The sounds receded and died in
the distance. Jimmie Dale drew his hand across his forehead and brought
it away damp with sweat. He staggered now to the wash-stand, and from
the drawer took out a bottle of brandy, and, heedless of glass, uncorked
it, and lifted it to his lips. He would never know a closer call! He had
been weaker than he had thought! Thank God for the brandy! The fiery
stimulant was whipping the blood in his veins into life again, and--the
bottle was still held to his lips, but he was no longer drinking. His
eyes were on the washstand's mirror. He heard no sound, but in the
mirror he saw the door of his room open, close again, and, leaning with
his back against it--_the Wolf!_
Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. He allowed another gulp of
brandy to gurgle noisily down his throat. The cool, alert, keen brain
was at work. It was certain that the Wolf had at no time that night
recognised him as Smarlinghue. The Wolf, therefore, at worst, could be
no more than _gambling_ on the chance that the object of the chase had
taken refuge here in the tenement, and, naturally enough then, was
beginning his investigation with the ground floor room.
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