A block down, he turned from Broadway out of the theatre crowds that streamed in both directions past him.  The letter!  Almost feverishly now he was seeking an opportunity to open and read it unobserved; an eagerness upon him that mingled exhilaration at the lure of danger with a sense of premonition that, irritably, inevitably was with him at moments such as these.  It seemed, it always seemed, that, with an unopened letter of hers in his possession, it was as though he were about to open a page in the Book of Fate and read, as it were, a pronouncement upon himself that might mean life or death.

He hurried on.  People still passed by him—­too many.  And then a cafe, just ahead, making a corner, gave him the opportunity that he sought.  Away from the entrance, on the side street, the brilliant lights from the windows shone out on a comparatively deserted pavement.  There was ample light to read by, even as far away from the window as the curb, and Jimmie Dale, with an approving nod, turned the corner and walked along a few steps until opposite the farthest window—­but, as he halted here at the edge of the street, he glanced quickly behind him at a man whom he had just passed.  The other had paused at the corner and was staring down the street.  Jimmie Dale instantly and nonchalantly produced his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and fastidiously tapped its end on his thumb nail.

“Inspector Burton in plain clothes,” he observed musingly to himself.  “I wonder if it’s just a fluke—­or something else?  We’ll see.”

Jimmie Dale took a box of matches from his pocket.  The first would not light.  The second broke, and, with an exclamation of annoyance, he flung it away.  The third was making a fitful effort at life, as another man emerged hastily from the cafe’s side door, hurried to the corner, joined the man who was still loitering there, and both together disappeared at a rapid pace down the street.

Jimmie Dale whistled softly to himself.  The second man was even better known than the first; there was not a crook in New York but would side-step Lannigan of headquarters, and do it with amazing celerity—­if he could!

“Something up!  But it’s not my hunt!” muttered Jimmie Dale; then, with a shrug of his shoulders:  “Queer the way those headquarters chaps fascinate and give me a thrill every time I see them, even if I haven’t a ghost of a reason for imagining that—­”

The sentence was never finished.  Jimmie Dale’s face was gray.  The street seemed to rock about him—­and he stared, like a man stricken, white to the lips, ahead of him.  The letter was gone!  His hand, wriggling from his empty pocket, swept away the sweat beads that were bursting from his forehead.  It had come at last—­the pitcher had gone once too often to the well!

Numbed for an instant, his brain cleared now, working with lightning speed, leaping from premise to conclusion.  The crush in the theatre lobby—­the pushing, the jostling, the close contact—­the Wowzer, the slickest, cleverest pickpocket in the United States!  For a moment he could have laughed aloud in a sort of ghastly, defiant mockery—­he himself had predicted an unexpected aftermath, had he not!