He shook his head again. He could hardly hope for that--he had no right
to hope for anything more now than a struggle, with an inevitably fatal
ending to himself, but one in which at least he could sell his life as
dearly as possible, one in which, perhaps, he might pay the Tocsin's
score with the man he had come to find! If he could do that--well, after
all, the price was not too great!
There were no tremours of the muscles now. It was Jimmie Dale, the Gray
Seal, every faculty alert, tense, keyed up to its highest efficiency;
the brain cool, keen, and active--fighting for his life. The front door
through which he had entered was an impossibility; but there was the
window in the library that he had opened--if they would let him get that
far! That was as good a chance as any. If he made an effort to find,
say, a way to the flat above and chanced some means of escape there, it
would in no wise obviate an attack upon him, and he would only be under
the added disadvantage of unfamiliar surroundings.
Feeling out with his left hand, his automatic thrown a little forward
in his right, he began to retrace his way along the blank wall of the
corridor, pausing between each step to listen, moving silently, his
tread on the heavy carpet as noiseless as though it were some shadow
creeping there.
Stillness--utter, absolute! Always that stillness.
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