Time! It was like a clarion call, that word,
clearing his brain, lashing him into instant action. There _was_ time, a
small, pitifully inadequate margin, but yet a margin--the few minutes
left before Carruthers would have the police hammering at the Mole's
door. There was a chance, still a chance to save her life. And if he
succeeded in getting her away from the Mole's--what then! It would be
touch and go! What of the afterwards--a means of retreat--a temporary
sanctuary? Yes, yes--he must think of everything!
He was working with mad speed now, stripping off his clothes, delving
into that secret hiding place behind the movable section of the
base-board near the door. And now the gas, with its poverty-stricken,
meagre, yellow flame, illuminated the place dimly--and Jimmie Dale, with
his make-up box and a cracked mirror, worked against the flying minutes.
There was only one way to go--as Larry the Bat. It would give the Mole
and the underworld nothing to work on afterwards if Larry the Bat went
to the rescue of Silver Mag; and if he won through there would then
still be "Smarlinghue's" sanctuary, this place here, as a temporary
refuge. The transformation to Larry the Bat stole an extra minute or
two from the priceless store, but it was the only way--to risk it as
Smarlinghue or Jimmie Dale, to risk recognition, would be the act of a
fool, for it would render abortive the initial success, if, by any
means, he could succeed even to that extent.
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