The letter was not at all like that; it struck
a far sterner note--the possibility of defeat--not in despair, not in a
tone of failing courage, but as one who, weighing the chances, was not
blind to an opponent's strength, but who, even in one's own defeat,
still sought to snatch final victory even after death.
Jimmie Dale turned from the window, sat down again in his chair, and
drew the letter from his pocket--and, sitting there, the strong jaws
clamped and locked, his face drawn in rigid lines, the dark, steady eyes
cold and hard, read it again, as he had read it many times before since
Jason had handed it to him that morning several days ago:
"Dear Philanthropic Crook: I wonder if I am writing those words for the
last time? I believe I am. I do not mean I am in such danger that I will
never have the opportunity again; but, rather, that I will never have
the _need_ to do so. But to-night should tell. It is very near the
end--one way or the other--and I believe it is _my_ way. Oh, Jimmie, I
pray God it is, and that tomorrow--but I did not start this letter to
you to talk of _that_.
"Long ago--do you remember, Jimmie?--I wrote you that I would not,
could not bring you into the shadows again for me, and that I must
fight this out alone.
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