I wouldn't have a hope."
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale answered. What the man said was
true--he would not have a hope--for an honest life--after five years in
the penitentiary. He lifted his flashlight again and played it over
Birdie Lee. They showed, those years, in the pallor, the drawn lines,
the wan misery in the other's face.
And then Jimmie Dale's lips set firmly under his mask. There was a way
to save the man. It was something he had never intended to do again--but
it was worth the price--to save this man. It would be like a bombshell
exploded in the underworld; it would arouse the police to infuriated
activity; it would stir New York to its depths--but, after all, it could
not touch Smarlinghue. It would only instill the belief that somehow
Larry the Bat had escaped from the tenement fire; it would only mean a
hunt for Larry the Bat day and night--but Larry the Bat no longer
existed--and it would save this man.
He clamped the flashlight between his knees, leaving his hands free, and
from the leather girdle drew the old-time metal case, thin, like a
cigarette case, and from the case, with a pair of little tweezers that
precluded the possibility of telltale finger prints, lifted out a small,
diamond-shaped, gray-coloured paper seal, adhesive on one side, which he
moistened now with his tongue--and, stooping quickly, attached it to the
dead man's sleeve.
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