He read on more and more intently, crouched there close to the light on the floor of his car, lips thinning as he proceeded--read it to the end, absorbing, memorising it--and then the abortive postscript: "Look in the cupboard at the rear of the room.

The man with the red wig is--" For an instant, as mechanically he tore the letter into little shreds, he held there hesitant--and the next, slamming the door tight, he flung himself into the seat behind the wheel, and the big, sixty-horse-power, self-starting machine was roaring down the street.
The Tocsin! There was a grim smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now.

The alarm! Yes, it was always an alarm, quick, sudden, an emergency to face on the instant--plans, decisions to be made with no time to ponder them, with only that one fact to consider, staggering enough in itself, that a mistake meant disaster and ruin to some one else, and to himself, if the courts were merciful where he had little hope for mercy, the penitentiary for life! And now to-night again, as it almost always was when these mysterious letters came, every moment of inaction was piling up the odds against him.

And, too, the same problem confronted him.

How, in what way, in what role, must he play the night's game to its end?
As Larry the Bat?
The car was speeding forward.