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The Adventures of Jimmie Dale

I.8. The Man Higher Up
The Tocsin! By neither act, sign, nor word had she evidenced the slightest
interest in that ring--and yet she must know, she certainly must know that it was
now in his possession. Jimmie Dale was disappointed. Somehow, he had
counted more than he had cared to admit on developments from that ring.
He pulled a little viciously at his cigarette, as he stared out of the St. James Club
window. That was how long ago? Ten days? Yes; this would be the eleventh.
Eleven days now and no word from her-- eleven days since that night at old
Isaac's, since she had last called him, the Gray Seal, to arms. It was a long
while--so long a while even that what had come to be his prerogative in the
newspapers, the front page with three-inch type recounting some new exploit of
that mysterious criminal the Gray Seal, was being usurped. The papers were
howling now about what they, for the lack of a better term, were pleased to call a
wave of crime that had inundated New York, and of which, for once, the Gray
Seal was not the storm centre, but rather, for the moment, forgotten.
He drew back from the window, and, settling himself again in the big leather
lounging chair, resumed the perusal of the evening paper. His eye fell on what
was common to every edition now, a crime editorial--and the paper crackled
suddenly under the long, slim, tapering fingers, so carefully nurtured, whose
sensitive tips a hundred times had made mockery of the human ingenuity
squandered on the intricate mechanism of safes and vaults. No; he was wrong--
the Gray Seal had not been forgotten.
"We should not be surprised," wrote the editor virulently, "to discover at the
bottom of these abominable attrocities that the guiding spirit, in fact, was the
Gray Seal--they are quite worthy even of his diabolical disregard for the laws of
God and man."
Jimmie Dale's lips straightened ominously, and an angry glint crept into his dark,
steady eyes. There was nothing then, nothing too vile that, in the public's eyes,
 
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