She had caught him—­how he did not know—­he had never seen her—­did not know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energies for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery.  The morning following the Maiden Lane affair, indeed, before he had breakfasted, Jason had brought him the first letter from her.  It had started by detailing his every move of the night before—­and it had ended with an ultimatum:  “The cleverness, the originality of the Gray Seal as a crook lacked but one thing,” she had naively written, “and that one thing was that his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels that were worthy of his genius.”  In a word, she would plan the coups, and he would act at her dictation and execute them—­or else how did twenty years in Sing Sing for that little Maiden Lane affair appeal to him?  He was to answer by the next morning, a simple “yes” or “no” in the personal column of the morning news-Argus.

A threat to a man like Jimmie Dale was like flaunting a red rag at a bull, and a rage ungovernable had surged upon him.  Then cold reason had come.  He was caught—­there was no question about that—­she had taken pains to show him that he need make no mistake there.  Innocent enough in his own conscience, as far as actual theft went, for the pearls would in due course be restored in some way to the possession of their owner, he would have been unable to make even his own father, who was alive then, believe in his innocence, let alone a jury of his peers.  Dishonour, shame, ignominy, a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, and there was but one alternative—­to link hands with this unseen, mysterious accomplice.  Well, he could at least temporise, he could always “queer” a game in some specious manner, if he were pushed too far.  And so, in the next morning’s news-Argus, Jimmie Dale had answered “yes.”  And then had followed those years in which there had been no temporising, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail, those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs that Carruthers had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the old headquarters on Mulberry Street to its foundations, until the Gray Seal had become a name to conjure with.  And, yes, it was quite true, he had entered into it all, gone the limit, with an eagerness that was insatiable.

The bus had reached the lower end of Fifth Avenue, passed through Washington Square, and stopped at the end of its run.  Jimmie Dale clambered down from the top, threw a pleasant “good-night” to the conductor, and headed briskly down the street before him.  A little later he crossed into West Broadway, and his pace slowed to a leisurely stroll.