CHAPTER XII
IN THE SANCTUARY
It was ten o'clock now, an hour since the Rat and Muggy Ladd had left
Foo Sen's. Again Jimmie Dale told himself that it was still early, that
the Rat would wait for a much later hour--but at the same time he
acknowledged to himself a sense of growing and premonitory uneasiness.
Certainly, in any case, he had no time to lose. He turned quickly and
hurried along the block that separated him from the Bowery--he had a
fair idea of the haunts usually frequented in the evening by the men he
sought, and, even failing to find the men themselves, there was always
the chance, and a very good one, that, where Curley was known, Curley's
fifteen thousand dollar deal might be the subject of gossip which would
answer his, Jimmie Dale's, purpose quite as well.
But an hour went by--and yet another. Midnight came--and midnight had
brought him nothing. It seemed as though he had combed the East Side
from end to end, and he had found neither Curley, nor Haines, nor Patsy
Marles--nor had he heard anything--nor had such guarded questions as he
had dared to ask without involving possible disastrous consequences to
"Smarlinghue," should the Rat, after all, succeed and hear of his
activities, had any result.
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