A car edged by his own.
Two men were in the tonneau. One held a newspaper which he thumped with
a menacing fist as he talked. The door windows of Jimmie Dale's
limousine were down, and he caught two bitter, angry words:
"..._Gray Seal_--"
The sober expression on Jimmie Dale's face deepened. Only a fool would
attempt to minimise or underestimate the meaning of what he saw around
him. A hint, for instance, that he, Jimmie Dale, millionaire clubman,
riding here in his limousine, was the Gray Seal, and this great,
teeming, though orderly, Fifth Avenue would be transformed like magic
into a seething, screaming whirl of madmen, and--he did not care to
follow that trend of thought. He was quite well aware what would happen!
The car, close up against the curb, stopped once more in a traffic
blockade. Smarlinghue was the most vital factor to be considered now,
for--he caught his breath quickly. Through the open window of the
limousine a white envelope fluttered and fell at his feet. The car was
moving forward again. For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale did not
move, save to straighten rigidly as though from some sharply
administered galvanic shock; and then, with a low cry--"the
Tocsin!"--he was at the door, his head thrust out through the window,
his fingers mechanically wrenching at the door handle.
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