A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York they had committed under his leadership; and then, it seemed, they had quarrelled furiously, the three pitted against Stangeist, threatening him, demanding a more equitable share of the proceeds.  None was better aware than Stangeist that threats from men of their calibre were likely to result in a grim aftermath—­and Stangeist, yesterday, the Tocsin said, had answered them as no other man than Stangeist would either have thought of or have dared to do.  One by one, at separate times, covering the other with a revolver, Stangeist had permitted them to read a document that was addressed to the district attorney.  It was a confession, complete in every detail, of every crime the four together had committed, implicating Stangeist as fully and unreservedly as it did the other three.  It required no commentary!  If anything happened to Stangeist, a stab in the dark, for instance, a bullet from some dark alleyway, a blackjack deftly wielded, as only Australian Ike, The Mope or Clarie Deane knew how to wield it—­the document automatically became a death sentence for Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane!

It was very simple—­and, evidently, it had been effective, as witness the renewal of their operations in the murder of Roessle that afternoon.  Fear and avarice had both probably played their part; fear of the man who would with such consummate nerve fling his life into the balance to turn the tables upon them, while he jeered at them; avarice that prompted them to get what they could out of Stangeist’s brains and leadership, and to be satisfied with what they could get—­since they could get no more!

Satisfied?  Jimmie Dale shook his head.  No; that was hardly the word—­cowed, perhaps, for the moment, would be better.  But afterward, with a document like that in existence, when they would never be safe for an instant—­well, beasts in the cages had been known to get the better of the man with the whip, and beasts were gentle things compared with Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane!  Some day they would reverse the tables on the Indian Chief—­if they could.  And if they couldn’t it would not be for the lack of trying.

There would be another act in that drama of the House Divided before the curtain fell!  And there would be a sort of grim, poetic justice in it, a temptation almost to let the play work itself out to its own inevitable conclusion, only—­Jimmie Dale, the final touches given to his features, stood up, and his hands clenched suddenly, fiercely—­it was not just the man higher up alone, there were the other three as well, the whole four of them, all of them, crimes without number at their door, brutal, fiendish acts, damnable outrages, murder to answer for, with which the public now was beginning to connect the name of the Gray Seal!  The Gray Seal!

Jimmie Dale’s hands, whose delicate fingers were artfully grimed and blackened now beneath the nails, clenched still tighter—­and then, with a quick shrug of his shoulders, a thinning of the firmly compressed lips, he picked up the coat from where it lay upon the floor, put it on, put the money that was on the table in his pocket, and replaced the box under the flooring.