The row of seats at whose end he stood was empty now, and, instead of stepping into the thronged aisle, he made his way across to the opposite side of the theatre.  Here, the far aisle was less crowded, and in a minute he had gained the foyer, confident that he was now in advance of her.  The next moment he was lost in a jam of people in the lobby.

He moved slowly now, very slowly—­allowing those behind to press by him on the way to the entrance.  A babel of voices rose about him, as, tight-packed, the mass of people jostled, elbowed, and pushed good-naturedly.  It was a voice now, her voice, that he was listening for; but, though it seemed that every faculty was strained and intent upon that one effort, his eyes, too, had in no degree relaxed their vigilance—­and once, half grimly, half sardonically, he smiled to himself.  There would be an unexpected aftermath to this exodus of expensively gowned and bejewelled women with their prosperous, well-groomed escorts!  There was the Wowzer over there—­sleek, dapper, squirming in and out of the throng with the agility and stealth of a cat.  As Larry the Bat he had met the Wowzer many times, as indeed he had met and was acquainted with most of the elite of the underworld.  The Wowzer, beyond a shadow of doubt, in his own profession stood upon a plane entirely by himself—­among those qualified to speak, no one yet had ever questioned the Wowzer’s claim to the distinction of being the most dexterous and finished “poke getter” in the United States!

The crowd thinned in the lobby, thinned down to the last few belated stragglers, who passed him as he still loitered in the entrance; and then Jimmie Dale, with a shrug of his shoulders that was a great deal more philosophical than the maddening sense of chagrin and disappointment that burned within him, stepped out to the pavement and headed down Broadway.  After all, he had known it in his heart of hearts all the time—­it had always been the same—­it was only one more occasion added to the innumerable ones that had gone before in which she had eluded him!

And now—­there was the letter!  Automatically he quickened his steps a little.  It was useless, futile, profitless, for the moment, at least, to disturb himself over his failure—­there was the letter!  His lips parted in a strange, half-serious, half-speculative smile.  The letter—­that was paramount now.  What new venture did the night hold in store for him?  What sudden emergency was the Gray Seal called upon to face this time—­what role, unrehearsed, without warning, must he play?  What story of grim, desperate rascality would the papers credit him with when daylight came?  Or would they carry in screaming headlines the announcement that the Gray Seal was caged and caught at last, and in three-inch type tell the world that the Gray Seal was—­Jimmie Dale!