There
was a crash that shook the floor, as Thorold, hurtling backwards,
struck his head with terrific force against the iron bedstead, and
dropped like a log.
Jimmie Dale was on his feet again in an instant--but not before old Jake
had run, yelling madly, from the room. A glance Jimmie Dale gave at
Thorold, who lay limp and motionless, a crimson stream beginning to
trickle over temple and cheek; then, with a bound, he reached the
gas-jet, and turned out the light.
Old Jake's voice screamed from the hallway without:
"Help! The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal! Help! Help! Quick! The Gray Seal!"
The staircase creaked under the rush of feet; yells began to well up
from below. Jimmie Dale darted into the outer room, and crouched down
beside the doorway.
"Death to the Gray Seal!" The whole building, in a pandemonium of
hellish glee, seemed to echo and reecho the shout.
Jimmie Dale was deadly calm now, as his fingers closed around his
automatic--and, deadly cool, the keen, alert, active brain was at work.
It was black about him, pitch black, there were no lights in the
hallway--yes, a dull glimmer now--a door farther along had opened--but
dark enough in here where he waited.
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