“Dear Philanthropic Crook,” it began—­and then followed two closely written pages.  Jimmie Dale read them, his lips growing gradually tighter, a smouldering light creeping into his dark eyes, and once he emitted a short, low whistle of consternation—­that was at the end, as he read the post-script that was heavily underscored:  “Work quickly.  They will raid to-night.  Be careful.  Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in the United States secret service.”

For a brief instant longer, Jimmie Dale stood under the street lamp, his mind in a lightning-quick way cataloguing every point in her letter, viewing every point from a myriad angles, constructing, devising, mapping out a plan to dove-tail into them—­and then Jimmie Dale swung on a downtown bus.  There was neither time nor occasion to go home now—­that marvellous little kit of burglar’s tools that peeped from their tiny pockets in that curious leather undervest, and that reposed now in the safe in his den, would be useless to him to-night; besides, in the breast pocket of his coat, neatly folded, was a black silk mask, and, relics of his role of Larry the Bat, an automatic revolver, an electric flashlight, a steel jimmy, and a bunch of skeleton keys, were distributed among the other pockets of his smart tweed suit.

Jimmie Dale changed from the bus to the subway, leaving behind him, strewn over many blocks, the tiny and minute fragments into which he had torn her letter; at Astor Place he left the subway, walked to Broadway, turned uptown for a block to Eighth Street, then along Eighth Street almost to Sixth Avenue—­and stopped.

A rather shabby shop, a pitiful sort of a place, displaying in its window a heterogeneous conglomeration of cheap odds and ends, ink bottles, candy, pencils, cigarettes, pens, toys, writing pads, marbles, and a multitude of other small wares, confronted him.  Within, a little, old, sweet-faced, gray-haired woman stood behind the counter, pottering over the rearrangement of some articles on the shelves.

“My word!” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself.  “You wouldn’t believe it, would you!  And I’ve always wondered how these little stores managed to make both ends meet.  Think of that old soul making fifteen or twenty thousand dollars from a layout like this—­even if it has taken her a lifetime!”

Jimmie Dale had halted nonchalantly and unconcernedly by the curb, not too near the window, busied apparently in an effort to light a refractory cigarette; and then, about to enter the store, he gazed aimlessly across the street for a moment instead.  A man came briskly around the corner from Sixth Avenue, opened the store door, and went in.

Jimmie Dale drew back a little, and turned his head again as the door closed—­and a sudden, quick, alert, and startled look spread over his face.

The man who had entered bent over the counter and spoke to the old lady.  She seemed to listen with a dawning terror creeping over her features, and then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears.  The man motioned toward a door at the rear of the store.  She hesitated, then came out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though her limbs would not support her weight.