fairs, ever by so much as the smallest detail been astray! If it were true!
He pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine. Benson, his chauffeur, had sent the letter into the club. Benson had been waiting outside there ever since dinner. Jimmie Dale, for the first time since the first communication that he had ever received from the Tocsin, did not immediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket—and stepped quickly from the room.
In the cloakroom downstairs he secured his hat and overcoat, and, though it was a warm evening, put on the latter since he was in evening clothes, then walked leisurely out of the club.
At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat and, touching his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
"I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson," he said. "You may take the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night."
"Very good, sir," replied the chauffeur.
"You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?" observed Jimmie Dale casually, opening his cigarette case.
"Yes, sir," said Benson. "I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it was important, and that you were to have it at once."
"He?" Jimmie Dale was lighting his cigarette now.
"A boy, sir," Benson amplified. "I couldn't get anything out of him. He just said he'd been told to give it to me, and tell me to see that you got it at once. I hope, sir, I haven't"
"Not at all, Benson," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "It's quite all right. Good-night, Benson."
"Good-night, sir," Benson answered, climbing back to his seat.
There was a queer little smile on Jimmie Dale's lips, as he watched the great car swing around in the street and glide noiselessly away—a queer little smile that still held there
