suddenly his face hardened. He had been called a jackal by the
papers--but here were two who bore a clearer title to the name! He knew
them both--Jake Kisnieff, better known as Old Attic in the underworld,
as crooked as his own bent and twisted form, a miserly, cunning
"fence," crafty enough, if report were true, to have garnered a huge,
ill-gotten harvest under the nose of the police; and the other, one
self-styled Henry Thorold, alias whatever occasion might require,
smooth, polished, educated, the most dangerous of all types of crook,
was the brains of a certain clique whose versatile operations were
restricted only between the limits of porch-climbing and the callous
removal, via the murder route, of any one when deemed expedient for
either personal or financial reasons!

Jimmie Dale read on to the end of the page. His jaws were clamped
together now, the square, determined chin out-thrust; and while one hand
held the letter, the other curled into a clenched fist. It was dirty
work--vile, miserable work--a coward's work! And then Jimmie Dale smiled
grimly, as his eyes fell upon the glaring headline of the paper on the
top of the pile beside him. Perhaps the _morning_ papers would carry
other headlines that would be still more startling!

He began to study the several sheets again, critically, carefully this
time. There should be no danger here, she said. He knew what she
meant--that she counted on his being able to nip the whole scheme in the
bud. He shook his head thoughtfully. That might be true; he might be
able to do that, probably would, for it was still very early; but if
not--what then? He glanced out of the window--they were just turning
into Riverside Drive. He looked at his watch. It wanted but a few
minutes of seven--progress up the Avenue had been unusually slow. He
tore the letter into small fragments, and reaching out through the