Good-night, Jimmie." "Good-night, old man," said Jimmie Dale, and, turning, walked briskly toward the Bowery.
But Jimmie Dale did not go home.

He walked down the Bowery for three blocks, crossed to the east side, and turned down a cross street.

Two blocks more he walked in this direction, and halfway down the next.
Here he paused an instant--the street was dimly lighted, almost dark, deserted.

Jimmie Dale edged close to the houses until his shadow blended with the shadows of the walls--and slipped suddenly into a pitch-black areaway.
He opened a door, stepped into an unlighted hallway where the air was close and evil smelling, mounted a stairway, and halted before another door on the first landing.

There was the low clicking of a lock, three times repeated, and he entered a room, closing and fastening the door behind him.
Jimmie Dale called it his "Sanctuary." In one of the worst neighbourhoods of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the rent was paid, it had the further advantage of three separate exits--one by the areaway where he had entered; one from the street itself; and another through a back yard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on the next street.