“Very good, Jason,” he said quietly.  “Don’t bother about it any more.  It will be all right.  You can expect me when you see me.  Good-night.”  He hung the receiver on the hook, walked out of the booth, and mechanically reached the street.

All right!  It was far from “all right”—­very far from it.  It was no trivial thing, that letter; they never had been trivial things, those letters of hers, that involved so often a matter of life and death—­as this one now, perhaps, as her actions would seem to indicate, involved life and death more urgently than any that had gone before.  It was far from all right—­at a moment when his own position, his own safety, was at best but a desperate chance; when his every energy, brain, wit, and cunning were taxed to the utmost to save himself!  And yet, somehow, some way, at any cost, he must get that letter—­and at any cost he must act upon it!  To fail her was to fail utterly in everything that failure in its most miserable, its widest sense, implied—­failure in that which rose paramount to every other consideration in life!

Fail her!  Jimmie Dale’s lips thinned into a hard, drawn line—­and then parted slowly in a curiously whimsical smile.  It would be a strange burglary that he had decided upon, in order that he might not fail her—­stranger than any the Gray Seal had ever committed, and, in some respects, even more perilous!

He started along the Bowery, walking briskly now, toward the nearest subway station, at Astor Place, his mind for the moment electing to face the situation in a humour as whimsical as his smile.  Supposing that, as Larry the Bat, he were caught and arrested during the next hour, in Jimmie’s Dale’s residence on Riverside Drive!  With his arrest as Larry the Bat, Jimmie’s Dale would automatically disappear.  Would follow then the suspicion that Jimmie Dale, the millionaire, had met with foul play, and as time went on, and Jimmie Dale, being then in prison as Larry the Bat, did not reappear, the assurance of it; then the certainty that suspicion would focus on Larry the Bat as being connected with the millionaire’s death, since Larry the Bat had been caught in Jimmie Dale’s home—­and he would be accused of his own murder!  It was quite humourous, of course, quite grotesquely bizarre—­but it was equally an exceedingly grim possibility!  There were drawbacks to a dual personality!

“In a word,” confided Jimmie Dale softly to himself, and a serious light crept into the dark, steady eyes, “I’m in a bit of a nasty mess!”

At Astor Place he entered the subway; at Fourteenth Street he changed to an express, and at Ninety-sixth Street he got out.  It was but a short walk west to Riverside Drive, and from there his house was only a few blocks farther on.