The Adventures of Jimmie Dale [186]
five years. For five years I have watched my supposed uncle, hoping, praying that through him I could get to know the others associated with him; hoping, praying that Travers would succeed; hoping, praying that we would get them all-- and watching day after day, and year after year the 'personal' column of the paper, until at last I began to be afraid that it was all useless. And there was nothing, Jimmie, nothing anywhere, and I had no success"--her voice choked a little. "Nothing! Even Clarke never went again to the house. You can understand now how I came to know the strange things that I wrote to the Gray Seal, how the life that I have led, how this life here in the underworld, how the constant search for some clew on my own account brought them to my knowledge; and you can understand now, too, why I never dared to let you meet me, for I knew well enough that, while I worked to undermine my father's and my uncle's murderers, they were moving heaven and earth to find me. "That is all, Jimmie. The day before yesterday, a month after Travers' first message to let me know that he was coming, there was another 'personal' giving me an hour and a telephone number. He was back! He had everything--everything! We dared not meet; he was afraid, suspicious that they had got track of him again. You know the rest. That package contained the proof that, with Travers' death, can probably never be obtained again. Do you understand why THEY want it--why it is life and death to me? Do you understand why my supposed uncle offered huge rewards for me, why secretly every resource of that hideous organisation has been employed to find me-- that it is only by my DEATH the estate can pass into their hands, and now--" She flung out her hands suddenly toward Jimmie Dale. "Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, I've--I've fought so long alone! Jimmie, what are we to do?" He came slowly to his feet. She had fought so long--alone. But now--now it was his turn to fight--for her. But how? She had not told him all--surely she had not told him all, for everything depended upon that package. There had been so much to tell that she had not thought of all, and she had not told him the details about that. "That box--No. 428!" he cried quickly. "What is that? What does it mean?" She shook her head. "I do not know," she answered. "Then who is this John Johansson?" "I do not know," she said again. "Nor where the Crime Club is?" "No"--dully. He stared at her for a moment in a dazed way. "My God!" Jimmie Dale murmured. And then she turned away her head. "It's--it's pretty bad, isn't it, Jimmie? I--I told you that we did not hold many trumps."
CHAPTER X SILVER MAG
There was silence between them. Minute after minute passed. Neither spoke. Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared abstractedly before him. "We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie--we do not hold many trumps"--her words were repeating themselves over and over in his mind. They seemed to challenge him mockingly to deny what was so obviously a fact, and because he could not deny it to taunt and jeer at him--to jeer at him, when all that was held at stake hung literally upon his next move! He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their traces--and resumed his abstracted gaze before him. Box number four-two-eight--John Johansson--the Crime Club--the identity of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he could hit upon a clew to the solution of a single one of those things, or a single phase of one of them--if only he could glimpse a ray of light that would at least prompt action, when every moment of inaction was multiplying the odds against them! There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on Riverside Drive--he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on them. He had though of that. In time, perhaps, he might, by so doing, discover the whereabouts of the Crime Club. In time!
CHAPTER X SILVER MAG
There was silence between them. Minute after minute passed. Neither spoke. Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared abstractedly before him. "We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie--we do not hold many trumps"--her words were repeating themselves over and over in his mind. They seemed to challenge him mockingly to deny what was so obviously a fact, and because he could not deny it to taunt and jeer at him--to jeer at him, when all that was held at stake hung literally upon his next move! He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the rear of the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began deftly to retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their traces--and resumed his abstracted gaze before him. Box number four-two-eight--John Johansson--the Crime Club--the identity of the man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he could hit upon a clew to the solution of a single one of those things, or a single phase of one of them--if only he could glimpse a ray of light that would at least prompt action, when every moment of inaction was multiplying the odds against them! There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on Riverside Drive--he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on them. He had though of that. In time, perhaps, he might, by so doing, discover the whereabouts of the Crime Club. In time!