CHAPTER VI


THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT

The small French window of the new Sanctuary, that gave on the dirty
little courtyard which, in turn, paralleled a black and narrow lane,
with its high, board fence, opened cautiously, noiselessly. A dark form
slipped silently into the room. The window was closed again. The
dilapidated roller shade was drawn down, and, guided by the sense of
touch, the rent that gaped across it was carefully pinned together.
There was no moon to shine in through the top-light and uncharitably
disclose the greasy, ragged carpet, or the squalor of the room.

The dark form, like a shadow, moved across the room to the door, tried
the lock, slipped an inner bolt into place, then returned halfway back
to the windows, and paused by the wall. A match flame spurted through
the blackness; and then, hissing as though in protest, the miserable,
clogged gas-jet, blue with air, still leaving the corners of the room
dim and murky, grudgingly lighted up its immediate surroundings--and
Jimmie Dale, immaculate in evening clothes, stood looking sharply
about him.

Here and there about the room, upon this article and that, as though
fixing its exact and precise location, his glance fell critically;
then he stepped back quickly to the door, and knelt by the threshold.
The tiny, unobtrusive piece of thread, that must break if the door
were opened by but that fraction of an inch, was still intact. No one,