The dark form, like a shadow, moved across the room to the door, tried
the lock, slipped an inner bolt into place, then returned halfway back
to the windows, and paused by the wall. A match flame spurted through
the blackness; and then, hissing as though in protest, the miserable,
clogged gas-jet, blue with air, still leaving the corners of the room
dim and murky, grudgingly lighted up its immediate surroundings--and
Jimmie Dale, immaculate in evening clothes, stood looking sharply
about him.
Here and there about the room, upon this article and that, as though
fixing its exact and precise location, his glance fell critically;
then he stepped back quickly to the door, and knelt by the threshold.
The tiny, unobtrusive piece of thread, that must break if the door
were opened by but that fraction of an inch, was still intact. No one,
then, had been here since last, as Smarlinghue, the seedy,
drug-wrecked artist, he had left the place the day before; for, on
entering, he had already satisfied himself that the French window had
not been tampered with.
A hard smile flickered across his lips. It was a grim transition, this,
from the luxury, the wealth and refinement of New York's most exclusive
club, which he had left but half an hour ago! The smile faded, and he
passed his hand a little wearily across his eyes.
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