The minutes flew by.
It was not the change of clothing that took long--it was the eradication of Larry the Bat's make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, and hands.

Occasionally his head was turned in a tense, listening attitude; but always the fingers were busy, working with swift deftness.
It was done at last.

Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place stood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York, immaculate in well-tailored tweeds.

He stooped to the hole in the flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, took out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight--his automatic was already in his possession.

His lips parted grimly.