Jimmie Dale stared into the mirror--the
vicious, dissolute face of Larry the Bat leered back at him. And then,
returning abruptly to the loosened section of the base-board, he
restored the make-up box to its hiding place. He reached inside again,
and procured a pistol and flashlight, which he stowed away in his
pockets; there would be no need to-night for that belt with its compact
little kit of burglar's tools; no need for that thin metal box with the
gray-coloured, adhesive paper seals, the insignia of the Gray Seal, for
to-night the Gray Seal would appear in _person_. No--wait! That
collection of little steel picklocks--and a jimmy! He would need those.
He felt for them in one of the pockets of the leather girdle,
transferred them to the pocket of his ragged trousers, and slipped the
base-board back into place.
And now he stepped to the gas-jet, and turned out the light. Then the
roller shade was raised, the French window silently opened, silently
closed--and Larry the Bat, hugging close against the wall of the
building, crept to the fence, and, lifting aside a loose board, passed
out into the lane, and from the lane to an empty and drearily-lighted
cross street.
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