he had snatched it up from the floor, and in another, acting
instinctively, even while he realised the futility of what he did, he
wrenched the door open, stared out into a dark and empty
passageway--and, with a strange, almost hysterical laugh, closed and
locked the door again.

There was no writing on the envelope; there was not light enough to have
deciphered it if there had been--but he had need for neither writing
nor light. Those long, slim, tapering fingers, those wonderful fingers
of Jimmie Dale, that seemed to combine all human faculties in their
sensitive tips, had already telegraphed their message to his brain--it
was the same texture of paper that she always used--it was from
_her_--it was from the Tocsin.

Joy, gladness, a relief so terrific as it surged upon him as to leave
him for the moment physically weak, held him in thrall, and he
stumbled back across the room, and slipped down into a chair before
the table, and dropped his head forward into his arms, the note
tightly clasped in his hand. She was _alive_. The Tocsin was
alive--and well--and here in New York--and free--and they had not
caught her. It meant all those things, the coming and the manner of
the coming of this note. A deep thankfulness filled his heart; it
seemed that it was only now he realised the full measure of the fear
and anxiety, the strain under which he had been labouring for so many
months. She was alive--the Tocsin was alive. It was like some
wonderful song that filled his soul, excluding all else. How little
the contents of the note itself mattered--the one great, glorious fact
for the moment was that she was alive!

It was a long time before Jimmie Dale raised his head, and then he got