The Adventures of Jimmie Dale

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He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to
jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as
the two men entered.

Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly.

Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a
moment before he spoke.

"Benson," he said, "the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and
lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Benson answered promptly.

"And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?"

"Why, yes, sir; I suppose so--at a squeeze"--Benson stared blankly.

"Quite so!" said Jimmie Dale calmly. "Now, another matter, Benson: I
believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of
taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their masters'
machines?"

"SOME might," Benson replied, a little stiffly. "I hope you don't think,
sir, that--"

"One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done--quite generally?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a
purpose, if you were so inclined?"

"Yes, sir," said Benson; "but--"

"Very good!" Jimmie Dale interrupted. "Then to-night, Benson, taking
advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after
that until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that
reprehensible habit."

"I--I don't understand, Mr. Dale."

"No; I dare say not," said Jimmie Dale--and then the whimsicality
dropped from him. "Benson," he said slowly, "do you remember a night,
nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You had,
indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in that East
Side neighbourhood."

"I remember," said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply: "I wouldn't
be here now, sir, if it hadn't been for you."

"Well," said Jimmie Dale quietly, "the tables are turned to-day, Benson.
As Jason already knows, this house is watched. For reasons that I cannot
explain, I am in great danger. Bluntly, I am putting my life in your
hands--and Jason's."

Benson looked for an instant from Jimmie Dale to Jason, caught the
strained, troubled expression on the old man's face, then back again at
Jimmie Dale.

"D'ye mean that, sir!" he cried. "Then you can count on me, Mr. Dale, to
the last ditch!"

"I know that, Benson," Jimmie Dale said softly. "And now, both of you,
listen! It is imperative that I should get away from the house; and
equally imperative that those watching should believe that I am still
here. Not even the servants are to be permitted a suspicion that I am
not here in my bed, ill. That, Jason, is your task. You will allow
no one to wait on me but yourself; you will bring the meal trays up
regularly--and eat the food yourself. You will answer all inquiries,
telephone and otherwise, in person--I am not seeing any one. You
understand perfectly, Jason?"

"I understand, Master Jim. You need have no fear, sir, on that score."

"Now, you, Benson," Jimmie Dale went on. "A few minutes ago I sent
you out in your chauffeur's togs with that prescription. You were
undoubtedly observed. I wanted you to be. It was quite necessary that
they should know and be able to recognise you again--to disabuse their
minds later on of the possibility that I might be masquerading in your
clothes; and also, of course, that they should know who you were, and
what your position was in the household. Very well! To-night, at eight
o'clock exactly, you are to go out from the back door of the house to
the garage. On the way out--it will be quite dark then--I want you to
drop something, say, a bunch of keys that you had been jingling in your
hand. You are to experience some difficulty in finding it again, move
about a little to force any one that may be lurking by the garage to
retreat around the corner. Grumble a bit and make a little noise; but
you are not to overdo it--a couple of minutes at the outside is enough,
by that time I shall be under the car seat. You will then run the
machine out to the street and stop at the curb, jump out, and, as though
you had forgotten something, hurry back to the garage. You must not be
away long--enough only to permit, say, a passer-by to glance into the
car and satisfy himself that it is empty. You understand, of course,
Benson, that the hood must be down--no closed car to invite even the
suggestion of concealment--that would be a fatal blunder. Drive then
to the young lady's home by as direct a route as you can--give no
appearance of being aware that you are followed, as you will be, and
much less the appearance of attempting to elude pursuit. Act naturally.
Between here and your destination I will manage readily enough to leave
the car. You will then take the young lady for her drive--that is what
they will be interested in--your motive for going out to-night. And, as
I said, take her driving again on each succeeding night--establish the
HABIT to their satisfaction."

Jimmie Dale paused, glanced at the paper which he still held in his
hand, then handed it to Benson.

"Just one thing more, Benson," he said: "Listed on that paper you will
find a different rendezvous for each night for the next five nights,
excluding to-night, which, after you have returned the young lady to her
home, you are to pass by on your way back here. See that your drive is
always over in time for you to pass each night's rendezvous at half
past eleven sharp. Don't stop unless I signal you. If I am not there,
go right on home, and be at the next place on the following night. I am
fairly well satisfied they will not bother about you after to-night,
or to-morrow night at the most; but, for all that, you must take no
chances, so, except in the route you take in going to the young lady's,
always avoid covering the same ground twice, which might give the
appearance of having some ulterior purpose in view--even in your drives,
vary your runs. Is this clear, Benson?"

"Yes, sir," said Benson earnestly.

"Very well, then," said Jimmie Dale. "Eight o'clock to the dot,
Benson--compare your time with Jason's. And now, Jason, see that I get a
chance to sleep until dinner time to-night."

The hours that followed were hours of sound and much-needed sleep for
Jimmie Dale, and from which he awoke only on Jason's entrance that
evening with the dinner tray.

"I've slept like a log, Jason!" he cried briskly, as he leaped out of
bed. "Anything new--anything happened?"

"No, sir; not a thing," Jason answered. "Only, Master Jim, sir"--the old
man twisted his hands nervously--"I--you'll excuse my saying so, sir--I
do hope you'll be careful to-night, sir. I can't help being afraid that
something'll happen to you, Master Jim."

"Nonsense, Jason!" Jimmie Dale laughed cheerfully. "There's nothing
going to happen--to me! You go ahead now and stay with the servants, and
get them out of the road at the proper time."

He bathed, dressed, ate his dinner, and was slipping cartridges into the
magazine of his automatic when, within a minute or two of eight o'clock,
Jason's whisper came from the doorway.

"It's all clear now, Master Jim, sir."

"Right!" Jimmie Dale responded--and followed Jason down the stairway,
and to the head of the cellar stairs.

Here Jason halted.

"God keep you, Master Jim!" said the old man huskily. "Good-night,
Jason," Jimmie Dale answered softly; and, with a reassuring squeeze on
the other's arm, went on down to the cellar.

Here he moved quickly, noiselessly across to the window--not the
window of the night before, but another of the same description, almost
directly beneath the one in his den above, that faced the garage and lay
in the line of that black shadow path between the two buildings. Deftly,
cautiously without sound, a half inch, an inch at a time he opened it.
He stood listening, then. A minute passed. Then he heard Benson open and
shut the back door; then Benson in the yard; and then Benson's voice in
a muttered and irritable growl, talking to himself, as he stamped around
on the ground.

With a lithe, agile movement, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up and through
the window--and began to creep rapidly on hands and knees toward
the garage. It was dark, intensely dark. He could barely distinguish
Benson's form, though, as he passed the other, the slight sounds he made
drowned out by the chauffeur's angry mumblings, he could have reached
out and touched Benson easily.

He gained the interior of the garage, and, as Benson, came on again,
stepped lightly into the car, lifted the seat, and wriggled his way
inside.

It was close, stuffy, abominably cramped, but Jimmie Dale was smiling
grimly now. Thanks to Benson, there wasn't a possibility that he had
been seen. He both felt and heard Benson start the car. Then the car
moved forward, ran the length of the driveway, bumped slightly as it
made the street--and stopped. He heard Benson jump out and run back--and
then he listened intently, and the grim smile flickered on his lips
again. Came the sound of a footstep on the sidewalk close beside the
car--then silence--the car shook a little as though some one's weight
was on the step--then the footsteps receded--Benson returned on the
run--and the car started forward once more.

Perhaps ten minutes passed. Three times the car had swerved sharply,
making a corner turn. Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat, and,
protected from observation from behind by the back of the car itself,
crawled out and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau.

"Don't look around, Benson," he said calmly. "Are we followed?"

"Yes, sir." Benson answered. "At least, there's always been a car behind
us, though not the same one. They're pretty clever. There must be three
or four, each following the other. Every time I turn a corner it's a
different car that turns it behind me."

"How far behind?" Jimmie Dale asked.

"Half a block."

"Slow down a little," instructed Jimmie Dale; "and don't turn another
corner until they've had a chance to accommodate themselves to your new
speed. You are going too fast for me to jump, and I don't want them to
notice any change in speed, except what is made in plain sight. Yes;
that's better. Where are we, Benson?"

"That's Amsterdam Avenue ahead," replied Benson.

"All right," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Turn into it. The more people
the better. Tell me just as you are about to turn."

"Yes, sir," said Benson; then, almost on the instant, "All ready, sir!"

Jimmie Dale's hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door ajar,
the car swerved, took the corner--and Jimmie Dale stepped out on the
running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though chatting
with Benson, and then with an airy "good-night" dropped nonchalantly
to the ground, and the next instant had mingled with the throng of
pedestrians on the sidewalk.

A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and
followed Benson--and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street again,
swung on a downtown car. The road to the Sanctuary was open!

In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every foot
of the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached the Bowery,
and, walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead
that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still but a quarter to
nine. But even at that he quickened his steps a little. He was free now!
There was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him. He was free! He
could strike now in his own defense--and hers! In a few moments he would
be at the Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by
to-morrow at the latest he would see--The Tocsin. After all, that "hour"
was not to be taken from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that she had
meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might be! It
was not the hour of victory. But it was the hour that meant to him the
realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he should see her,
see her for the first time face to face, when there should be no more
barriers between them, when--

"Fer Gawd's sake, mister, buy a pencil!"

A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his
ear. He halted mechanically. A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was
thrusting a bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him--and then,
with a stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward. The eyes that lifted to
his for an instant were bright and clear with the vigor of youth, great
eyes of brown they were, and trouble, hope, fear, wistfulness, ay, and
a glorious shyness were in their depths. And then the voice he knew so
well, the Tocsin's was whispering hurriedly:

"I will be waiting here, Jimmie--for Larry the Bat."



CHAPTER VIII

THE TOCSIN


It was only a little way back along the street from the Sanctuary to
the corner on the Bowery where as Jimmie Dale he had left her, where as
Larry the Bat now he was going to meet her again; it would take only
a moment or so, even at Larry the Bat's habitual, characteristic,
slouching, gait--but it seemed that was all too slow, that he must throw
discretion to the winds and run the distance. His blood was tingling;
there was elation upon him, coupled with an almost childlike dread that
she might be gone.

"The Tocsin! The Tocsin!" he kept saying to himself.

Yes; she was still there, still whiningly imploring those who passed to
buy her miserable pencils--and then, with a quick-flung whisper to him
to follow as he slouched up close to her, she had started slowly down
the street.

"The Tocsin! The Tocsin! The Tocsin!"--his brain seemed to be ringing
with the words, ringing with them in a note clear as a silver bell.
The Tocsin--at last! The woman who so strangely, so wonderfully, so
mysteriously had entered into his life, and possessed it, and filled it
with a love and yearning that had come to mold and sway and actuate
his very existence--the woman for whom he had fought; for whom he had
risked, and gladly risked, his wealth, his name, his honour--everything;
the woman for whose sake he, the Gray Seal, was sought and hounded as
the most notorious criminal of the age; she whose cleverness, whose
resourcefulness, whose amazing intimacy with the hidden things of the
underworld had seemed, indeed, to border on the supernatural; she, the
Tocsin--the woman whose face he had never seen before! The woman whose
face he had never seen before--and who now was that wretched hag that
hobbled along the street before him, begging, whining, and importuning
the passers-by to purchase of her pitiful wares!

He laughed a little--buoyantly. He had never pictured a first meeting
such as this! A hag? Yes! And one as disreputable in appearance as he
himself, as Larry the Bat, was disreputable! But he had seen her eyes!
Inimitable as was her disguise, she could not hide her eyes, or hide the
pledge they held of the beauty of form and feature beneath the tattered
rags and the touch of a master in the make-up that brought haggard want
and age into the face--and dimly he began to divine the source, the
means by which she had acquired the information that for years had
enabled her to plan their coups, that had enabled him to execute them
under the guise of crime, that for years had seemed beyond all human
reach.

Where was she going? Where was she taking him? But what did it matter!
The years of waiting were at an end--the years of mystery in a few
moments now would be mystery no more!

Ah! She had turned from the Bowery, and was heading east. He shuffled on
after her, guardedly, a half block behind. It was well that Jimmie Dale
had disappeared, that he was Larry the Bat again--the neighbourhood
was growing more and more one that Jimmie Dale could not long linger
in without attracting attention; while, on the other hand, it was the
natural environment of such as Larry the Bat and such as she, who was
leading him now to the supreme moment of his life. Yes, it was that--the
fulfillment of the years! The thought of it alone filled his mind, his
soul; it brushed aside, it blotted out for the time being the danger,
the peril, the deadly menace that hung over them both. It was only that
she, the Tocsin, was here--only that at last they would be together.

On she went, traversing street after street, the direction always
trending toward the river--until finally she halted before what appeared
to be, as nearly as he could make out in the almost total darkness of
the ill-lighted street, a small and tumble-down, self-contained dwelling
that bordered on what seemed to be an unfenced store yard of some
description. He drew his breath in sharply. She had halted--waiting for
him to come up with her. She was waiting for him--WAITING for him!
It seemed as though he drank of some strange, exhilarating elixir--he
reached her side eagerly--and then--and then--her hand had caught his,
and she was leading him into the house, into a black passage where he
could see nothing, into a room equally black over whose threshold he
stumbled, and her voice in a low, conscious way, with a little tremour,
a half sob in it that thrilled him with its promise, was in his ears:

"We are safe here, Jimmie, for a little while--but, oh, Jimmie, what
have I done! What have I done to bring you into this--only--only--I was
so sure, so sure, Jimmie, that there was nothing more to fear!"

The blood was beating in hammer blows at his temples. It seemed all
unreal, untrue that this moment could be his, that it was not a dream--a
dream which was presently to be snatched from him in a bitter awakening.
And then he laughed out wildly, passionately. No--it was true, it was
real! Her breath was on his cheek, it was a living, pulsing hand that
was still in his--and then soul and mind and body seemed engulfed and
lost in a mad ecstasy--and she was in his arms, crushed to him, and he
was raining kisses upon her face.

"I love you! I love you!" he was crying hoarsely; and over and over
again: "I love you! I love you!"

She did not struggle. The warm, rich lips were yielding to his; he could
feel the throb, the life in the young, lithe form against his own. She
was his--his! The years, the past, all were swept away--and she was his
at last--his for always. And there came a mighty sense of kingship
upon him, as though all the world were at his feet, and virility, and a
great, glad strength above all other men's, and a song was in his soul,
a song triumphant--for she was his!

"You!" he cried out--and strained her to him. "You!" he cried again--and
kissed her lips and her eyelids and her lips again.

And then her head was buried on his shoulder, and she was crying softly;
but after a moment she raised her hands and laid them upon his face,
and held them there, and because it was dark, dared to raise her head as
well, and her eyes to look into his.

Then for a long time they stood there so, and for a long time neither
spoke--and then with a little startled, broken cry, as though the peril
and the menace hanging over them, forgotten for the moment, were thrust
like a knife stab suddenly upon her, she drew herself away, and ran from
him, and went and got a lamp, and lighted it, and set it upon the table.

And Jimmie Dale, still standing there, watched her. How gloriously her
eyes shone, dimmed and misty with the tears that filled them though they
were! And there was nothing incongruous in the rags that clothed her, in
the squalour and poverty of the bare room, in the white furrows that the
tears had plowed through the grime and make-up on her cheeks.

"You wonderful, wonderful woman!" Jimmie Dale whispered.

She shook her head as though almost in self-reproach.

"I am not wonderful, Jimmie," she said, in a low voice. "I"--and then
she caught his arm, and her voice broke a little--"I've brought you into
this--probably to your death. Jimmie, tell me what happened last night,
and since then. I--I've thought at times to-day I should go mad. Oh,
Jimmie, there is so much to say to-night, so much to do if--if we
are ever to be together for--for always. Last night, Jimmie--the
telephone--I knew there was danger--that all had gone wrong--what was
it?"

His arms were around her shoulders, drawing her close to him again.

"I found the wires tapped," he said slowly.

"Yes, and--and the man you met--the chauffeur?"

"He is dead," Jimmie Dale answered gently.

He felt her hand close with a quick, spasmodic clutch upon his arm; her
face grew white--and for a moment she turned away her head.

"And--and the package?" she asked presently.

"I do not know," replied Jimmie Dale. "He did not have it with him;
he--"

"Wait!" she interrupted quickly. "We are only wasting time like this!
Tell me everything, everything just as it happened, everything from the
moment you received my letter."

And, holding her there in his arms, softening as best he could the more
brutal details, he told her. And, at the end, for a little while she was
silent; then in a strained, impulsive way she asked again:

"The chauffeur--you are sure--you are positive that he is dead?"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale grimly; "I am sure." And then the pent-up flood
of questions burst from his lips. Who was the chauffeur? The package,
the box numbered 428, and John Johansson? And the Crime Club? And
the issue at stake? The danger, the peril that surrounded her? And
she--above all--more than anything else--about herself--her strange
life, its mystery?

She checked him with a strangely wistful touch of her finger upon his
lips, with a queer, pathetic shake of her head.

"No, Jimmie; not that way. You would never understand. I cannot--"

"But I am to know--now! Surely I am to know NOW!" he cried, a sudden
sense of dismay upon him. Three years! Three years--and always the
"next" time! "I must know now, if I am to help you!"

She smiled a little wanly at him, as she drew herself away, and,
dropping into a chair, placed her elbows on the rickety table, cupping
her chin in her hands.

"Yes; you are to know now," she said, almost as though she were talking
to herself; then, with a swift intake of her breath, impulsively:
"Jimmie! Jimmie! I had thought that it would be all so different
when--when you came. That--that I would have nothing to fear--for
you--for me--because--it would be all over. And now you are here,
Jimmie--and, oh, thank God for you!--but I feel to-night almost--almost
as though it were hopeless, that--that we were beaten."

"Beaten!" He stepped quickly to the table, and sat down, and took one
of her hands away from her face to hold it in both his own. "Beaten!"
he laughed out defiantly; then, playfully, soothingly, to reassure her:
"Jimmie Dale and Larry the Bat and the Gray Seal and the Tocsin--BEATEN!
And after we have just scored the last trick!"

"But we do not hold many trumps, Jimmie," she answered gravely. "You
have seen something of this Crime Club's power, its methods, its
merciless, cruel, inhuman cunning, and you, perhaps, think that you
understand--but you have not begun to grasp the extent of either that
power or cunning. This horrible organisation has been in existence for
many years. I do not know how many. I only know that the men of whom
it is composed are not ordinary criminals, that they do not work in
the ordinary way--to-day, they set the machinery of fraud, deception,
robbery, and murder in motion that ten years from now, and, perhaps,
only then, will culminate in the final success of their schemes--and
they play only for enormous stakes. But"--her lips grew set--"you will
see for yourself. I must not talk any longer than is necessary; we must
not take too much time. You count on three days before they begin to
suspect that all is not right with Jimmie Dale--I know them better than
you, and I give you two days, forty-eight hours at the outside, and
possibly far less. Jimmie"--abruptly--"did you ever hear of Peter
LaSalle?"

"The capitalist? Yes!" said Jimmie Dale. "He died a few years ago. I
know his brother Henry well--at the club, and all that."

"Do you!" she said evenly. "Well, the man you know is not Peter
LaSalle's brother; he is an impostor--and one of the Crime Club."

"Not--Peter LaSalle's brother!"--Jimmie Dale repeated the words
mechanically. And suddenly his brain was whirling. Vaguely, dimly, in
little memory snatches, events, not pertinent then, vitally significant
now, came crowding upon him. Peter LaSalle had come from somewhere in
the West to live in New York; and very shortly afterward had died. The
estate had been worth something over eleven millions. And there had
been--he leaned quickly, tensely forward over the table, staring at her.
"My God!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are not, you cannot be--the--the
daughter--Peter LaSalle's daughter, who disappeared strangely!"

"Yes," she said quietly. "I am Marie LaSalle."



CHAPTER IX

THE TOCSIN'S STORY


LaSalle! The old French name! That old French inscription on the ring:
"SONNEZ LE TOCSIN!" Yes; he began to understand now. She was Marie
LaSalle! He began to remember more clearly.

Marie LaSalle! They had said she was one of the most beautiful girls
who had ever made her entree into New York society. But he had never met
her--as Marie LaSalle; never met her--until now, as the Tocsin, in this
bare, destitute, squalid hovel, here at bay, both of them, for their
lives.