"Yes; but what'd the Gray Seal want to pinch a hundred thousand out of the bank for, and then give it back again the next morning ?" "What's he done a hundred other things for to cover up the real object of what he's after ?" retorted the first speaker, with a short, vicious laugh; then, with a thump of his fist on the table: "The man's a devil, a fiend, and anywhere else but New York he'd have been caught and sent to the chair where he belongs long ago, and--" A burst of ragtime drowned out the man's words.

Jimmie Dale placed a fifty-cent piece and a tip beside it on his dinner check, pushed back his chair, and rose from the table.

There was a half-tolerantly satirical, half-angry glint in his dark, steady eyes.

It was not only the police who yelped at his heels, but every man, woman, and child in the city.

The man had not voiced his own sentiments--he had voiced the sentiments of New York! And it was quite on the cards that if he, Jimmie Dale, were ever caught his destination would not even be the death cell and the chair at Sing Sing--his fellow citizens had reached a pitch where they would be quite capable of literally tearing him to pieces if they ever got their hands on him! And yet there were a few, a very few, a handful out of five millions, who sometimes remembered perhaps to thank God that the Gray Seal lived--that was his reward.