Again--nothing! He went forward now in apparent unconcern; but his right hand, instead of being buried in his coat pocket, swung easily at his side.
It was strange! His ineffective ruse to the contrary, he was certain that he had not been mistaken.

Was it Whitey Mack?
Was the question answered?
Was the Gray Seal known, too, as Jimmie Dale?
Were they trailing him now, with the climax to come at the club, at his own palatial home, wherever the surroundings would best lend themselves to assuaging that inordinate thirst for the sensational that was so essentially a characteristic of the confirmed criminal?
What a headline in the morning's papers it would make! At the corner he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette--still not a soul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except a couple of Italians who had just passed by.

Strange again! The intuition, if it were only intuition, was still strong.

He swung abruptly on his heel, mingled with the passers-by on the Bowery, walked a rapid half dozen steps until the building hid the cross street, then ran across the road to the opposite side of the Bowery, and, in a crowd now, came back to the corner.

He crossed from curb to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringe of people that, however, in no way obstructed his view down the side street.