its store of diamond-shaped, gray-paper seals, and with the tiny tweezers—that there might be no tell-tale finger prints—lifted out one of the seals and moistened the adhesive side with his lips. There was Pedler Joe to be considered. Pedler Joe must not be held accountable by the Phantom, any more than by the police. He picked up the empty envelope and pressed the gray seal firmly down upon it. When Bunty Myers and his fellow thugs arrived and found the money gone, Pedler Joe would naturally be the first one they would think of, and their former suspicions that the old man knew more than he pretended would be aroused again with disastrous results for Pedler Joe. But the gray seal here on the envelope would square Pedler Joe and settle all doubts on that score. The Phantom, for instance, was fully——
Mother Margot's whisper cut tensely, suddenly through the room:
“Dey're comin'! Dey're comin'! Aw, for Gawd's sake, dey're comin', an' dere ain't no way to get out!”
In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room beside her. He caught her wrist fiercely.
“I told youse so!” She was crooning in a queer, low way. “Dey'll kill me for dis!”
“Keep quiet!” breathed Jimmie Dale.
Cool, possessed, motionless, he stood there. Mother Margot was right. He could hear the footsteps of three or four men close to the door outside. There was no way out. They were trapped, and Mother Margot——
The door rattled as it was tried. A voice in a low callous laugh reached him through the panels:
“It's a good thing youse piped old Pedler down de line, Bunty; it's saved us wastin' de night hangin' round waitin' for him to hit de hay!”
And then another voice, impatiently:
“Aw, get de door open! Wot's de use playin' wid de lock? Bust it in, an' strike a light! Youse don't have to be careful of de noise when Pedler ain't dere.”
Mother Margot! There was a chance. Just one. Not for both of them perhaps, but for Mother Margot. He owed it to her. He had brought her here—to her death—if the chance failed.
He leaned toward her, his lips close against her ear.
“Flatten back here against the wall. The door opens away from you. Don't move till they make a rush, then slip through the door behind them, and get to the street. I'll guarantee at least that no one will follow you, and with a little luck you won't be seen at all.”
“But youse”—a strange note had come suddenly into her voice—“but youse—youse mean dat——”
“Never mind what I mean,” said Jimmie Dale between set teeth. “Do as I tell you, or neither of us'll get out!”
The door lock yielded with a little snap—but Jimmie Dale was no longer there. Silent as a shadow in his movements, he was already halfway up the stairs.
He halted here. He was still holding the envelope with its gray seal, but instead of his flashlight his automatic now was in his other hand.
And then for the first time Jimmie Dale made a sound—at the moment that the door swung open. It was as though, suddenly alarmed, he had tripped and fallen upon the rickety stairs. There was a chorus of startled oaths, a rush of feet across the floor in his direction, the white gleam of a flashlight thrown upon him, the chorused shouts again—and he turned, dropping the envelope from his hand, and as it fluttered downward to the floor, he dashed madly up the stairs.
Came the crash and roar of a revolver shot, the spurt of flame, the ugly spat of a bullet as it embedded itself in the woodwork somewhere above his head, another, and still another—but Jimmie Dale did not fire in return. There was Mother Margot. They had not noticed her and she should be gone by now, but he could not see. He dared not take the chance of any of them running back for cover in the direction of the door. Just a few seconds more, and then—he flung himself over the topmost stair—yes, it was safe now surely to check their rush if he could. He fired—his shot directed high over their heads. Snarls and curses answered him. The flashlights, more than one of them now, made almost daylight of the place. And suddenly a new shout went up. Some one had picked up the envelope!
“The Gray Seal!”
A hail of lead came up the staircase—and a concerted rush of dark, swarming figures. He could not tell how many—three or four—but it seemed as though there were a dozen.
The window! There must be a window here. He remembered that Pedler Joe had spoken of a window. Yes, there it was just across from the stairhead. He hurled himself toward it, flung it open, and swung out over the sill. It could not be very high. In any case it was the only chance. A flashlight's ray caught him now from the head of the stairs, and was accompanied almost simultaneously by an oath and the tongue flame of a revolver.
He let go his hold and dropped. Something, a heap of rubbish, an uneven surface, threw him violently upon his face as he landed, but in an instant he was on his feet again. There was no way out of the place except across the yard and through the archway, and he raced in that direction. He heard a shout signalling his whereabouts from the window. It was echoed by shouts from within.
If he could but gain the street before they poured out of the shack in pursuit! No—here they came now! Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of shadowy forms behind him.
He had a start of ten yards, perhaps fifteen at the outside. He swerved out into the street. Strange the commotion back there had not aroused the neighbourhood! But it would not take long to do so now if the chase remained in the open!
“The Gray Seal! Get him! Stop him!”
The shouts, the pound of feet rang from behind him. But now a queer, half choked, panting laugh came grimly from Jimmie Dale as a dark shawled figure peered suddenly out from a doorway and drew back again as he dashed by. Mother Margot! Well, at least, he had kept his promise to Mother Margot.
And now windows began to open; people to emerge from the houses. The pound of feet, the shouts seemed to grow even nearer. Jimmie Dale was straining every muscle now, running like a deer. Another few minutes of this in the open and it would be the end. Thank God, the Sanctuary was just around the corner! If he had ever needed it in his life, he needed it now. They might see him enter the tenement; but by the time they had been able to search the place even cursorily the Gray Seal would have vanished, and only Smarlinghue of the underworld, the drug-wrecked peer of that inglorious realm to which they themselves belonged, would be found.
He turned the corner, ran on the few yards up the block to the Sanctuary, and as he flung himself inside the tenement door he saw them swing into the street behind him, and heard them like a pack of bloodhounds give tongue again at sight of their quarry. But in a second now he was along the dark hallway and inside the Sanctuary itself, the door locked behind him.
And now he worked with lightning speed. He could have run on out through the French window, and by the lane perhaps might have had a fair chance of getting away—but almost as important as his life was the vital necessity of protecting the character of Smarlinghue from suspicion, and the Gray Seal making straight for Smarlinghue's room and disappearing thereby, marked an intimacy in time of stress with Smarlinghue's habitation too significant to go unchallenged. He tore off his evening clothes, wrenched open the movable section of the baseboard, brought out the seedy, tattered garments of Smarlinghue, and put them on.
He needed no light—only a few more precious seconds. They were stumbling around outside in the hall now; and now
