And, as he ran now, his fingers tore at his clothing, loosening his tie, unbuttoning coat, vest, collar, shirt, and undershirt.

He leaped at the door, swung it open, flung himself inside--and then sacrificing speed to silence, went up the stairs like a cat, cramming his mask now into his pocket.
His room was on the first landing.

In an instant he had unlocked the door, entered, and locked it again behind him.

From outside, an excited street urchin's voice shrilled up to him: "He went in that door! I seen him!" The police whistle chirped again; and then an authoritative voice: "Get around and watch the saloon back of this, Heeney--there's a way out through there from this joint." Jimmie Dale, divested of every stitch of clothing that he had worn, pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, pulled on a dirty and patched pair of trousers, and slipped into a threadbare and filthy coat.

Jimmie Dale was working against seconds.