The Adventures of Jimmie Dale | Page 7

a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the
pieces of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid
them down in a little pile, and set them afire. Lighting a cigarette, he
watched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred
scrap; then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled
fender brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, flung back a
portiere from where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his
knees in front of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe--one of his own
design and planning in the years when he had been with his father.
His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and
dials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch
alone--and the door swung open. Within was another door, with locks
and bolts as intricate and massive as the outer one. This, too, he opened;
and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather
bundle tied together with thongs. He rose from his knees, closed the
safe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again. With the bundle
under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently,
then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off the lights
and went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor. Here,
divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark

tweed suit with loose-fitting, sack coat from his wardrobe, and began to
put it on.
Dressed, all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle that he
had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out to
its full length--and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged his lips.
Rolled the opposite away from that in which it had been tied up, the
leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat after the fashion
of a life preserver, the thongs being used for shoulder straps--a belt that,
once on, the vest would hide completely, and, fitting close, left no
telltale bulge in the outer garments. It was not an ordinary belt; it was
full of stout-sewn, up-right little pockets all the way around, and in the
pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blued-steel, highly tempered
instruments--a compact, powerful burglar's kit.
The slim, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over
the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a
thin, flat metal case. This Jimmie Dale opened, and glanced
inside--between sheets of oil paper lay little rows of GRAY,
ADHESIVE, DIAMOND-SHAPED SEALS.
Jimmie Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from
another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for
examination.
"Pretty good shape after a year," muttered Jimmie Dale, replacing it.
He put on the belt, then his vest and coat. From the drawer of his
dresser he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, slipped
them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs. From the hat stand he
chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes-- and left the
house.
Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to
the top. It was late, and he found himself the only passenger. He
inserted his dime in the conductor's little resonant-belled cash receiver,
and then settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat.

On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, and headed
for Fifth Avenue--but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quite
oblivious of its movements.
It was a year since she had written him. SHE! Jimmie Dale did not
smile, his lips were pressed hard together. Not a very intimate or
personal appellation, that--but he knew her by no other. It WAS a
woman, surely--the hand-writing was feminine, the diction eminently
so--and had SHE not come herself that night to Jason! He remembered
the last letter, apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her.
It was a year ago now--and the letter had been hardly more than a note.
The police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Gray Seal, the
papers had grown absolutely maudlin--and she had written, in her
characteristic way:
Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's let them cool for
a year.
Since then until to-night he had heard nothing from her. It was a
strange compact that he had entered into--so strange that it could never
have known, could never know a parallel--unique, dangerous, bizarre, it
was all that and more. It had begun really through his connection with
his father's business--the business of manufacturing safes that should
defy the cleverest criminals--when his brains, turned into that channel,