Jimmie Dale’s eyes travelled around the club’s homelike, perfectly appointed room.  He nodded to a fellow member here and there, then his eyes rested musingly on his guest again.

Carruthers was staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup.

“He was the prince of crooks and the father of originality,” announced Carruthers abruptly, following the pause that had ensued.  “Half the time there wasn’t any more getting at the motive for the curious things he did, than there was getting at the Gray Seal himself.”

“Carruthers,” said Jimmy Dale, with a quick little nod of approval, “you’re positively interesting to-night.  But, so far, you’ve been kind of scouting around the outside edges without getting into the thick of it.  Let’s have some of your experiences with the Gray Seal in detail; they ought to make ripping fine yarns.”

“Not to-night, Jimmie,” said Carruthers; “it would take too long.”  He pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it—­and pushed back his chair.  “Great Scott!” he exclaimed.  “It’s nearly half-past nine.  I’d no idea we had lingered so long over dinner.  I’ll have to hurry; we’re a morning paper, you know, Jimmie.”

“What!  Really!  Is it as late as that.”  Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as Carruthers stood up.  “Well, if you must—­”

“I must,” said Carruthers, with a laugh.

“All right, O slave.”  Jimmie Dale laughed back—­and slipped his hand, a trick of their old college days together, through Carruthers’ arm as they left the room.

He accompanied Carruthers downstairs to the door of the club, and saw his guest into a taxi; then he returned inside, sauntered through the billiard room, and from there into one of the cardrooms, where, pressed into a game, he played several rubbers of bridge before going home.

It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Jimmie Dale arrived at his house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant.

“Hello, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly.  “You still up!”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jason, who had been valet to Jimmie Dale’s father before him.  “I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o’clock, when a messenger came with a letter.  Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, and—­”

“Jason”—­Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sudden, quick, imperative—­“what did she look like?”

“Why—­why, I don’t exactly know as I could describe her, sir,” stammered Jason, taken aback.  “Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance, and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face.”

“Hair and eyes—­what color?” demanded Jimmie Dale crisply.  “Nose, lips, chin—­what shape?”

“Why, sir,” gasped Jason, staring at his master, “I—­I don’t rightly know.  I wouldn’t call her fair or dark, something between.  I didn’t take particular notice, and it wasn’t overlight outside the door.”

“It’s too bad you weren’t a younger man, Jason,” commented Jimmie Dale, with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice.  “I’d have given a year’s income for your opportunity to-night, Jason.”