A moment more, and Jimmie Dale, his mask in his pocket, had emerged from
the lane, and was walking nonchalantly along to the street corner;
another, and he had boarded a street car--but under Jimmie Dale's coat
was a most suspicious bulge. Conscious of this, he left the street car a
few blocks farther along, when he was far enough away to be certain that
he would have eluded all pursuit--and walked the rest of the distance to
Riverside Drive. If he had escaped unscathed, the package of banknotes
had not--it was his coat that shielded them from view, not the wrappers,
for the wrappers had been torn almost entirely away in his hasty exit
over the fence.
He reached his home, and mounted the steps cautiously. There was Jason
to consider--Jason with his lovable pernicious habit of sitting up for
his master. Jason must not see those banknotes, that was obvious, and if
Jason--yes!--Jimmie Dale was peering now through the monogrammed lace
that covered the plate glass doors in the vestibule--yes, Jason was
still sitting up. And then Jimmie Dale smiled that strange whimsical
smile of his. Jason was still sitting up--asleep in the hall chair.
Softly, without a sound, Jimmie Dale opened the front door, entered,
passed the old man, and went up the stairs.
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