In quick succession, from the same hiding place, an automatic, a black silk mask, an electric flashlight, that thin metal box like a cigarette case, and a half dozen vicious-looking little blued-steel burglar’s tools were stowed away in his pockets, the flooring carefully replaced, the oilcloth spread back again; and then, pulling a slouch hat well down over his eyes, he reached up to turn off the gas.

For an instant his hand held there, while his eyes, sweeping around the apartment, took in every single detail about him in that same alert, comprehensive way as when he had entered—­then the room was in darkness, and the Gray Seal, as Larry the Bat, a shuffling, unkempt creature of the underworld, alias Jimmie Dale, the lionised of clubs, the matrimonial target of exclusive drawing-rooms, closed the door of the Sanctuary behind him, shuffled down the stairs, shuffled out into the lane, and shuffled along the street toward the Bowery.

A policeman on the corner accosted him familiarly.

“Hello, Larry!” grinned the officer.

“’Ello!” returned Jimmie Dale affably through the side of his mouth.  “Fine night, ain’t it?”—­and shuffled on along the street.

And now Jimmie Dale began to hurry—­still with that shuffling tread, but covering the ground nevertheless with amazing celerity.  He had lost no time since receiving the Tocsin’s letter, it was true, but, for all that, it was now after ten o’clock.  Stangeist’s house was “dark” that evening, she had said, meaning that the occupants, Stangeist as well as whatever servants there might be, for Stangeist had no family, were out—­the servants in town for a theatre or picture show probably—­and Stangeist himself as yet not back, presumably from that Roessle affair.  The stub of an old cigar, unlighted, shifted with a sudden, savage twist of the lips from one side of Jimmie Dale’s mouth to the other.  There was need for haste.  There was no telling when Stangeist might get back—­as for the servants, that did not matter so much; servants in suburban homes had a marked affinity for “last trains!”

Jimmie Dale boarded a cross-town car, effected a transfer, and in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Sanctuary was huddled, an inoffensive heap, like a tired-out workingman, in a corner seat of a Long Island train.  From here, there was only a short run ahead of him, and, twenty minutes later, descending from the train at Forest Hills, he had passed through the more thickly settled portion of the little place, and was walking briskly out along the country road.

Stangeist’s house lay, approximately, a mile and a half from the station, quite by itself, and set well back from the road.  Jimmie Dale could have found it with his eyes blindfolded—­the Tocsin’s directions had lacked none of their usual explicit minuteness.  The road was quite deserted.  Jimmie Dale met no one.  Even in the houses that he passed the lights were in nearly every instance already out.