Later, to-morrow perhaps, if he was wrong, after all! Jimmie Dale returned to the Sanctuary, removed from his person all evidences of Larry the Bat--and from the Sanctuary went home to Riverside Drive.
In his den there, in the morning after breakfast, Jason, the butler, brought him the papers.

Three-inch headlines in red ink screamed, exulted, and shrieked out the news that the Gray Seal, in the person of Stace Morse, fence, yeggman and murderer, had been captured.

The public, if it had held any private admiration for the one-time mysterious crook could now once and forever disillusion itself.

The Gray Seal was Stace Morse--and Stace Morse was of the dregs of the city's scum, a pariah, an outcast, with no single redeeming trait to lift him from the ruck of mire and slime that had strewn his life from infancy.

The face of Inspector Clayton, blandly self-complacent, leaped out from the paper to meet Jimmie Dale's eyes--and with it a column and a half of perfervid eulogy.
Something at first like dismay, the dismay of impotency, filled Jimmie Dale--and then, cold, leaving him unnaturally calm, the old merciless rage took its place.