From the drawer of his dresser he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs.

From the hat stand he chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes--and left the house.
Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to the top.

It was late, and he found himself the only passenger.

He inserted his dime in the conductor's little resonant-belled cash receiver, and then settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat.
On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, and headed for Fifth Avenue--but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quite oblivious of its movements.
It was a year since she had written him.

SHE! Jimmie Dale did not smile, his lips were pressed hard together.