His lips, beneath the mask, tightened now, as the flashlight, playing again through the darkness, focused on an open safe near the window at the rear of the room, and upon what had evidently been a very large proportion of the contents of the safe which were now strewn about on the floor in front of it. He stepped forward quickly, and kneeling on the floor began to search carefully beneath the litter of documents, papers and books. A minute, two, three, went by—and then Jimmie Dale stood up again. Between his fingers he held a cheap and tawdry shirt stud.
He stood looking at it for a moment, balancing it now in his hand. And a softer light crept into his eyes, and a strange smile tempered the grimness of his tightened lips. No, it wasn't worth much, just a rhinestone—just ten years in the penitentiary, that was all!
And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. The margin of time was narrowing. He slipped the shirt stud into his pocket, and sent the flashlight's ray playing inquisitively around the room. There was still the letter that the police would receive in the morning, and which must be made to disprove even itself, be made to stand out so glaringly as a plant to saddle a crime on an innocent man's shoulders that none could mistake it for what it was. And there was only one way to accomplish that!
His eyes followed the ray of the flashlight. Yes, that single bracket light over there would do when the time came. He could not afford to be too generous! And now the window. He walked over to it and raised the drawn shade. It looked out on the courtyard. Silently, cautiously, he opened the window wide. Ten feet to the ground. Well, it might be worse!
At a quarter to three! He returned to the centre of the room, and consulted his watch. He had not needed all of that extra ten minutes. He was four minutes to the good.
He stood there in the darkness. It was very silent in the house, and yet it was strange what queer noises even silence possessed if one listened for them. They began very low and grew louder, but always in a palpitating sort of way, and finally beat with almost thunderous clamour at the ear drums.
The flashlight was on the dial of the watch again. Seventeen minutes to three. Benson would be at work now. It would take a minute or two, of course. He smiled with grim whimsicality. It always did! He had allowed for that.
The flashlight held on the dial of the watch—and suddenly went out.
A quarter to three.
Faintly, from the front of the house, the telephone rang—and Jimmie Dale was in action. The side light went on, filling the room with a soft mellow glow. He stepped silently to the closed door, and with his ear to the panel listened. The telephone rang again—and still again. And then, barely audible on the thickly carpeted stairs, he caught the sound of a footstep descending.
And presently Jimmie Dale's lips twisted again in a grim smile. He could not hear, he did not have the receiver at his ear, but it was Benson speaking from a slot booth in the Grand Central station where, though they might eventually trace the call, they would never trace Benson. It was Benson speaking, but the words were his, Jimmie Dale's:
“I don't want to appear in this, so never mind who I am. I couldn't find a phone any nearer, so it's about ten minutes ago that I saw a man climb over your back fence and steal into your house. I guess if you've got such a thing as a safe there, you'll know where to find him; and if you're quiet enough about it you ought to get him yet.”
That was what Benson was saying! It was quite all right. The call would be traced—but it would “hold water.” The Grand Central was just about within a ten-minute range of the Froomes' residence.
Jimmie Dale's ear was still pressed against the door panel. The footstep was mounting the stairs now—but evidently with extreme caution, for Jimmie Dale could scarcely catch a sound. It was probably the butler. Reinforcements! He would return with Mr. Froomes, perhaps, and an added footman or two!
A minute—two! The cautious tread was coming down the stairs again.
Jimmie Dale retreated across the room to the open door of the safe. He crouched there, tense, his muscles rigid. In his hand now he held the little canvas sack of jewels, the string at the top untied. They were almost at the door there. And now——
The door burst open.
With a well simulated startled cry of alarm, Jimmie Dale jumped to the window side of the safe—and as he jumped he allowed his arm apparently to hit sharply against the top of the safe door and knock the canvas bag from his grasp, strewing the floor with a sparkling heap of gems. He was darting for the window now. A voice roared out to him to halt. Froomes! Froomes himself in dressing gown, and behind Froomes two other men. And for a bare instant Jimmie Dale faced them, then he vaulted for the window sill. They had seen him, hadn't they—quite plainly—seen that he wasn't Culver!
“Stop! Stop, or I'll fire!” Froomes yelled out.
But Jimmie Dale was astride the window sill now, and—a vivid flash like a fork of lightning seemed to leap toward him to sting and blister and bring him agony, and the room seemed to swirl and be full of deafening, racketing reports. He dropped to the ground outside, staggered, steadied himself, leaped across the courtyard, and swung the fence, as a fusillade of shots followed him from the window.
He was racing along the areaway now. Another instant, and he had flung himself into his car. It shot forward with a bound. He whipped off his mask, as he bent over the wheel. He was gnawing at his lips now until the blood came.
The car swung the corner and tore uptown. But it wouldn't steer properly. It swayed from side to side. No, it wasn't the car, it was himself. Something in his side tortured him, and something hot, sticky hot, was running down his leg. His head swam. Nausea strove to set its grip upon him. He fought it off. He had been hit, of course, but it wasn't far to go—not far to go—not far to go—and—queer sing-song brain—what—what was the matter? Everything was all right, wasn't it? They had seen the man who had tried to rob the safe and had left the jewels on the floor, hadn't they; and they knew it wasn't Culver because—it was extremely funny, wasn't it?—because Culver had a red head.
Giddiness, nausea, hot and cold flashes! Jimmie Dale fought frantically for his senses. He drove clinging to the wheel. It wasn't far. There wasn't any pursuit; they'd never find him—if—if he could hold out just a little longer.
A sort of mental fog settled upon him that blotted out time and distance; and action was purely mechanical—and then he found himself staggering up the steps of his home on Riverside Drive. And at the top of the steps the door opened. He brushed his hand across his eyes. That was Jason, wasn't it? Jason had been sitting up again!
“Go to bed, Jason!” said Jimmie Dale severely.
The old man's face was ashen.
“My God, Master Jim, sir, what's the matter?” he cried out wildly.
Jimmie Dale lunged through the doorway.
“Nothing,” said Jimmie Dale. “I—I was just looking for a shirt stud. You know the kind, Jason, three for a nickel and——”
Jimmie Dale pitched forward unconscious to the floor.
XXI.
The Call of the Night
A night light on the stand beside the bed glowed dimly, throwing curious little shadowy patterns on walls and ceilings. Jimmie Dale turned restlessly in the bed. His hand stole beneath his pajamas and mechanically, in a sort of tentative way, felt over his tightly bandaged side. There was a nervous disquiet upon him, growing with the minutes, obsessing him. He reached out to