the shadows, throw his life again into the balance. It was her love,
pure, unselfish, a wondrous love, that had prompted her to this course,
he knew that--and yet--But why all this again! His brain was numbed
with its incessant dwelling upon it day after day.

Jimmie Dale's hands clenched suddenly. That night, a week ago, when he
had been so nearly caught in the Nest, had brought very forcibly upon
him the realisation that he could not risk any longer a haphazard course
of action, if he was to be of help to her, for next time his own luck
might go out. And so the idea had come--the one, single, definite mode
of attack that lay within his power--and he had used the week to
advantage, and he was ready now. From the first it had seemed almost
certain that the danger which threatened her must come from one of two
sources--and there was a way to probe one of these to the bottom. He did
not know who they were, those who remained of the Crime Club, or where
they were; but he knew the Magpie, and he knew where the Magpie was to
be found--and to-night he would know, settling the question once for
all, _all_ that the Magpie knew!

He turned, walked back across the room, and, a few feet along from the
door, knelt down close to the wall. An instant later, with the loose
section of the base-board removed, he reached inside, and took out a
curious assortment of garments, which he laid on the floor beside him.
They were not Smarlinghue's clothes--they were even more shoddy and
disreputable. His brows gathered critically as he surveyed the wretched
boots, the mismated socks, the frayed, patched trousers, the greasy
flannel shirt, the ragged coat, and the battered, shapeless slouch hat.
Matched closely enough to the originals to pass without question,
gathered from here and there, painstakingly, with infinite trouble
during the week that had passed, were the clothes of--Larry the Bat.