The Adventures of Jimmie Dale | Page 6

get away from you until I've come."
Jason gazed at his master as though the other had lost his reason.
"Use force, sir?" he repeated weakly--and shook his head. "You--you
can't mean that, sir."
"Can't I?" inquired Jimmie Dale, with a mirthless smile. "I mean every
word of it, Jason--and if I thought there was the slightest chance of her
giving you the opportunity, I'd be more imperative still. As it
is--where's the letter?"
"On the table in your studio, sir," said Jason, mechanically.
Jimmie Dale started toward the stairs--then turned and came back to
where Jason, still shaking his head heavily, had been gazing anxiously
after his master. Jimmie Dale laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.
"Jason," he said kindly, with a swift change of mood, "you've been a
long time in the family--first with father, and now with me. You'd do a
good deal for me, wouldn't you?"
"I'd do anything in the world for you, Master Jim," said the old man
earnestly.
"Well, then, remember this," said Jimmie Dale slowly, looking into the
other's eyes, "remember this--keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.
It's my fault. I should have warned you long ago, but I never dreamed
that she would ever come here herself. There have been times when it
was practically a matter of life and death to me to know who that
woman is that you saw to-night. That's all, Jason. Now go to bed."

"Master Jim," said the old man simply, "thank you, sir, thank you for
trusting me. I've dandled you on my knee when you were a baby,
Master Jim. I don't know what it's about, and it isn't for me to ask. I
thought, sir, that maybe you were having a little fun with me. But I
know now, and you can trust me, Master Jim, if she ever comes again."
"Thank you, Jason," said Jimmie Dale, his hand closing with an
appreciative pressure on the other's shoulder "Good-night, Jason."
Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmie Dale opened a door, closed and
locked it behind him--and the electric switch clicked under his fingers.
A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. It was a large
room, a very large room, running the entire depth of the house, and the
effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of its appointments
seemed to breathe a sense of charm. There were great cozy, deep,
leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-covered davenport, and
an easel or two with half- finished sketches upon them; the walls were
panelled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in the centre of
the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor was a dark,
heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great,
old- fashioned fireplace at one side of the room.
For an instant Jimmie Dale remained quietly by the door, as though
listening. Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, like a
well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about
him--the grace and ease of power in his poise. His strong, clean-shaven
face, as the light fell upon it now, was serious--a mood that became
him well--the firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a
frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped.
Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up an
envelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest
lounging chair.
There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel. It was precisely
what he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken. It
was the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the
same old haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it. Jimmie Dale's

hands turned the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it.
Wonderful hands were Jimmie Dale's, with long, slim, tapering fingers
whose sensitive tips seemed now as though they were striving to
decipher the message within.
He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. Five
closely written sheets fell into his hand. He read them slowly, critically,
read them over again; and then, his eyes on the rug at his feet, he began
to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers, depositing the
pieces, as he tore them, upon the arm of his chair. The five sheets
demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds on the arm of the
chair and tore them over and over again, tore them until they were
scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and
mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet.
Then with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to
present reality,