For years, as a reporter before he had risen to the editorial desk, he had been one of the keenest on the scent of the Gray Seal, but always for the sake of the game--always filled with admiration, as he said himself, for the daring, the originality of the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime.
Carruthers was but an example.

Carruthers now would hunt the Gray Seal like a mad dog.

The Gray Seal, to Carruthers and every one else, would be the vilest name in the land--a synonym for murder.
On the car flew--and upon Jimmie Dale's face, as though chiselled in marble, was a look that was not good to see.

And a mirthless smile set, frozen, on his lips.
"I'll get the man that did this," gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth.
"I'll GET him! And, when I get him, I'll wring a confession from him if I have to swing for it!" The car swept from Broadway into Astor Place, on down the Bowery, and presently stopped.
Jimmie Dale stepped out.

"I shall not want you any more, Benson," he said.