out by the day at Henry Mittel’s house on the Sound near-by—­wife intrusted map for safe-keeping and advice to Mittel—­Hamvert after map—­telephone wires cut—­room one hundred and forty-eight, corner, right, first floor, Palais-Metropole Hotel, unoccupied—­connecting doors—­quarter past nine to-night—­the Weasel—­Mittel’s house later—­the police—­look out for both the Weasel and the police, Jimmie—­”

There was more, several pages of it, explanations, specific details down to a minute description of the locality and plan of the house on the Sound.  Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on silently.  At the end he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly, as his face hardened.  Then his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds, tearing it over and over again, tearing the shreds into tiny particles.  He had not been far wrong.  From what the night promised now, this might well be the last letter.  Who knew?  There would be need of all the wit and luck and nerve to-night that the Gray Seal had ever had before.

With a jerk, Jimmie Dale roused himself from the momentary reverie into which he had fallen; and, all action now, stuffed the torn pieces of the letter into his trousers pocket to be disposed of later in the street; took off the old coat and slouch hat again, and resumed the disposal of Larry the Bat’s effects under the flooring.

This accomplished, he replaced the planking and oilcloth, stood up, put on his dress coat and light overcoat, and, from the table, stowed the black silk mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools, the flashlight, and the thin metal case away in his pockets.

Jimmie Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture, circled the room with a glance that missed no single detail—­then the light went out, the door closed behind him, locked, a dark shadow crept silently down the stairs, out through the side door into the alleyway, along the alleyway close to the wall of the tenement where it was blackest, and, satisfied that for the moment there were no passers-by, emerged on the street, walking leisurely toward the Bowery.

Once well away from the Sanctuary, however, Jimmie Dale quickened his steps; and twenty minutes later, having stopped but once to telephone to his home on Riverside Drive for his touring car, he was briskly mounting the steps of the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue.  Another twenty minutes after that, and he had dismissed Benson, his chauffeur, and, at the wheel of his big, powerful machine, was speeding uptown for the Palais-Metropole Hotel.

It was twelve minutes after nine when he drew up at the curb in front of the side entrance of the hotel—­his watch, set by guesswork, had been a little slow, and he had corrected it at the club.  He was replacing the watch in his pocket as he sauntered around the corner, and passed in through the main entrance to the big lobby.