The passage was murky; one gas-jet alone lighted it, and that was
turned down. There were little spots, dark spots on the floor--but the
Wolf had told him that. He passed his hand over his head--he was a
little dizzy. Then slowly, laboriously, he removed the spots from the
hallway--and one from the doorstep.
Back in his room once more, he locked the door again. A sense of utter
exhaustion was stealing upon him--but there was still something yet to
be done. Another gulp of brandy steadied him, steadied his head. He took
the papers from his pocket and read them now. Here were the details,
minute, exact, with the names of those involved, names of those who
would squeal quickly enough to save themselves once they were in the
clutches of the law, of two of the most famous murder mysteries that New
York had known; the details of two, and, unfinished, the partial details
of another. It was the evidence the police had long sought. It was the
death sentence upon the Wolf--for murder.
Jimmie Dale's face, very white now, was set and hard. The Spider had
been too late--to save himself. Beginning to fear the Wolf, as the
Tocsin had explained, he had begun to make a record of those days gone
by, meaning to hold it over the Wolf's head in self-protection, deposit
it somewhere where it would come to light if any attack were made upon
him--only the Wolf had struck before the Spider had finished all he had
meant to write, before he had told any one or had warned the Wolf that
the papers were in existence.
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