"Luck!" muttered Jimmie Dale between his clenched teeth."Oh, the blessed luck to get that door locked! I've got time now to set the stage for my own get-away before the showdown!"He stole on along the corridor.Excerpts from her letter were running through his brain: "It would do no good to warn him, Jimmie--the Skeeter and his gang would never let up on him until they got the stones....It would do no good for you to steal them first, for they would only take that as a ruse of old Luddy's, and murder the man first and hunt afterward....In some way you must let the Skeeter SEE you steal them, make them think, make them certain that it is a bona-fide theft, so that they will no longer have any interest or any desire to do old Luddy harm....And for it to appear real to them, it must appear real to old Luddy himself--do not take any chances there."Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed.Yes, it was ****** enough now with that pack of hell's wolves guarded for the moment by a locked door, forced to give him warning by breaking the door before they could get out.It was ****** enough now to enter old Luddy's room, steal the stones at the revolver point, then make enough disturbance--when he was ready--to set the gang in motion, and, as they rushed in open him, to make his escape with the stones to the roof through Luddy's room.That was ****** enough--there was an opening to the roof in Luddy's room, she had said, and there was a ladder kept there in place.On hot nights, it seemed, the old man used to go up there and sleep on the roof--not now, of course.It was too late in the year for that--but the opening in the roof was there, and the ladder remained there, too.
Yes, it was ****** enough now.And the next morning the papers would rave with execrations against the Gray Seal--for the robbery of the life savings of a poor, defenseless old man, for committing as vile and pitiful a crime as had ever stirred New York! Even Carruthers, of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, would be moved to bitter attack.Good old Carruthers--who little thought that the Gray Seal was his old college pal, his present most intimate friend, Jimmie Dale! And afterward--after the next morning? Well, that, at least, had never been in doubt.Old Luddy could be made to leave New York, and, once away, with the Skeeter and his gang robbed of incentive to pay any further attention to him, the stones could be secretly returned to the old man.And it would to the public, to the police, be just another of the Gray Seal's crimes--that was all!
Jimmie Dale had reached old Luddy's door.The Gray Seal? Oh, yes, they would know it was the Gray Seal--the insignia was familiar enough; familiar to the crooks of the underworld, who held it in awe; familiar to the police, to whom it was an added barb of ridicule.He was placing it now, that insignia, a diamond-shaped, gray paper seal, on the panel of the door; and now, a black silk mask adjusted over his face, Jimmie Dale bent to insert the little steel instrument in the lock--a pitiful, paltry thing, a cheap lock, to fingers that could play so intimately with twirling knobs and dials, masters of the intricate mechanism of vaults and safes!
And then, about to open the door, a sort of sudden dismay fell upon him.He had not thought of that--somehow, it had not occurred to him! WHAT WAS IT THEY WERE WAITING FOR? Why had they not struck at once, as, when he had first entered the house, he had supposed they would do? What was it? Why was it? Was old Luddy out? Were they waiting for his return--or what?
The door, without sound, moved gradually under his hand.A faint odor assailed his nostrils! It was dark, very dark.Across the room, in a direct line, was the doorway of the inner room--she had explained that in her letter.It was slow progress to cross that room without sound, in silence--it was a snail's movement--for fear that even a muscle might crack.
And now he stood in the inner doorway.It was dark here, to--and yet, how bizarre, a star seemed to twinkle through the very roof of the room itself! The odour was pungent now.There was a long-drawn sigh--then a low, indescribable sound of movement.SOMEBODY, APARTFROM OLD LUDDY, WAS IN THE ROOM!
It swept, the full consciousness of it, upon Jimmie Dale in an instantaneous flash.Chloroform; the open scuttle in the roof; the waiting of those others--all fused into a compact logical whole.
They had loosened the scuttle during the day, probably when old Luddy was away--one of them had crept down there now to chloroform the old man into insensibility--the others would complete the ghastly work presently by stringing their victim up to the ceiling--and it would be suicide, for, long before morning came, long before the old man would be discovered, the fumes of the chloroform would be gone.
It seemed like a cold hand, deathlike, clutching at his heart.Was he too late, after all! Chloroform alone could--kill! To the right, just a little to the right--he must make no mistake--his ear placed the sound! He whipped his hands from the side pockets of his coat--the ray of his flashlight cut across the room and fell upon an aged face upon a bed, upon a hand clutching a wad of cloth, the cloth pressed horribly against the nose and mouth of the upturned face--and then, roaring in the stillness, spitting a vicious lane of fire that paralleled the flashlight's ray, came the tongue flame of his automatic.
There was a yell, a scream, that echoed out, reverberated, and went racketing through the house, and Jimmie Dale leaped forward--over a table, sending it crashing to the floor.The man had reeled back against the wall, clutching at a shattered wrist, staring into the flashlight's eye, white-faced, jaw dropped, lips working in mingled pain and fear.
"Harve Thoms--you, eh?" gritted Jimmie Dale.
A cunning look swept the distorted face.Here, apparently, was only one man--there were pals, three of them, only a few yards away.
