“It is nothing,” she answered; and, evidently anxious to be rid of him, moved quickly around behind the counter.  “What kind of cigarettes do you want?”

“Egyptians—­any kind,” said Jimmie Dale, laying a bill on the counter.

He pocketed the cigarettes and his change, and turned to the door.

“Good-evening,” he said pleasantly—­and went out.

Jimmie Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly.  As he started along the street, he heard the door of the little shop close with a sort of supercareful bang, the key turned, and the latch rattle to try the door—­the little old lady was bent on making no mistake a second time!

And then the smile left Jimmie Dale’s lips, his face grew strained and serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue.  Here he paused for an instant—­there was the elevated, the surface cars—­which would be the quicker?  He looked up the avenue.  There was no train coming; the nearest surface car was blocks away.  He bit his lips in vexation—­and then with a jump he was across the street and hailing a passing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on.

“Got a fare?” called Jimmie Dale.

“No, sir,” answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt.

“Good!” Jimmie Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open.  “Do you know where the Palace Saloon on the Bowery is?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man.

Jimmie Dale held a ten-dollar bank note up before the chauffeur’s eyes.

“Earn that in four minutes, then,” he snapped—­and sprang into the cab.

The taxicab swerved around on little better than two wheels, started on a mad dash down the Avenue—­and Jimmie Dale braced himself grimly in his seat.  The cab swerved again, tore across Waverly Place, circuited Washington Square, crossed Broadway, and whirled finally into the upper end of the Bowery.

Jimmie Dale spoke once—­to himself—­plaintively.

“It’s too bad I can’t let old Carruthers in on this for a scoop with his precious morning news-Argus—­but if I get out of it alive myself, I’ll do well!  Wonder if the day’ll ever come when he finds out that his very dear friend and old college pal, Jimmie Dale, is the Gray Seal that he’s turned himself inside out for about four years now to catch, and that he’d trade his soul with the devil any time to lay hands on!  Good old Carruthers!  ’The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime’—­am I?”

The cab drew up at the curb.  Jimmie Dale sprang out, shoved the bill into the chauffeur’s hand, stepped quickly across the sidewalk, and pushed his way through the swinging doors of the Palace Saloon.  Inside leisurely and nonchalantly, he walked down past the length of the bar to a door at the rear.  This opened into a passageway that led to the side entrance of the saloon on the cross street.  Jimmie Dale emerged from the side entrance, crossed the street, retraced his steps to the Bowery, crossed over, and walked rapidly down that thoroughfare for two blocks.  Here he turned east into the cross street; and here, once more, his pace became leisurely and unhurried.