There was no light.  He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from the alleyway.  He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and there.  It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than the surrounding darkness, flitting about the room.  The oilcloth in the corner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of Jimmie Dale taken out, the rags of Larry the Bat put in.  The minutes flew by.  It was not the change of clothing that took long—­it was the eradication of Larry the Bat’s make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, and hands.  Occasionally his head was turned in a tense, listening attitude; but always the fingers were busy, working with swift deftness.

It was done at last.  Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place stood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York, immaculate in well-tailored tweeds.  He stooped to the hole in the flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, took out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight—­his automatic was already in his possession.  His lips parted grimly.  Who knew what part a flashlight might not play—­and he would need the mask for Lannigan’s benefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mack.  Had he left any telltale evidence of his visit?  It was almost worth the risk of a light to make sure.  He hesitated, then shook his head, and, stooping again, carefully replaced the flooring and laid the oilcloth over it—­he dared not show a light at any cost.

But now even more caution than before was necessary.  At times, the lodgers had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the Bat, enter and leave the tenement—­none had ever seen Jimmie Dale either leave or enter.  He stole across the room to the door, halted to assure himself that the hall was empty, slipped out into the hall, and locked the door behind him.  Again that trained, long-practiced, silent tread upon the stairs.  It seemed as though an hour passed before he reached the bottom, and his brain was shrieking at him to hurry, hurry, hurry!  The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath of relief—­and he was on the cross street.

A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery—­and he was bending down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic, from his side pocket, concealed in his hand.  Was that some one there?  He could have sworn he saw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps of the house on the opposite side of the street as he had emerged from the alleyway.  In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his eyes swept sharply up and down the other side of the ill-lighted street.  Nothing!  There was not even a pedestrian in sight on the block from there to the Bowery.

Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantly again, as though the lace were still proving refractory.  Again that sharp, searching glance.  Again—­nothing!  He went forward now in apparent unconcern; but his right hand, instead of being buried in his coat pocket, swung easily at his side.