"It's quite all right.

Good-night, Benson." "Good-night, sir," Benson answered, climbing back to his seat.
There was a queer little smile on Jimmie Dale's lips, as he watched the great car swing around in the street and glide noiselessly away--a queer little smile that still held there even after he himself had started briskly along the avenue in a downtown direction.

It was invariably the same, always the same--the letters came unexpectedly, when least looked for, now by this means, now by that, but always in a manner that precluded the slightest possibility of tracing them to their source.

Was there anything, in his intimate surroundings, in his intimate life, that she did not know about him--who knew absolutely nothing about her! Benson, for instance--that the man was absolutely trustworthy--or else she would never for an instant have risked the letter in his possession.
Was there anything that she did not--yes, one thing--she did not know him in the role he was going to play to-night.

That at least was one thing that surely she did not know about him; the role in which, many times, for weeks on end, he had devoted himself body and soul in an attempt to solve the mystery with which she surrounded herself; the role, too, that often enough had been a bulwark of safety to him when hard pressed by the police; the role out of which he had so carefully, so painstakingly created a now recognised and well-known character of the underworld--the role of Larry the Bat.
Jimmie Dale turned from Fifth Avenue into Broadway, continued on down Broadway, across to the Bowery, kept along the Bowery for several more blocks--and finally headed east into the dimly lighted cross street on which the Sanctuary was located.
And now Jimmie Dale became cautious in his movements.