“’Ello, Chick!” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.  “Wot’s de lay?”

“‘Ello, Larry!” returned the other.  “Aw, nuthin’!  De nutcracker on Chang, dat’s all.”

“I t’ought mabbe dey was lookin’ for some guy dat was in dere,” observed Jimmie Dale.

“Nuthin’ doin’!” the other answered.  “I was in dere meself.  De whole mob beat it clean, an’ de bulls never batted an eye.  Didn’t youse pipe me make me get-away outer Shanghai’s a minute ago?  De bulls never went nowhere except into Chang’s.  Dere’s a new lootenant in de precinct inaugeratin’ himself, dat’s all.  S’long, Larry—­I gotta date.”

“S’long, Chick!” responded Jimmie Dale—­and started slowly back along the cross street.

It was not the police, then, who were interested in his movements!  Then who?  He shook his head with a little, savage, impotent gesture.  One thing was clear:  it was too early to risk a return to the Sanctuary and attempt the rehabilitation of Jimmie Dale.  If any one was on the hunt for Larry the Bat, the Sanctuary would be the last place to be overlooked.

He turned the next corner, hesitated a moment in front of a garishly lighted dance hall, and finally shuffled in through the door, made his way across the floor, nodding here and there to the elite of gangland, and, with a somewhat arrogant air of proprietorship, sat down at a table in the corner.  Little better than a tramp in appearance, certainly the most disreputable-looking object in the place, even the waiter who approached him accorded him a certain curious deference—­was not Larry the Bat the most celebrated dope fiend below the dead line?

“Gimme a mug o’ suds!” ordered Jimmie Dale, and sprawled royally back in his chair.

Under the rim of his slouch hat, pulled now far over his eyes, he searched the faces around him.  If he had been asked to pick the actors for a revel from the scum of the underworld, he could not have improved upon the gathering.  There were perhaps a hundred men and women in the room, the majority dancing, and, with the exception of a few sight-seeing slummers, they were men and women whose acquaintance with the police was intimate but not cordial—­far from cordial.

Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and sipped at the glass that had been set before him.  It was grimly ironic that he should be, not only there, but actually a factor and a part of the underworld’s intimate life!  He, Jimmie Dale, a wealthy man, a member of New York’s exclusive clubs, a member of New York’s most exclusive society!  It was inconceivable.  He smiled sardonically.  Was it?  Well, then, it was none the less true.  His life unquestionably was one unique, apart from any other man’s, but it was, for all that, actual and real.