And now Jimmie Dale's lips twitched queerly. The papers were unsigned.
He took from the leather girdle the thin metal box, the tweezers, and a
diamond-shaped, adhesive, gray paper seal--and, holding the seal with
the tweezers, he moistened it with his tongue, and pressed it down upon
the lower sheet. It was signed now! Signed with a signature that the
police--_and the Wolf_--knew well!
He rose unsteadily, and, taking the empty cash-box, loosened the
base-board from the wall near the door, hid the cash-box away, and felt
through the pockets of his evening clothes--there was a blank envelope
there, he remembered, in which he had placed some memoranda--an
envelope, and the little gold pencil in his dress waistcoat pocket. He
found them, and, kneeling on the floor, printing the letters, he
addressed the envelope to police headquarters, folded and placed the
documents inside, and sealed the envelope.
He replaced the base-board, and stood up--but his hand caught at the
wall to support himself.
"To-morrow," said Jimmie Dale weakly--he was groping his way back across
the room to the cot "I--I guess I'm all--all in--to-night."
CHAPTER XI
THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD
Futility! And on top of futility, a week of inaction, thanks to that
flesh wound in his leg.
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