screamed and shrieked; children whimpered. On Jimmie Dale ran. For the
second time he crashed into a form, and won by. They were firing at him
from above now--but by guesswork--firing down the stair well. The pound
of feet racing down the stairs came from behind him--two flights behind
him--he calculated he had that much start. He gained the entrance
hallway where all was dark, leaped for the front door, opened it, pulled
it shut with a violent slam--and, whirling instantly, running swiftly
and silently back along the hall, he reached the rear door that he had
left unfastened, darted out, and a moment later, swinging himself over a
high, backyard fence, dropped down into the lane beyond. Whipping off
his mask, he ran on like a hare until he approached the lane's
intersection with a cross street. And here, well back from the street,
he paused to regain his breath and rearrange his dishevelled attire;
then, edging forward, he peered cautiously up and down--and smiled
grimly--and stepped out on the street. He was a good block away from
the tenement.

From the direction of the Nest came sounds of disorder and riot. A
patrolman's whistle rang out shrilly. It had been as close a call
perhaps as the Gray Seal had ever known--but, at that, the night's work
was not ended! There was still the actual thief. Thorold had said he was
to meet the man in his, Thorold's, office in half an hour to split their
ill-gotten gains. Jimmie Dale's jaw squared. The thief! His hand at his
side clenched suddenly. Would it be _only_ the thief, or would he have
to reckon with Thorold again as well? Could Thorold keep the appointment?
It was a question of how badly Thorold was hurt, and that he did not
know.

Jimmie Dale walked on another block, still another, then turned so as to
bring him into, but well up, the street on which the tenement was