Jimmie Dale walked quickly along, turning from one street into another.
Here and there, in front of various resorts, and on the corners, he
passed little groups of men engaged in bated, low-toned conversation.
Ordinarily this would have interested Jimmie Dale, for the groups were
composed, not of ordinary citizens, but of the dregs and scum of the
underworld, and it was evident that something quite out of the usual run
of things had suddenly seized upon the Bad Lands as a subject for
gossip. But it was already long after eleven o'clock, and to-night, with
Melinoff's murder disposed of now, he was through, he hoped, with the
underworld forever. He was anxious only to reach the Sanctuary without
any further delay, and, thereafter, equally without further loss of
time, to get to his home or to the club, where at any moment he might
expect to hear from the Tocsin, and where, most important of all, she
would bare no difficulty in communicating instantly with him.
He turned the corner of the street on which the Sanctuary was
situated--and halted abruptly. A man coming rapidly from the other
direction had grabbed his arm.
"'Ello, Smarly!" greeted the other.
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