The underworld had received a shock at which it stood aghast, and which, with its terrifying possibilities, struck consternation into the soul of every individual of that brotherhood whose bond was crime, who was already “wanted” for some offence or other, whether it ranged from murder in the first degree to some petty piece of sneak thievery.  Stangeist, the Indian chief, the lawyer whose cunning brain had stood as a rampart between the underworld and a prison cell, was himself now in the Tombs with the certainty of the electric chair before him; and with him, the same fate equally assured, were Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane!  Aristocrats of the Bad Lands, peers of that inglorious realm were those four—­and the blow had fallen with stunning force, a blow that in itself would have been enough to have stirred the underworld to its depths.  But that was not all—­from the cells in the Tombs, from the four came the word, and passed from mouth to mouth in that strange underground exchange until all had heard it, that the Gray Seal had “Squealed.”  The Gray Seal who, though unknown, they had counted the most eminent among themselves, had squealed!  Who was the Gray Seal?  It he had held the secrets of Stangeist and his band, what else might he not know?  Who else might not fall next?  The Gray Seal had become a snitch, a menace, a source of danger that stalked among them like a ghastly spectre.  Who was the Gray Seal?  None knew.

“Death to the Gray Seal!  Run him to earth!” went the whisper from lip to lip; and with the whisper men stared uncertainly into each other’s faces, fearful that the one to whom they spoke might even be—­the Gray Seal!

Jimmie Dale’s lips twisted queerly as he looked around him at the squalid appointments of the Sanctuary.  The police were bad enough, the papers were worse; but this was a still graver peril.  With every denizen of the underworld below the dead line suspicious of each other, their lives, the penitentiary, or a prison sentence the stakes against which each one played, the role of Larry the Bat, clever as was the make-up and disguise, was fraught now more than ever before with danger and peril.  It seemed as though slowly the net was beginning at last to tighten around him.

The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as though in acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmie Dale’s shoulders—­and Jimmie Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror that was propped up on the broken-legged table, knotted his dress tie almost fastidiously.  The hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar on his head now, the wound no longer required a bandage, and Larry the Bat, for the time being at least, had disappeared.  Across the foot of the bed, neatly folded, lay his dress coat and overcoat, but little creased for all that they had lain in that hiding-place under the flooring since the night when, hurrying from the club, he had placed them there to assume instead the tatters of Larry the Bat.  It was Jimmie Dale in his own person again who stood there now in Larry the Bat’s disreputable den, an incongruous figure enough against the background of his miserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, the broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in the poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet.