Jimmie Dale did not slouch now.  And for all his disreputable attire, incongruous as it was in that neighbourhood, few people that he passed paid any attention to him, none gave him more than a casual glance—­Jimmie Dale swung along, upright, with no attempt to make himself inconspicuous, hurrying a little, as one intent upon a definite errand.  As he neared his house he slowed his pace a little until a couple, who were passing in front of it, had gone on; then he went up the steps, but noiselessly as a shadow now, to the front door, opened it softly, closed it softly behind him, and crouched for a moment in the vestibule.

Through the monogrammed lace on the plate glass of the inner doors he could see, a little indistinctly, into the reception hall beyond.  The hall was empty.  Jason, for that matter, would be the only one likely to be about; the other servants would have no business there in any case, and whether in their quarters above or below, they had their own stairs at the rear.

Jimmie Dale inserted the key in the spring lock, and opened the door a cautious fraction of an inch—­to listen.  There was no sound—­yes, a subdued murmured—­the servants were downstairs in the basement.  He slipped inside, slipped, in a flash, across the hall, and, treading like a cat, went up the stairs.  He scarcely seemed to breathe until, with a little sigh of relief, he stood inside his den on the first floor, with the door shut behind him.

“I must speak to Jason about being a little more watchful,” muttered Jimmie Dale facetiously.  “Here’s all my property at the mercy of—­Larry the Bat!”

An instant he stood by the door, looking about him—­in the bright moonlight streaming in through the side windows the room’s appointments stood out in soft shadows, the huge davenport, the great, luxurious easy-chairs, an easel with a half-finished canvas, as he had left it; the big, flat-topped, rosewood desk, the open fireplace—­and then, his steps silent on the thick velvet rug under foot, he walked quickly to the desk.

Yes, there it was—­the letter.  He placed it hurriedly in his pocket—­the moonlight was not strong enough to read by, and he dared not turn on the lights.

And now money—­funds.  In the alcove behind the portiere, Jimmie Dale dropped on his knees before the squat, barrel-shaped safe, and opened it.  He reached inside, took out a package of banknotes, placed the bills in his pocket—­and hesitated a moment.  What else would he require?  What act did that letter call upon the Gray Seal to perform in the next few hours?  Jimmie Dale stared thoughtfully into the interior of the safe.  Whatever it was, it must be performed in the role of Larry the Bat, for though he could get into his dressing room now, and become Jimmie Dale again, there were still those watchers outside the Sanctuary—­they must not become suspicious—­and if Larry the Bat disappeared mysteriously, Larry the Bat would