In the years that he had worked with this unknown, mysterious accomplice of his whom he had never seen, there had been longer intervals than a bare month in which he had heard nothing from her--it was not that.

It was the failure, total, absolute, and complete, that was the only result for the month of ceaseless, unremitting, doggedly-expended effort, even as it had been the result many times before, in an attempt to solve the enigma that was so intimate and vital a factor in his own life.
If he might lay any claims to cleverness, his resourcefulness, at least, he was forced to admit, was no match for hers.

She came, she went without being seen--and behind her remained, instead of clews to her identity, only an amazing, intangible mystery, that left him at times appalled and dismayed.

How did she know about those conditions in West Broadway, how did she know about Metzer's murder, how did she know about Markel and Wilbur--how did she know about a hundred other affairs of the same sort that had happened since that night, years ago now, when out of pure adventure he had tampered with Marx's, the jeweller's strong room in Maiden Lane, and she had, mysteriously then, too, solved HIS identity, discovered him to be the Gray Seal?
Jimmie Dale, wrapped up in his own thoughts, entirely oblivious to his surroundings, traversed another block.

There had never been since the world began, and there would never be again, so singular and bizarre a partnership as this--of hers and his.