Yes; it was simple enough, and _sure_ enough--that part of it. The
Magpie would tell what he knew under those circumstances--and tell
eagerly. But if, after all, the Magpie knew nothing! Jimmie Dale snarled
contemptuously at himself. Childish! That, of course, was possible--but
in that case he would at least have run a false lead to earth, and have
eliminated the Magpie from any further consideration.
Jimmie Dale took out a make-up box from the opening in the wall, and,
carrying it with him to the table, propped up a small mirror against a
collection of Smarlinghue's paint tubes. His fingers were working
swiftly now with sure, deft touches, supplying to his face, his neck,
his hands and wrists, not the unhealthy pallor of Smarlinghue, but the
grimy, unwashed, dirty appearance of Larry the Bat. It was the toss of a
coin, heads or tails, whether the Magpie was at the bottom of this or
not. The Magpie knew that Silver Mag had been in the affair that night
when Larry the Bat was discovered to be the Gray Seal; the Magpie knew
that Silver Mag was a pal of Larry the Bat, and, therefore, equally with
the Gray Seal, the underworld had passed sentence of death upon her--but
did the Magpie know that Silver Mag was Marie LaSalle, any more than he
knew that Larry the Bat was Jimmie Dale? That was the question--and its
answer would be wrung from the Magpie's lips to-night!
A piece of wax was inserted in each nostril, and behind the lobes of his
ears, and under his lip.
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