He was gasping for breath as finally, making for the side door, he darted into the alleyway that flanked the Sanctuary.  What story would the Magpie tell?  Not the truth, of course—­that would let the Magpie in for what had happened that night, for the Magpie must be well aware that he had shot at least one of the two men in that room.  But the truth wasn’t necessary; it was foreign, and had no bearing on the one outstanding fact—­the Gray Seal was Larry the Bat.  At the present moment the Magpie had a double incentive for “getting” the Gray Seal—­the Gray Seal was the only one who could prove murder against him that night in the LaSalle mansion.  And afterwards, when the police version of the affair was made public, the Magpie, to save himself, would be careful enough to do or say nothing to contradict “Henry LaSalle’s” confession!

Larry the Bat slipped in through the door, halted there, listened; and then began to mount the rickety stairs, with his silent tread.  At the top he paused again.  Nothing—­no sound!  They were not here yet—­so far he was in time!  He stepped to the Sanctuary door, unlocked it, passed into the squalid, miserable room that had harboured him for so long as Larry the Bat, locked the door behind him, crossed quickly to the window to make sure that the shutters were closed—­and then, for the first time, as the gray light streaked in through the interstices, he was conscious that it was already dawn.  So much the more need for haste then!

He whipped out his revolver and laid it at his hand on the dilapidated table; then the flooring in the corner was up in an instant, and he began to strip off the rags of Larry the Bat.  Boots, mismated socks, the torn, patched trousers, the greasy flannel shirt, the threadbare coat, the nondescript slouch hat were thrown in a pile on the floor; and with them, from their hiding-place, the grease paints and heterogeneous collection of make-up accessories.  This done, he began to slip on the clothes of Jimmie Dale; and, when half dressed, turned to the table again to remove the characteristic grime, stain, and paint of Larry the Bat from face, hands, wrists, throat, and neck.  This was a longer, more arduous task.  He reached for the cracked pitcher to pour more water into the basin—­and, snatching up his revolver instead, whirled to face the door.

Some one was outside!  He had caught the creak of a footstep upon the stairs.  In a flash he was across the room and crouched by the door.  Yes, the step was nearer now—­at the head of the stairs—­on the landing.  His revolver lifted, holding a steady bead on the door panel.  And then there came a low voice: 

“Jimmie!  Jimmie!  Are you there?  Quick, Jimmie!  Are you there?”

The Tocsin!  What was she doing here!  Why had he not warned her up there on the avenue, fool that he was, that of all places she was to keep away from here!

She slipped into the room as he unlocked the door.