But Jimmie Dale did not go home.  He walked down the Bowery for three blocks, crossed to the east side, and turned down a cross street.  Two blocks more he walked in this direction, and halfway down the next.  Here he paused an instant—­the street was dimly lighted, almost dark, deserted.  Jimmie Dale edged close to the houses until his shadow blended with the shadows of the walls—­and slipped suddenly into a pitch-black areaway.

He opened a door, stepped into an unlighted hallway where the air was close and evil smelling, mounted a stairway, and halted before another door on the first landing.  There was the low clicking of a lock, three times repeated, and he entered a room, closing and fastening the door behind him.

Jimmie Dale called it his “Sanctuary.”  In one of the worst neighbourhoods of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the rent was paid, it had the further advantage of three separate exits—­one by the areaway where he had entered; one from the street itself; and another through a back yard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on the next street.  It was not often that Jimmie Dale used his Sanctuary, but there had been times when it was no more nor less than exactly what he called it—­a sanctuary!

He stepped to the window, assured himself that the shade was down—­and lighted the gas, blinking a little as the yellow flame illuminated the room.

It was a rough place, dirty, uninviting; a bedroom, furnished in the most scanty fashion.  Neither, apparently, was there anything suspicious about it to reward one curious enough to break in during the owner’s absence—­some rather disreputable clothes hanging on the wall, and flung untidily across the bed—­that was all.

Alone now, Jimmie Dale’s face was strained and anxious and, occasionally, as he undressed himself, his hands clenched until his knuckles grew white.  The gray seal on the murdered man’s forehead was a genuine gray seal—­one of Jimmie Dale’s own.  There was no doubt of that—­he had satisfied himself on that point.

Where had it come from?  How had it been obtained?  Jimmie Dale carefully placed the clothes he had taken off under the mattress, pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, and pulled on a disreputable pair of boots.  There were only two sources of supply.  His own—­and the collection that the police had made, which Carruthers had referred to.

Jimmie Dale lifted a corner of the oilcloth in a corner of the room, lifted a piece of the flooring, lifted out a little box which he placed upon the rickety table, and sat down before a cracked mirror.  Who was it that would have access to the gray seals in the possession of the police, since, obviously, it was one of those that was on the dead man’s forehead?  The answer came quick enough—­came with the sudden out-thrust of Jimmie Dale’s lower jaw.  One of the police