behind him.

Jimmie Dale called it his "Sanctuary." In one of the worst
neighbourhoods of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the
rent was paid, it had the further advantage of three separate exits--one
by the areaway where he had entered; one from the street itself; and
another through a back yard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on
the next street. It was not often that Jimmie Dale used his Sanctuary,
but there had been times when it was no more nor less than exactly what
he called it--a sanctuary!

He stepped to the window, assured himself that the shade was down--and
lighted the gas, blinking a little as the yellow flame illuminated the
room.

It was a rough place, dirty, uninviting; a bedroom, furnished in the
most scanty fashion. Neither, apparently, was there anything suspicious
about it to reward one curious enough to break in during the owner's
absence--some rather disreputable clothes hanging on the wall, and flung
untidily across the bed--that was all.

Alone now, Jimmie Dale's face was strained and anxious and,
occasionally, as he undressed himself, his hands clenched until his
knuckles grew white. The gray seal on the murdered man's forehead was
a GENUINE GRAY SEAL--one of Jimmie Dale's own. There was no doubt of
that--he had satisfied himself on that point.

Where had it come from? How had it been obtained? Jimmie Dale carefully
placed the clothes he had taken off under the mattress, pulled a
disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, and pulled on a