up suddenly from his chair, and lit the gas. But even then he hesitated
as he turned the note over, speculatively now, in his fingers. So she
knew him as Smarlinghue! In some way she had found that out! His brows
gathered abstractedly, then cleared again. Well, at any rate, it was
added proof that so far her cleverness had completely outwitted those
who had pitted themselves against her--so much so that even her freedom
of action, in whatever role she had assumed, was still left open to her.

He tore the envelope open. There was no preface to the note, no "Dear
Philanthropic Crook" as there had always been in the old days--instead,
the single, closely-written sheet began abruptly, the writing itself
indicating that it had been composed in desperate haste. He glanced
quickly over the first few lines.

"You should not have done this. You should never have come into the
underworld again. I begged, I implored you not to do so. And now you are
in danger to-night. I can only hope and pray that this will reach you in
time, and--" He read on, in a startled way now, to the end; then read
the note over again more slowly, this time muttering snatches of it
aloud: "... Chicago ... Slimmy Jack and Malay ... Birdie Lee ...
released from Sing Sing to-day ... triangular scar on forehead over
right eye...."

And then, for a little while, Jimmie Dale stood there staring about the
room, motionless, rigid as stone, save that his fingers moved in an
automatic, mechanical way as they began to tear the note into little
shreds. But presently into his face there crept a menacing look, and an
angry red began to tinge his cheeks, and his jaws clamped ominously.

So that was the game at Malay John's, was it? Birdie Lee was out again!