SILVER MAG
There was silence between them.Minute after minute passed.
Neither spoke.
Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared abstractedly before him."We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie--we do not hold many trumps"--her words were repeating themselves over and over in his mind.They seemed to challenge him mockingly to deny what was so obviously a fact, and because he could not deny it to taunt and jeer at him--to jeer at him, when all that was held at stake hung literally upon his next move!
He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their traces--and resumed his abstracted gaze before him.
Box number four-two-eight--John Johansson--the Crime Club--the identity of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he could hit upon a clew to the solution of a single one of those things, or a single phase of one of them--if only he could glimpse a ray of light that would at least prompt action, when every moment of inaction was multiplying the odds against them!
There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on Riverside Drive--he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on them.He had though of that.In time, perhaps, he might, by so doing, discover the whereabouts of the Crime Club.In time! It was just that--he had no time! Forty-eight hours, the Tocsin insisted, was all the time that he could count upon before they would become suspicious of Jimmie Dale's "illness," before they would discover that they were watching an empty house!
He might--though this was even more hazardous--make an attempt to trace the wires that tapped those of his telephone through the basement window that gave on the garage driveway.And what then?
True, they could not lead very far away; but, even if successful, what then? They would not lead him to the Crime Club, but simply to some confederate, to some man or woman playing the part of a servant, perhaps, in the house next door, who, in turn, would have to be shadowed and watched.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.Better, of the two, to start in at once and shadow those who were shadowing his house.But that was not the way! He knew that intuitively.He hated to eliminate it from consideration, for he had no other move to take its place--but such a move was almost suicide in itself.Time, and time alone, was the vital factor.They, the Tocsin and he, must act quickly--and STRIKEthat night if they were to win.His fingers, the grimy fingers, dirty-nailed, of Larry the Bat, that none now would recognise as the slim tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers of Jimmie Dale, the fingers that had made the name of the Gray Seal famous, whose tips mocked at bars and safes and locks, and seemed to embody in themselves all the human senses, tightened spasmodically on the edge of the table.Time! Time! Time! It seemed to din in his ears.
And while he sat there powerless, impotent, the Crime Club was moving heaven and earth to find what HE must find--that package--if he was to save this woman here, the woman whom he loved, she who had been forced, through the machinations of these hell fiends, to adopt the life of a wretched hag, to exist among the dregs of the underworld, whose squalour and vice and wantonness none knew better than he!
Jimmie Dale's face set grimly.Somewhere--somewhere in the past five years of this life of hers in which she had been fighting the Crime Club, pitting that clever brain of hers against it, MUST lie a clew.She had told him her story only in baldest outline, with scarcely a reference to her own personal acts, with barely a single detail.There must be something, something that perhaps she had overlooked, something, just the merest hint of something that would supply a starting point, give him a glimmer of light.
She came back from across the room, and sank down in her chair again.She did not speak--the question, that meant life and death to them both, was in her eyes.
Jimmie answered the mute interrogation tersely.
"Not yet!" he said.Then, almost curtly, in a quick, incisive way, as the keen, alert brain began to delve and probe: "You say this man Clarke never returned to the house after that night?"She nodded her head quietly.
"You are sure of that?" he insisted.
"Yes," she said."I am sure."
"And you say that all these years you have kept a watch on the man who is posing as your uncle, and that he never went anywhere, or associated with any one, that would afford you a clew to this Crime Club?""Yes," she said again.
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke.
"It's very strange!" he said musingly, at last."So strange, in fact, that it's impossible.He must have communicated with the others, and communicated with them often.The game they were playing was too big, too full of details, to admit of any other possibility.And the telephone as an explanation isn't good enough.""And yet," she said earnestly, "possible or impossible, it is nevertheless true.That he might have succeeded in eluding me on occasions was perhaps to be expected; but that in all those years Ishould not catch him once in what, if you are correct, must have been many and repeated conferences with the same men is too improbable to be thought of seriously."Jimmie Dale shook his head again.
"If you had been able to watch him night and day, that might be so,"he said crisply."But, at best, you could only watch him a very small portion of the time."She smiled at him a little wanly.
"Do you think, Jimmie, from what you, as the Gray Seal, know of me, that I would have watched in any haphazard way like that?"He glanced at her with a sudden start.
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"Look at me!" she said quietly."Have you ever seen me before? Imean as I am now."
