“Say, have youse got de pip, or do youse t’ink youse owns de earth!” a man flung at him, heaving and pushing to get by.

With a start, though he scarcely heard the man, Jimmie Dale moved on.  His brain was afire.  All the irony of the world seemed massed in a sudden, overwhelming attack upon him.  It was useless—­intuitively he had known it was useless from the instant he had heard her voice.  It was always the same—­always!  For years she had eluded him like that, come upon him without warning and disappeared, but leaving always that tangible proof of her existence—­a letter, the call of the Gray Seal to arms.  But to-night it was as it had never been before.  It was not alone baffled chagrin now, not alone the longing, the wild desire to see her face, to look into her eyes—­it was life and death.  She had come at the very moment when she, perhaps alone of all the world, could have pointed the way out, when life, liberty, everything that was common to them both was at stake, in deadly peril—­and she had gone, ignorant of it all, leaving him staggered by the very possibility of the succour that was held up before his eyes only to be snatched away without power of his to grasp it.  His intuition had not been at fault—­he had made no mistake in that shadow across the street from the Sanctuary.  It had been the Tocsin.  He had been followed; and it was she who had followed him, until, in a crowd, she had seized the opportunity of a moment ago.  Though ultimately, perhaps, it changed nothing, it was a relief in a way to know that it was she, not Whitey Mack, who had been lurking there; but her persistent, incomprehensible determination to preserve the mystery with which she surrounded herself was like now to cost them both a ghastly price.  If he could only have had one word with her—­just one word!

The letter in his hand crackled under his clenched fist.  He stared at it in a half-blind, half-bitter way.  The call of the Gray Seal to arms!  Another coup, with its incident danger and peril, that she had planned for him to execute!  He could have laughed aloud at the inhuman mockery of it.  The call of the Gray Seal to arms—­now!  When with every faculty drained to its last resource, cornered, trapped, he was fighting for his very existence!

“Jimmie, it is half-past eleven now—­hurry!” The words were jangling discordantly in his brain.

And now he laughed outright, mirthlessly.  A young girl hanging on her escort’s arm, passing, glanced at him and giggled.  It was a different Jimmie Dale for the moment.  For once his immobility had forsaken him.  He laughed again—­a sort of unnatural, desperate indifference to everything falling upon him.  What did it matter, the moment or two it would take to read the letter?  He looked around him.  He was on the corner in front of the Palace Saloon, and, turning abruptly, he stepped in through the swinging doors.  As Larry the Bat, he knew the place well.  At the rear of the barroom and along the side of the wall were some half dozen little stalls, partitioned off from each other.  Several of these were unoccupied, and he chose the one farthest from the entrance.  It was private enough; no one would disturb him.