And then, still maintaining his efforts with
dogged determination, though conscious now that with the hour so late he
might perhaps better return to the Sanctuary, change, say, into the
clothes of Jimmie Dale, and, crediting the Rat with already having made
a successful inroad on the safe, devote his energies to running down the
Rat, and, if possible, to salvaging the plunder, he was in the act of
entering again one of the dance halls he had already visited earlier in
the evening, when one of the men he was searching for lurched out
through the doorway. It was Patsy Marles, garrulous, drunk, exceedingly
unsteady on his feet, and accompanied by three or four companions. They
crowded out past Jimmie Dale, and gathered aimlessly on the pavement.
Marles' voice rose in earnest insobriety for what was very probably by
no means the first time.
"Betcher life! Spot cash--fifteen thousand--spot cash! Sure, I saw it!
Only--hic!--got one boss now. Little ol' Reddy got the--hic!--papers
from lawyer 'safternoon. Know ol' Grenville, don't you--that's him--ol'
Grenville. Come on, whatsh's use standin' round here doin' nothin'!"
Jimmie Dale did not enter the dance hall--instead, scuffling hurriedly
along to the next corner, he turned off the Bowery, and, choosing the
darker and more dimly lighted streets and, at times, a lane or
alleyway, broke a run.
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