LITMIR.BIZ

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no headway along the upper end of the landing—and if they had not thought to set a watch for him ABOVE! They—the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang—must have been driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame.

      "Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie," he said quietly. "Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to the LEFT to the next flight of stairs. There are two flats above this—we'll make the roof if we can. Now—are you ready?"

      It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she lifted her face to his, and held his face between her two hands—and then:

      "I am ready, Jimmie."

      He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward—and instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush of the draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed the flames leaping from the stair well.

      And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of the stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another—and fell again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she had staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs grew weak and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The nauseating fumes suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He gained the first landing above. There was one more—one more! If he could only rest here for a moment! Yes, that was it—rest. It wasn't so bad here now. She stirred in his arms, struggled to her feet—and he was helping her on again, and up the next flight of stairs.

      And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria—for they were climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper landing, and the open skylight was above them, and they were drinking in the pure, fresh air—and now they were out upon the roof, and the roar from the street was in their ears, like the roar of great waters from some canyon far below. Jimmie Dale tried to speak, and found his lips were cracked and dry. He wet them with his tongue.

      "Don't stand up—we'd be seen—CRAWL," he mumbled hoarsely.

      It took a long time—over one roof, and then another, and yet another—and then through the skylight of a tenement whose occupants were either craning from the front windows, or were on the street below. It was, perhaps, half an hour—and then they, too, were standing in the street, and all about them the crowd was shouting in wild excitement.

      Up the block, inside the fire lines, the Sanctuary was blazing furiously—and now suddenly the wall seemed to bulge outward. It brought a yell from the crowd:

      "Death to the Gray Seal!"

      She pulled at his arm.

      "Let us get away! Let us get away, Jimmie!" she whispered frantically.

      A strange smile was on Jimmie Dale's lips.

      "We're safe now—for always," he whispered back. "Look!"

      The Sanctuary wall bulged farther outward, seemed to hang an instant hesitant in mid-air—and fell with a mighty crash.

      The Gray Seal was dead!

      THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

       Table of Contents

Table of Contents

       Chapter I. Smarlinghue

       Chapter II. The Warning

       Chapter III. The Man with the Scar

       Chapter IV. The Diamond Pendant

       Chapter V. “Death to the Gray Seal!”

       Chapter VI. The Rehabilitation of Larry the Bat

       Chapter VII. The Bond Robbery

       Chapter VIII. At Half Past One

       Chapter IX. Ware the Wolf

       Chapter X. The Chase

       Chapter XI The Voices of the Underworld

       Chapter XII. In the Sanctuary

       Chapter XIII. The Secret Room

       Chapter XIV. The Last Card

       Chapter XV. Caught in the Act

       Chapter XVI. One Chance in Ten

       Chapter XVII. The Defaulter

       Chapter XVIII. Alias English Dick

       Chapter XIX. The Beginning of the End

       Chapter XX. The Old-clothes Shop

       Chapter XXI. Silver Mag

       Chapter XXII. The Tocsin’s Story

       Chapter XXIII. Hunchback Joe

       Chapter XXIV. At Five Minutes of Twelve

      Chapter I.

       Smarlinghue

       Table of Contents

      A diminutive gas-jet’s sickly, yellow flame illuminated the room with poverty-stricken inadequacy; high up on the wall, bordering the ceiling, the moonlight, as though contemptuous of its artificial competitor, streamed in through a small, square window, and laid a white, flickering path to the door across a filthy and disreputable rag of carpet; also, through a rent in the roller shade, which was drawn over a sort of antiquated French window that opened on a level with the floor and in line with the top-light, the moonlight disclosed a narrow and squalid courtyard without.

      In one corner of the room stood a battered easel, while against the wall near it, and upon the floor, were a number of canvases of different sizes. A cot bed, unmade, its covers dirty and in disorder, occupied the wall space opposite the door. In the centre of the mean and uninviting apartment stood a table, its top littered with odds and ends, amongst which the remains of a meal, dishes and food, fraternised gregariously

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