But to-night there was no choice but to go there—unless perhaps she had gone back to her pushcart in Thompson Street. He would try that first, and if she were there call her to the phone as he always did, and arrange a meeting somewhere under conditions such that she would discover no more of his actual identity than that of the man in the mask whom she already knew as the Gray Seal.
He was hurrying now. Time, as measured in minutes, might or might not be precious. He did not know. What had taken place at Hip Foo's, whether for instance the rendezvous that Mother Margot had presumably had there had been prematurely interrupted by the raid, or what were the details of the scheme the Phantom was hatching, he did not know. But in any case, one thing was vital, not only to himself but to the Tocsin, vital to all he hoped for—that the character of Smarlinghue should not be endangered. And this, not only because it was in itself the key that opened for him the innermost portals of the underworld, that again and again had alone stood between him and recognition as the Gray Seal, but because to-night he must meet Mother Margot, not as Smarlinghue, but in the only character that she would recognise, and, yes—the grim smile came again—obey. And so, first of all, must come the Sanctuary; after that—his shoulders under the ragged coat lifted in a queer, almost fatalistic little shrug—who knew!
VIII.
Jimmie Dale Pays a Visit
It was Smarlinghue, the drug-wrecked artist, who, ten minutes later, by the street entrance, inviting even the nods of recognition from some of the loungers round about, entered the dingy tenement and scuffled along the musty, dark, unlighted hallway to the squalid rear room on the ground floor—the Sanctuary; it was Jimmie Dale, in dinner jacket, the millionaire clubman, who stealthily gained the street again by way of the old French window, the refuse-strewn courtyard, the board in the high fence that swung aside at a touch, and finally the lane.
Another ten minutes, and he was sauntering nonchalantly along a narrow crowded street, whose curbs were lined with pushcarts, whose sidewalks were thronged with shawled women and coatless, swarthy men, whose gutters were the playground for almost naked children. Thompson Street was in the heart of New York, just off West Broadway, not far from the homes of the old-time aristocracy of Washington Square, but it was also in a foreign land!
But Mother Margot with her pushcart was not here to-night. He had hardly expected she would be. His face was set as he made his way back now to the Bowery, and from there headed still deeper into the East Side. There was nothing for it now but Mother Margot's rooms.
A few blocks farther brought him within sight of the tenement that was his destination, and his pace slowed as he passed the narrow alleyway over which the police had kept abortive guard on the night they had pounded at Isaac Shiftel's door inside. There was a light in the window, the same window through which he and the Phantom, alias Isaac Shiftel, or perhaps better on that occasion, alias Gentleman Laroque, had first had warning that the police were without. Mother Margot, then, had presumably returned home.
He was opposite the tenement door now. He halted abruptly, ostensibly to watch the efforts of a man across the road who was attempting to start an old car that was back-firing viciously, in reality to allow some near-by pedestrians to pass by—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale had disappeared from the street, and in another instant, in the dark, murky hall, was standing before Mother Margot's door.
From one of the pockets in the leather girdle beneath his outer garments, that harboured too its little blued-steel burglar's kit, he took out his black silk mask and slipped it over his face. His lips tightened a little, as his right hand closed over the automatic in the side pocket of his dinner jacket. Who knew! There was a light in there, it was true; but he was not necessarily sure that it was Mother Margot—or that Mother Margot was alone.
He knocked upon the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. This time there came the sound of a shuffling footstep crossing the floor within, and then the door was cautiously opened, and Mother Margot, holding a candle above her head, peered out into the hallway.
“My Gawd—youse!” she whispered hoarsely. “Wot're youse doin' here?”
Jimmie Dale smiled beneath his mask.
“Have you forgotten, Mother Margot?” he said softly. “I promised you a visit, you know.”
He stepped forward, but she blocked his way at the threshold.
“Go away! Go away from here!” she breathed wildly.
“I don't see why I should—just yet,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “And wouldn't it be better if we had our interview insideinstead of out here? It wouldn't be quite so public.”
“No!” she said frantically. She kept glancing behind her, over her shoulder in a terrified way. “Aw, go away! For the love of Gawd, go away before we'se gets caught!”
“Who's in there, then?” demanded Jimmie Dale sharply.
“No one!” she answered. “Dere ain't no one dere—at least I don't know whether dere is or not.”
Jimmie Dale stared at the old hag for a moment speculatively.
“You don't know!” He injected a caustic note into his voice. “What do you mean by that?”
“Didn't I tell youse de other night!” She was still whispering hoarsely. “Didn't I tell youse wot dey said—dat dey was figurin' on youse comin' here sometime. Dat's wot I means. I ain't never seen no one in here but me, but sometimes I'm scared. Sometimes I'm sure some one is watchin' me—an'—an' I can't see no one. Don't youse see I'm playin' straight wid youse. If I wasn't, I'd let youse in, an'—aw, my Gawd, get away from here! If I'm caught tippin' youse off dey'd put a knife into me, dat's wot dey'd do!”
“We'll be less likely to be seen or caught without that light, then,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. He leaned forward suddenly, caught her arm, and blew the candle out. “Now, don't move!” He was past her in an instant, and with quick, silent tread, his step as noiseless as though he possessed the padded paws of a cat, he made the circuit of the two rooms. And then he was back again beside her at the threshold. The rooms, so far as any outward and visible evidence of human presence was concerned, were empty. Nevertheless, he drew Mother Margot out into the dark hallway now, and closed the door silently behind them.
“Wot is it?” she faltered. “Wot is it youse wants?”
“A little information—perhaps a little more than information,” said Jimmie Dale evenly. “You said something a minute ago about playing straight with me. I'm not so sure about you, Mother Margot. That's why I'm here. I telephoned you this morning, and you swore you had not heard from the Voice since that night at Mrs. Kinsey's.”
“It was de truth,” she said quickly.
“I'm so glad you always tell the truth,” he said tersely, “because then, of course, you'll tell me now all about Hip Foo's to-night.”
She drew in her breath sharply.
“My Gawd!” she stammered. “Youse—youse knows about dat?”
“Go on, Mother Margot!” Jimmie Dale prompted curtly.
“Dere—dere ain't nothin' to tell.” She was obviously groping for inspiration. “De bulls raided de place almost as soon as I got dere, an' I beat it on de jump for home.”
“Don't lie!” snapped Jimmie Dale sternly. “There is a good deal to tell! Shall I help your memory?” He was quite sure of his ground. Pedler Joe's story made the Phantom's and Bunty Myers' connection with the night's work a practical certainty. “Don't you think Bunty Myers, and Connie Pfeffer's