remembered, now, that there had been several people passing, and that he had been jostled slightly in crossing the sidewalk. What, however, did it matter? It was there mysteriously, as scores of others had come to him mysteriously, with never a clew to her identity, to the identity of his--he smiled a little grimly--accomplice in crime. He took the envelope from his pocket and stared at it. His fingers had not been at fault--it was one of hers. The faint, elusive, exquisite fragrance of some rare perfume came to him as he held it. "I'd give," said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself--"I'd give everything I own to know who you are--and some day, please God, I will know." Jimmie Dale tore the envelope very gently, as though the tearing almost were an act of desecration--and extracted the letter from within. He began to read aloud hurriedly and in snatches: "DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Charleton Park Manor--Markel's house is the second one from the gates on the right-hand side--library leads..."Thank you, sir," said the old man. Jimmie Dale went upstairs, opened the door of his own particular den on the right of the landing, stepped inside, closed the door, switched on the light--and Jimmie Dale's debonair nonchalance dropped from him as a mask instantly--and it was another Jimmie Dale--the professional Jimmie Dale. Quick now in every action, he swung aside the portiere that curtained off the squat, barrel-shaped safe in the little alcove, opened the safe, took out that curious leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools, added to it a flashlight and an automatic revolver, closed the safe--and passed into his dressing room. Here, he proceeded to divest himself rapidly of his evening clothes, selecting in their stead a suit of dark tweed. He heard Jason come up the stairs, pass along the hall, and mount the second flight to his own quarters; and presently came the sound of an automobile without. The dressing room fronted on the Drive--Jimmie Dale looked out. Benson was just getting out of the touring car. Slipping the leather girdle, then, around his waist, Jimmie Dale put on his vest, then his coat--and walked briskly downstairs. Jason had laid out a gray ulster on the hall stand. Jimmie Dale put it on, selected a leather cap with motor-goggle attachment that pulled down almost to the tip of his nose, tucked a slouch hat into the pocket of the ulster, and, leaving the house, climbed into his car. He glanced at his watch as he started--it was a quarter of eleven. Jimmie Dale's lips pursed a little. "I guess it'll make a night of it, and a tight squeeze, at that, to get back under cover before daylight," he muttered. "I'll have to do some tall speeding." But at first, across the city and through Brooklyn, for all his impatience, it was 

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