The quarter
here was full of dives and gambling hells and resorts frequented by the
worst in crimeland--but it seemed that the Mole's injunction had been
obeyed to the letter! It boded little good--for her! Jimmie Dale's face,
under the grime of Larry the Bat's make-up, grew white and set, as he
approached the window. God in Heaven, was he already too late! The
Mole, with his little tobacco shop in front as a blind, and his rooms
above rented to "lodgers," thus housing the gang of Apaches that worked
under his leadership, had had every opportunity, once the Tocsin was in
his power in there, of doing as he would. And then another thought came
flashing quick upon him. If they had gone that far, if she were dead,
they must have discovered that under the cloak and the gray, straggling
hair of Silver Mag--was Marie LaSalle. He forced a grip of iron upon
himself, fighting mentally like a madman with himself for his
self-control. The night with every passing moment seemed yawning wider
and wider before him in a chasm that threatened ruin, and disaster, and
the wreckage of everything that in life was worth the living,
and--_no_,' Not yet! The luck had turned! She was there! Silver Mag was
there! There! And safe so far!
The window was shoulder high.
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