The
fate of Frenchy Virat, the fate of the Wolf, and, added to this, the
Gray Seal's intervention in the plans and purposes of one Gentleman
Laroque and certain gentlemen still higher up than Laroque, had not
passed unmarked or unnoticed in the underworld. And now in the
underworld a strange, ominous and far-reaching disquiet reigned. It was
an underworld rampant with suspicion, mad with fury, more dangerous
than it had ever been before.
Jimmie Dale's hand reached abstractedly into the pocket of his dinner
jacket for his cigarette case. He lighted a cigarette, leaned back once
more in the big, leather-upholstered lounging chair, and his eyes, half
closed, strayed introspectively around the luxuriously appointed room,
his own particular den in his Riverside Drive residence. Once, a very
long while ago, years ago, so long ago now that it seemed as though it
must have been in some strange previous incarnation, back in those days
when the Tocsin had first come into his life, and when he had known her
only as the author of those mysterious letters, those "calls to arms"
to the Gray Seal, she had written: "Things are a little too warm, aren't
they, Jimmie? Let's let them cool for a year.
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