“And yet,” she said earnestly, “possible or impossible, it is nevertheless true.  That he might have succeeded in eluding me on occasions was perhaps to be expected; but that in all those years I should not catch him once in what, if you are correct, must have been many and repeated conferences with the same men is too improbable to be thought of seriously.”

Jimmie Dale shook his head again.

“If you had been able to watch him night and day, that might be so,” he said crisply.  “But, at best, you could only watch him a very small portion of the time.”

She smiled at him a little wanly.

“Do you think, Jimmie, from what you, as the Gray Seal, know of me, that I would have watched in any haphazard way like that?”

He glanced at her with a sudden start.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“Look at me!” she said quietly.  “Have you ever seen me before?  I mean as I am now.”

“No,” he answered, after an instant.  “Not that I know of.”

“And yet”—­she smiled wanly again—­“you have not lived, or made the place you hold in the underworld, without having heard of Silver Mag.”

“You!” exclaimed Jimmie Dale.  “You—­Silver Mag!” He stared at her wonderingly, as, crouch-shouldered now, the hair, gray-threaded, straggling out from under the hood of a faded, dark-blue, seam-worn cloak, she sat before him, a typical creature of the underworld, her role an art in its conception, perfect in its execution.  Silver Mag!  Yes, he had heard of Silver Mag—­as every one in the Bad Lands had heard of her.  Silver Mag and her pocketful of coin!  Always a pocketful of silver, so they said, that was dispensed prodigally to the wives and children temporarily deprived of support by husbands and fathers unfortunate enough in their clashes with the law to be doing “spaces” up the river—­and therefore the underworld swore by Silver Mag.  Always silver, never a bill; Silver Mag had never been seen with a banknote—­that was her eccentricity.  Much or little, she gave or paid out of her pocketful of jangling silver.  She was credited with being a sworn enemy of the police, and—­yes, he remembered, too—­with having done “time” herself.  “I don’t quite understand,” he said, in a puzzled way.  “I haven’t run across you personally because you probably took care to see that I shouldn’t; but—­it’s no secret—­every one says you’ve served a jail sentence yourself.”

“That is simply enough explained,” she answered gravely.  “The story is of my own making.  When I decided to adopt this life, both for my own safety and as the best means of keeping a watch on that man, I knew that I must win the confidence of the underworld, that I must have help, and that in order to obtain that help I must have some excuse for my enmity against the man known as Henry LaSalle.  To be widely known in the underworld was of inestimable value—­nothing, I knew, could accomplish that as quickly as eccentricity.  You see now how