“Glad to know you, gents,” said Spider Jack, with a handgrip apiece.

The chauffeur lowered his voice a little.

“I suppose we’re alone here, eh, Spider?  Yes?  Well, then, you know what I’ve come for—­that package—­Marvin and Stead, here, are the ones that are in on it with me.  Get it for me, will you, Spider?”

“Sure—­Mr. Johansson!” Spider grinned.  “Sure!  Come on into the back room and make yourselves comfortable.  I’ll be mabbe five minutes, or so.”

Jimmie Dale’s brain was whirling.  What did it mean?  He could not seem to understand.  His mind seemed to refuse its functions.  Travers, the chauffeur—­alive!  He drew in his breath sharply.  That curtain in the corner!  He must see this out now!  They were coming!  Quick, noiseless, he stole along the side of the wall, reached the corner, and slipped in behind the curtain, as Spider Jack, striking a match, entered the room.

Spider Jack lighted the gas, and, as the others followed behind him, waved them toward the chairs around the table.

“I’ll just ask you gents not to leave the room,” he said meaningly, over his shoulder, as he stepped toward the rear door.  “It’s kind of a fad of mine to keep some things even from my wife!”

“All right, Spider—­I understand,” the chauffeur returned readily.

Jimmie Dale’s knife cut a tiny slit in the cretonne on a level with his eyes.  The three men had seated themselves at the table, and appeared to be listening intently.  Spider Jack’s footsteps echoed back as he crossed the rear room, sounded dull and muffled descending the stoop outside, and died away.

“I told you it wasn’t in the house!” the man who had been introduced as Stead laughed shortly.  “We wasted the hour we had here.”

The third man spoke crisply, incisively, to the chauffeur.

“Turn down that gas jet a little!  You’ve got across with it so far—­but you can’t stand a searchlight, Clarke!”

And at the words, in a flash, the meaning of it, all of it, to the last detail that was spelling death, ruin, and disaster for her, the Tocsin, for himself as well, burst upon Jimmie Dale.  That voice!  He would have known it, recognised it, among a thousand—­it was the masked man of the night before, the leader, the head of the Crime Club!  And it was not Travers there at all!  He remembered now, too well, that second room they had showed him in the Crime Club—­its multitude of disguises, though in this case they had the dead man’s clothes ready to their hands—­the leader’s boast that impersonation was but child’s play to them!  And now he understood why they had covered up the traces of their search in only so curiously inadequate a manner.  They had failed to find the package, and, as a last resort, had adopted the ruse of impersonating Hilton Travers, the chauffeur, which made it necessary that when they called Spider Jack from his bed, as they had just done, that Spider