Think of that old soul making fifteen or twenty thousand dollars from a layout like this--even if it has taken her a lifetime!" Jimmie Dale had halted nonchalantly and unconcernedly by the curb, not too near the window, busied apparently in an effort to light a refractory cigarette; and then, about to enter the store, he gazed aimlessly across the street for a moment instead.

A man came briskly around the corner from Sixth Avenue, opened the store door, and went in.
Jimmie Dale drew back a little, and turned his head again as the door closed--and a sudden, quick, alert, and startled look spread over his face.
The man who had entered bent over the counter and spoke to the old lady.
She seemed to listen with a dawning terror creeping over her features, and then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears.

The man motioned toward a door at the rear of the store.

She hesitated, then came out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though her limbs would not support her weight.
Jimmie Dale's lips thinned.
"I'm afraid," he muttered slowly, "I'm afraid that I'm too late even now." And then, as she came to the door and turned the key on the inside: "Pray Heaven she doesn't turn the light out--or somebody might think I was trying to break in!" But in that respect Jimmie Dale's fears were groundless.

She did not turn out either of the gas jets that lighted the little shop; instead, in a faltering, reluctant sort of manner, she led the way directly through the door in the rear, and the man followed her.
The shop was empty--and Jimmie Dale was standing against the door on the outside.