But the
Gray Seal had been at work again since then; and, logically enough,
there had followed the deduction that, after all, Larry the Bat had in
some way escaped.
Jimmie Dale began to remove his expensively tailored dress suit. It had
made it much easier for him, easier to play the role of Smarlinghue,
easier for the Gray Seal to work, that they, the populace, police and
underworld, had of late searched only for a _character_, a character
that, in truth, until to-night had literally vanished from the face of
the earth--a character known as Larry the Bat. But now Larry the Bat was
to assume tangible form again, to accept the risk of recognition, to go
out amongst those whose one ambition was his destruction, to court his
own death, his ruin, the disclosure that Larry the Bat was Jimmie Dale,
that Jimmie Dale, the millionaire clubman, a leader in New York's
society, was therefore the Gray Seal, and with this disclosure drag an
honoured name in the mire, be execrated as a felon. It seemed almost the
act of a fool--worse than that, indeed! Even a fool would not invite the
blow of a blackjack, the thrust of a knife, or a revolver bullet from
the first crook in gangland who recognised him; even a fool would not
voluntarily take the chance of thrusting his head through the door of
one of Sing Sing's death cells!
And for an instant, fought out with himself times without number though
this had been since he had first conceived the plan, Jimmie Dale
hesitated.
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