As he started along the street, he heard the door of the little shop close with a sort of supercareful bang, the key turned, and the latch rattle to try the door--the little old lady was bent on making no mistake a second time! And then the smile left Jimmie Dale's lips, his face grew strained and serious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue.

Here he paused for an instant--there was the elevated, the surface cars--which would be the quicker?
He looked up the avenue.

There was no train coming; the nearest surface car was blocks away.

He bit his lips in vexation--and then with a jump he was across the street and hailing a passing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on.
"Got a fare ?" called Jimmie Dale.
"No, sir," answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt.
"Good!" Jimmie Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open.

"Do you know where the Palace Saloon on the Bowery is ?" "Yes, sir," replied the man.
Jimmie Dale held a ten-dollar bank note up before the chauffeur's eyes.
"Earn that in four minutes, then," he snapped--and sprang into the cab.
The taxicab swerved around on little better than two wheels, started on a mad dash down the Avenue--and Jimmie Dale braced himself grimly in his seat.