him. A hint, for instance, that he, Jimmie Dale, millionaire clubman,
riding here in his limousine, was the Gray Seal, and this great,
teeming, though orderly, Fifth Avenue would be transformed like magic
into a seething, screaming whirl of madmen, and--he did not care to
follow that trend of thought. He was quite well aware what would happen!

The car, close up against the curb, stopped once more in a traffic
blockade. Smarlinghue was the most vital factor to be considered now,
for--he caught his breath quickly. Through the open window of the
limousine a white envelope fluttered and fell at his feet. The car was
moving forward again. For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale did not
move, save to straighten rigidly as though from some sharply
administered galvanic shock; and then, with a low cry--"the
Tocsin!"--he was at the door, his head thrust out through the window,
his fingers mechanically wrenching at the door handle. A mass of people
were surging across the street toward the opposite corner. Eagerly his
eyes swept over them; he pushed the door open a little as though to step
out--and shut it again quickly, as, with a yell of warning, another
car, jockeying for position as his own moved out into the stream of
traffic, swept by from behind.

It had been quite useless--he knew that, he had known it subconsciously
even at the moment when he had sprung to his feet. Apart entirely from
the crowd, she would undoubtedly be in some clever disguise, and he
could not have recognised her in any event.

He stooped, picked up the envelope, and sat down again quietly, his eyes
travelling swiftly in the direction of his chauffeur. Benson's back was
still imperturbably turned toward him. In the roar of dozens of motors
all starting forward at once, Benson evidently had not heard the yell of