Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped, as his eyes narrowed on the flying thread of
gray road under the dancing headlights. Well, the die was cast now! For
good or bad, his response to Forrester's telephone appeal had become the
vital factor in the case. For good or bad! He laughed out sharply into
the night. He would see soon enough--old Kronische, the wizened, crafty,
little chemist, who burrowed like a fox in its hole deep in the heart of
the Bad Lands, would answer that question. Old Kronische had a record
that was known to police and underworld alike--and was trusted by
neither one, and feared by both. But he was clever--clever with a
devilish cleverness. God alone knew what he was up to in the long hours
of day and night amongst his retorts and test tubes in his abominable
smelling little hole; but every one knew that from old Kronische
_anything_ of a chemical nature could be obtained if the price, not a
small one, was forthcoming, and if old Kronische was satisfied with the
credentials of his prospective client.
Yes--old Kronische! Old Kronische was the man, the one than; there was
no possible hesitancy or question there--the question was how to reach
old Kronische.
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