Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his eyes in a dazed way. No, of
course, he did not know, he could not actually know that it was the same
guiding evil genius at work here that had murdered both Forrester and
old Melinoff, but something beyond actual proof, a sense of intuition,
made of it a certainty in his own mind, at least, which left no room for
argument. There had been viciously clever work here, as daring and
crafty as it was remorseless in its brutality, and--he laughed suddenly,
harshly as before, and, rising abruptly from his chair, stepped to the
window, pushed aside the portieres, and stood staring down on Fifth
Avenue, whose great, wide, lighted thoroughfare seemed a curiously and
incongruously lonely spot now in its evening quiet and emptiness.
Suppose it was so! Granted that his intuition was in no way astray!
What did it matter? It was a thing extraneous, of no personal
significance to him! It was even strange that it had succeeded in
intruding itself upon his thoughts at all, when mind and soul in these
last few days had fought and groped and stumbled against the sickness of
a fear that, growing upon him, had blotted out all other things from his
consciousness.
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