He jerked the cord quickly. A panel above him slid noiselessly
back. He leaped to the top of the stairs, and paused for a moment.
"They've been looking for this place for several years, I guess," said
Jimmie Dale softly. "And I guess it will change hands to-night for the
last time--and without the need of any Bill of Sale from old Henry
Grenville! But we were speaking of the Rat--and why the Rat was
murdered. If the Rat had had a chance to spread the news that the money
paid by Mr. Curley this afternoon was counterfeit, it--"
Jimmie Dale did not finish his sentence. In a bound, as the door from
the cellar crashed inward, he was through the panel opening and in the
room above. There was light from the open panel behind him--enough to
show him that he was in a small room which was fitted up as an
office--the office of Haines & Curley, wholesale liquor dealers!
In an instant he was out of the office, and running silently down the
length of the store. He snatched off his mask, reached the front door,
opened it, stepped out on the quiet, deserted street--and a moment later
Jimmie Dale was but one of the many that still, even at that hour,
drifted their way along the Bowery.
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