He was heading down Broadway now, lower Broadway, that stretched before him, deserted like some dark, narrow canyon where, far below, like towering walls, the buildings closed together and seemed to converge into some black, impassable barrier.

The street lights flashed by him; a patrolman stopped the swinging of his night-stick, and turned to gaze at the car that rushed by at a rate perilously near to contempt of speed laws; street cars passed at indifferent intervals; pedestrians were few and far between--it was the lower Broadway of night.
Larry the Bat?
Jimmie Dale shook his head impatiently over the steering wheel.

No; that would not do.

It would be well enough for this young Burton, perhaps, but not for old Isaac, the East Side fence--for Isaac knew him in the character of Larry the Bat.

His quick, keen brain, weaving, eliminating, devising, scheming, discarded that idea.