A mass of people
were surging across the street toward the opposite corner. Eagerly his
eyes swept over them; he pushed the door open a little as though to step
out--and shut it again quickly, as, with a yell of warning, another
car, jockeying for position as his own moved out into the stream of
traffic, swept by from behind.
It had been quite useless--he knew that, he had known it subconsciously
even at the moment when he had sprung to his feet. Apart entirely from
the crowd, she would undoubtedly be in some clever disguise, and he
could not have recognised her in any event.
He stooped, picked up the envelope, and sat down again quietly, his eyes
travelling swiftly in the direction of his chauffeur. Benson's back was
still imperturbably turned toward him. In the roar of dozens of motors
all starting forward at once, Benson evidently had not heard the yell of
warning, or, if he had, had been too much occupied with his own immediate
duties to pay any attention to it.
Jimmie Dale tore the envelope open; and, in a sort of grim, feverish
haste, unfolded the sheets which it had contained.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook--since you _will_ be called that," he read.
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