be the man that Kline and the secret service of the United States would never cease hunting for, and that would mean that he could never reassume a character that was as necessary for his protection as breath was to life, so long as the Gray Seal worked.  True, he could change now to Jimmie Dale, but he would have to change back again and return to the Sanctuary before morning, as Larry the Bat—­and remain there until Kline, beaten, called off his human bloodhounds.  No, a change was not to be thought of.

What, then, would he require—­that compact little kit of burglar tools, rolled in its leather jacket, that, unrolled slipped about his body like a close-fitting undervest?  As well to take it anyway.  He removed his coat and vest, took out the leather bundle from the safe, untied the thongs that bound it together, unrolled it, passed it around his body, life belt fashion, secured the thongs over his shoulders, and put on his coat and vest again.  A revolver, a flashlight?  He had both—­at the Sanctuary, under the flooring—­but there were duplicates here!  He slipped them into his pockets.  Anything else—­to forestall and provide for any possible contingency?  He hesitated again for a moment, thinking, then slowly closed the inner door of the safe, locked it, swung the outer door shut—­and, in the act of twirling the knobs, sprang suddenly to his feet.  Sharp, shrill in the stillness of the room, the telephone bell on the desk rang out clamourously.

Jimmie Dale’s face set hard, as he leaped out from behind the curtain—­had Jason heard it!  It rang again before he could reach the desk—­was ringing as he snatched the receiver from the hook.

“Yes, yes!” he called, in a low, guarded, hasty way, into the mouthpiece.  “Hello!  What is it?” And then one hand, resting on the desk, closed around the edge, and tightened until the skin over the knuckles grew ivory white.  It was—­she!  She!  It was her voice—­he had only heard it once in all his life—­that night, two nights before, in a silvery laugh from the limousine as it had sped away from him down the road—­but he knew!  It thrilled him now with a mad rhapsody, robbing him for the moment of every thought save that she was living, real, existent—­that it was her voice.  “It’s you—­you!” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, Jimmie—­you at last!”—­it came in a little gasping cry of relief.  “The letter—­”

“Yes, I’ve got it—­it’s all right—­it’s all right”—­the words would not seem to come fast enough in his desperate haste.  “But it’s you now.  Listen!  Listen!” he pleaded.  “Tell me who you are!  My God! how I’ve tried to find you, and—­”

That rippling, silvery laugh again, but now, too, it seemed to his eager ear, with just the faintest note of wistfulness in it.

“Some day, Jimmie.  That letter now.  It—­”

Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly—­Jason’s steps, running, sounded outside the room along the corridor—­there was not an instant to lose.