He shook his head, as, the base-board removed now, he reached into the
hollow beyond for the neatly-folded, expensively-tailored tweeds of
Jimmie Dale. She was wrong in that. Could anything add to the peril in
which he lived, as it was! If only in some way he might reach her, see
her, talk to her, if only for a moment, he could make her see that, and
understand, and--
A low, startled cry burst suddenly from his lips; he felt the blood ebb
from his cheeks--and surge back again in a burning, mighty tide. It was
dark, he could not see; but those wonderfully sensitive finger tips,
that were ears and eyes to Jimmie Dale, were telegraphing a wild, mad,
amazing message to his brain. The Tocsin had been here--here in the
_Sanctuary_! She had been here--here in this room--and within the last
few hours--sometime since seven o'clock that evening, when, as Jimmie
Dale, he had come here to assume the role of Smarlinghue preparatory to
his vigil in Foo Sen's!
His hand, thrust in through the opening to reach for his clothes, had
found an envelope where it lay on the top of the folded garments--and
his hand was still thrust inside--there was no need to look--the texture
of the paper was hers--_hers_--the Tocsin's! The blood was racing
wildly through his veins.
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