That was really the gist of it.  And yesterday morning he had remembered, to his dismay, that he had had little or no money left the night before.  He had intended, of course, to replenish his supply—­when he got home.  Only he hadn’t gone home!  And now he needed money—­needed it badly, desperately.  With thousands in the bank, with abundance even in his safe, in his own den at home, a supply kept there always for an emergency, he was facing actual want—­he rattled two dimes, a nickel, and a few odd pennies thoughtfully against the keys in his pocket.

To a certain extent, old Jason, his butler, could be trusted.  Jason even knew that mysterious letters of tremendous secretive importance came to the house, and the old man always meant well—­but he dared not trust even Jason with the secret of his dual personality.  What was he to do?  He needed money imperatively—­at once.  Thanks to Kline, for the time being, at least, he could not rid himself of the personality of Larry the Bat by the simple expedient or slipping into the clothes of Jimmie Dale—­he must live, act, and remain Larry the Bat until the secret service officer gave up the hunt.  How bridge the gulf between Jimmie Dale and Larry the Bat in old Jason’s eyes!

Nor was that all.  There was still another matter, and one that, in order to counteract it, demanded at once a serious inroad—­to the extent of a telephone call—­upon his slender capital.  A too prolonged and unaccounted-for absence from home, and old Jason, in his anxious, blundering solicitude, would have the fat in the fire at that end—­and the city, and the social firmament thereof, would be humming with the startling news of the disappearance of a well-known millionaire.  The complications that would then ensue, with himself powerless to lift a finger, Jimmie Dale did not care to think about—­such a contretemps must at all hazards be prevented.

Jimmie Dale reached the corner of the street, where it intersected the Bowery, and paused languidly by the curb.  No one appeared to be following.  He had not expected that there would be—­but it was as well to be sure.  He walked then a few steps along the Bowery—­and slipped suddenly into a doorway, from where he could command a view of the street corner that he had just left.  At the end of ten minutes, satisfied that no one had any concern in his immediate movements, he shambled on again down the Bowery.

There was a saloon two blocks away that boasted a private telephone booth.  Jimmie Dale made that his destination.

Larry the Bat was a very well-known character in that resort, and the bullet-headed dispenser of drinks behind the bar nodded unctuously to him over the heads of those clustered at the rail as he entered; Larry the Bat, as befitted one of the elite of the underworld, was graciously pleased to acknowledge the proletariat salutation with a curt nod.  He walked down to the end of the room, entered the telephone booth—­and was carelessly careful to close the door tightly behind him.