A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and
followed Benson--and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street again,
swung on a downtown car. The road to the Sanctuary was open!
In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every foot
of the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached the Bowery,
and, walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead
that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still but a quarter to
nine. But even at that he quickened his steps a little. He was free now!
There was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him. He was free! He
could strike now in his own defense--and hers! In a few moments he would
be at the Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by
to-morrow at the latest he would see--The Tocsin. After all, that "hour"
was not to be taken from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that she had
meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might be! It
was not the hour of victory. But it was the hour that meant to him the
realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he should see her,
see her for the first time face to face, when there should be no more
barriers between them, when--
"Fer Gawd's sake, mister, buy a pencil!"
A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his
ear.
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