Aftermath!  It was—­the end!  An hour, two hours, and New York would be metamorphosed into a seething caldron of humanity bubbling with the news.  It seemed that he could hear the screams of the newsboys now shouting their extras; it seemed that he could see the people, roused to frenzy, swarming in excited crowds, snatching at the papers; he seemed to hear the mob’s shouts swell in execration, in exultation—­it seemed as though all around him had gone mad.  The mystery of the Gray Seal was solved!  It was Jimmie Dale, Jimmie Dale, Jimmie, Dale, the millionaire, the lion of society—­and there was ignominy for an honoured name, and shame and disaster and convict stripes and sullen penitentiary walls—­or death!  A felon’s death—­the chair!

He was running now, his hands clenched at his sides; his mind, working subconsciously, urging him onward in a blind, as yet unrealised, objectless way.  And then gradually impulse gave way to calmer reason, and he slowed his pace to a quick, less noticeable walk.  The Wowzer!  That was it!  There was yet a chance—­the Wowzer!  A merciless rage, cold, deadly, settled upon him.  It was the Wowzer who had stolen his pocketbook, and with it the letter.  There could be no doubt of that.  Well, there would be a reckoning at least before the end!

He was in a downtown subway train now—­the roar in his ears in consonance, it seemed, with the turmoil in his brain.  But now, too, he was Jimmie Dale again; and, apart from the slightly outthrust jaw, the tight-closed lips, impassive, debonair, composed.

There was yet a chance.  As Larry the Bat he knew every den and lair below the dead line, and he knew, too, the Wowzer’s favourite haunts.  There was yet a chance, only one in a thousand, it was true, almost too pitiful to be depended upon—­but yet a chance.  The Wowzer had probably not worked alone, and he and his pal, or pals, would certainly not remain uptown either to examine or divide their spoils—­they would wait until they were safe somewhere in one of their hell holes on the East Side.  If he could find the Wowzer, reach the man before the letter was opened—­Jimmie Dale’s lips grew tighter.  That was the chance!  It he failed in that—­Jimmie Dale’s lips drooped downward in grim curves at the corners.  A chance!  Already the Wowzer had at least a half hour’s lead, and, worse still, there was no telling which one of a dozen places the man might have chosen to retreat to with his loot.

Time passed.  His mind obsessed, Jimmie Dale’s physical acts were almost wholly mechanical.  It was perhaps fifteen minutes since he had discovered the loss of the letter, and he was walking now through the heart of the Bowery.  Exactly how he had got there he could not have told; he had only a vague realisation that, following an intuitive sense of direction, he had lost not a second of time in making his way downtown.