warning, or, if he had, had been too much occupied with his own immediate
duties to pay any attention to it.

Jimmie Dale tore the envelope open; and, in a sort of grim, feverish
haste, unfolded the sheets which it had contained.

"Dear Philanthropic Crook--since you _will_ be called that," he read. A
quick, eager flush came to his cheeks. She knew how, since she had shown
last night that she knew him as Smarlinghue, that, despite all her own
brave, resolute protests, he was determined to fight this thing out to
the end--separately, if she would not let him join forces with her--but,
in any case, to the end. It was the old name again--Dear Philanthropic
Crook! Did it mean that she had surrendered, then, at last, that she had
finally accepted the situation, and that he was to enter this shadowland
of hers beside her! The flush died away. It was only his own wish that
had been father to the thought. This was another "call to arms" of quite
a different nature, and born, not out of her own peril, but born, as in
the old days again, out of the maze of her strange environment. "You
have set New York ablaze, you have made me far more afraid for you than
I am for myself; but I cannot see where there is any danger here, or
else I would not have written this. You--" He was reading impetuously
now, his brain, alert and keen, sorting and sifting out, as it were, the
salient, vital points, "... old Colonel Milford and his wife...
Louisiana... letter... family heirloom... French descent... old setting,
three large diamonds pendant from necklet of smaller ones... ten to
twelve thousand dollars... steel bond box... lower right-hand drawer of
desk... plan of second floor... West 88th Street..."

He turned the page, studied for a moment the carefully drawn plan that
covered the next sheet, then turned to the third and last page--and