LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Never mind! How about that telephone?”

      “It ain't done in de room,” she said tremulously. “I didn't know anythin' about to-night at all. Den dis afternoon w'en I was wid my pushcart down on Thompson Street I'm called into a store to de telephone, an'——”

      “What store? Where is this telephone?” Jimmie Dale interrupted tersely.

      She hesitated.

      “Aw, it's in a booth in de back room of Mezzo's second-hand store, if youse've got to know,” she blurted out.

      “All right,” said Jimmie Dale. “Go on!”

      “Well, I was called to de telephone,” she said, “an' told to go to de Wistaria Café to-night an' meet Limpy Mack.”

      “And Little Sweeney,” added Jimmie Dale quietly; then abruptly: “Who else is in this gang?”

      Again Mother Margot shook her head.

      “I dunno dem all,” she said. “I guess we don't all know each other neither. I only know Limpy Mack an' Shiftel, an' a man named Laroque; but I ain't seen neither of dem last two for weeks, an' I dunno where dey've gone. Little Sweeney was a new one on me to-night.”

      “H'm!” observed Jimmie Dale curtly. “Then who fixed it for you to move into Shiftel's rooms?”

      “The Voice,” she replied readily. “I was told to go an' hand de agent de rent in advance.”

      “Good!” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “We're getting on, Mother Margot; and since you and I have become such friends, I'm going to take the liberty of calling on you in a day or so—unless perhaps you can tell me how, well, say, a man like Shiftel can get in or out of those rooms without bothering himself with either doors or windows?”

      She drew still farther back, a startled look and a new terror in her face.

      “I know who youse are now,” she gasped. “Little Sweeney an' Limpy was talkin' about youse. Youse are de Gray Seal! My Gawd!” She wrung her hands. “Don't youse come dere! I'm playin' straight wid youse. I don't know why, an' I don't know nothin' phoney about de rooms, but I knows dat's wot dey wants youse to do.”

      Again Jimmie Dale studied the dishevelled and distraught creature.

      “Yes,” he said quietly, “so I believe, and I believe you are playing straight. Well, we'll leave the rooms in abeyance for the time being. I shall always know where to find you—on Thompson Street. You may be called to the phone by another voice. Now, one thing more, Mother Margot—I don't want to keep Limpy Mack waiting! What was that paper Little Sweeney gave Limpy Mack in the back room of the Wistaria to-night?”

      “Youse—youse know about dat, too?” She stared at him in terrified amazement.

      “What was it?” repeated Jimmie Dale.

      “Dey didn't let me see it,” she said. “Some sort of dope about de gang, I guess, 'cause Little Sweeney was a new man. Little Sweeney just says, 'I got it pat,' he says, w'en he hands it over. I dunno wot was in it; dey didn't let me see it.”

      “Perhaps Limpy will be more considerate with me,” observed Jimmie Dale dryly. He motioned along the hall, switched off the flashlight, and taking Mother Margot's arm, led her into the shop. “You go home now,” he ordered.

      She hesitated. His hand still on her arm, he felt her shiver.

      “If youse—youse're goin' to Limpy Mack's,” she quavered, “youse—youse won't split on me? Swear youse won't! Dey—dey'd kill me before de mornin'!”

      “You needn't worry,” said Jimmie Dale gruffly. “As long as you play straight with me, it's as much to my interest as yours to see that no harm comes to you. You're out of this. The only person I know is Limpy Mack, whom I saw come out of here alone—understand?—and I followed him because I thought perhaps he had made a little haul that—since you've saved me introducing myself—the Gray Seal could use himself.”

      “My Gawd!” She was whimpering again. “I—I'm afraid. Youse swear it?”

      Jimmie Dale opened the door, and with a precautionary glance up and down the street, pushed her not ungently out into the night.

      “I swear it,” he said. “Good-night, Mother Margot.”

      VI.

       The Man with the Rubber-tipped Cane

       Table of Contents

      The black silk mask gone from his face, Jimmie Dale too stepped out of Mrs. Kinsey's little shop, and hurried away—but in an opposite direction to that taken by Mother Margot. And now he smiled as he went along. To-morrow, if he had luck, Mrs. Kinsey would get her money back, all of it, say by registered mail, and accompanied by a suggestion that she would be better advised to use a bank hereafter; a suggestion which fright at the discovery of her loss would probably have the salutary effect of causing her to act upon without loss of time!

      He hurried on—and ten minutes later, deep in the Chinese quarter, in the neighbourhood of Chatham Square, in a narrow, crooked, evil-smelling, little street, in fact more an alleyway than a thoroughfare, he was strolling past the entrance of a shuttered tea store that bore the sign: SEN YAT. Again he smiled a little to himself—but now from a different cause. It was quite true that Sen Yat dealt in tea; but it was equally true that upstairs behind the shutters Sen Yat also specialised in another commodity of the East, and to those who had the price and were “safe” the sorry solace of the poppy was always at instant command.

      An old and unkempt woman, mumbling to herself, shuffled by. A Chinaman, like a rat taking to its hole, disappeared down a basement entrance from the sidewalk a few yards away. Jimmie Dale turned suddenly. The street for the moment was clear. He retraced his steps to another basement entrance, the one below Sen Yat's, and out of the darkness of which, as he had previously passed by, a crack of light seeping from under the door sill had already informed him that Limpy Mack had returned home.

      And then Jimmie Dale was gone from the street—and down the half dozen steps was crouching in the blackness below the sidewalk at Limpy Mack's door. Again the silk mask was slipped over his face; again his fingers sought a pocket in the little leather girdle—and the next instant were silently and deftly at work with a pick-lock.

      Perhaps a minute passed. Then Jimmie Dale straightened up, swung the door open, and like a flash was inside the room with the door closed behind him.

      A startled oath greeted his entrance. Limpy Mack, peaked cap drawn over his eyes, was seated at a table on which burned an oil lamp. His heavy, rubber-tipped cane also lay across the table. He snatched at this now in lieu of a sheaf of banknotes which he let fall from his hands, and which he had evidently been engaged in counting—and rose, half threateningly, half defensively, to his feet.

      “Good evening!” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “I seem to be in luck to-night.”

      His automatic indicated the sheaf of notes, and then held on Limpy Mack. Jimmie Dale's glance swept swiftly, critically around the place. Its furnishings were few and of the crudest; a bed in one corner, near a second door that conveniently opened on the back yard no doubt; a washstand minus one leg, and therefore askew, that boasted a streaked and badly blistered mirror; the table and chair in front of the washstand; a dirty, unswept floor, bare of carpet—and that was all. The place reeked with filth.

      “Nice quiet little resort you've got here,” smiled Jimmie Dale. His eyes were apparently roving again about the cellar-like room, apparently everywhere save on Limpy Mack. “I'm sure you—drop that!”

      A revolver, almost free from Limpy Mack's pocket, fell with a clatter to the floor. The man screamed out in rage.

      “Why, Limpy, that's raw,” said Jimmie Dale in a pained way. “I didn't

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