Jimmie Dale lighted the gas again, and turned the package over in his hands.  It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box; and it was wrapped in plain paper and tied with a string.  He untied the string, and still suspicious, as a man is suspicious in the knowledge that he is stalked by peril at every turn, removed the wrapper a little gingerly.  It was still without sign or marking upon it, just an ordinary cardboard box.  He lifted off the cover, and, with a short, sudden laugh, stared, a little out of countenance, at the contents.

On the top lay a white, unaddressed envelope.  Hers!  Beneath—­he emptied the box on the table—­his black silk mask, his automatic revolver, the kit of fine, small blued-steel burglar’s tools, his pocket flashlight, and the thin metal insignia case.  The Tocsin!  Impulsively Jimmie Dale turned toward the door—­and stopped.  His shoulders lifted in a shrug that, meant to be philosophical, was far from philosophical.  He could not, dared not venture far through the tenement dressed as he was; and even if he could there were three exits to the Sanctuary, a fact that now for the first time was not wholly a source of unmixed satisfaction to him; and besides—­she was gone!

Jimmie Dale opened the letter, a grim smile playing on his lips.  He had forgotten for the moment that the illusion he had cherished for years in the belief that she did not know Larry the Bat as an alias of Jimmie Dale was no more than—­an illusion.  Well, it had been a piece of consummate egotism on his part, that was all.  But, after all, what did it matter?  He had had his innings, tried in the role of Larry the Bat to solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the attempt—­and failed.  Some day, perhaps, his turn would come; some day, perhaps, she would no longer be able to elude him, unless—­the letter crackled suddenly in his fingers—­unless the house that they had built on such strange and perilous foundations crashed at some moment, without an instant’s warning, in disaster and ruin to the ground.  Who knew but that this letter now, another call to the Gray Seal to act, another peril invited, would be the last?  There must be an end some day; luck and nerve had their limitations—­it had almost ended last week!

“Dear Philanthropic Crook”—­it was the same inevitable beginning.  “You are well enough again, aren’t you, Jimmie?—­I am sending these little things back to you, for you will need them to-night.”—­Jimmie Dale read on, muttering snatches of the letter aloud:  “Michael Breen prospecting in Alaska—­map of location of rich mining claim—­Hamvert, his former partner, had previously fleeced him of fifteen thousand dollars—­his share of a deal together—­Breen was always a very poor man—­Breen later struck a claim alone; but, taking sick, came back home—­died on arrival in New York after giving map to his wife—­wife in very needy circumstances—­lives with little daughter of seven in New Rochelle—­works