It was not often that Jimmie Dale used his Sanctuary, but there had been times when it was no more nor less than exactly what he called it--a sanctuary! He stepped to the window, assured himself that the shade was down--and lighted the gas, blinking a little as the yellow flame illuminated the room.
It was a rough place, dirty, uninviting; a bedroom, furnished in the most scanty fashion.

Neither, apparently, was there anything suspicious about it to reward one curious enough to break in during the owner's absence--some rather disreputable clothes hanging on the wall, and flung untidily across the bed--that was all.
Alone now, Jimmie Dale's face was strained and anxious and, occasionally, as he undressed himself, his hands clenched until his knuckles grew white.

The gray seal on the murdered man's forehead was a GENUINE GRAY SEAL--one of Jimmie Dale's own.

There was no doubt of that--he had satisfied himself on that point.
Where had it come from?
How had it been obtained?
Jimmie Dale carefully placed the clothes he had taken off under the mattress, pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, and pulled on a disreputable pair of boots.

There were only two sources of supply.