voices talking and laughing,
even the queer, weird notes of a Chinese chant. He stole noiselessly
across the yard, out into the lane, and made his way rapidly along to
the cross street.
In a measure, now, he was safe; but one thing, a very vital thing,
remained to be done. It was absolutely necessary that he should know
whether he was the quarry that the police had been after in the raid, if
it was the police who had been shadowing him all evening. If it was the
police, there was but one meaning to it--Larry the Bat was known to be
the Gray Seal, and a problem perilous enough in any aspect confronted
him.
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