The crush in the theatre lobby--the pushing, the jostling, the close contact--the Wowzer, the slickest, cleverest pickpocket in the United States! For a moment he could have laughed aloud in a sort of ghastly, defiant mockery--he himself had predicted an unexpected aftermath, had he not! Aftermath! It was--the END! An hour, two hours, and New York would be metamorphosed into a seething caldron of humanity bubbling with the news.

It seemed that he could hear the screams of the newsboys now shouting their extras; it seemed that he could see the people, roused to frenzy, swarming in excited crowds, snatching at the papers; he seemed to hear the mob's shouts swell in execration, in exultation--it seemed as though all around him had gone mad.

The mystery of the Gray Seal was solved! It was Jimmie Dale, Jimmie Dale, Jimmie, Dale, the millionaire, the lion of society--and there was ignominy for an honoured name, and shame and disaster and convict stripes and sullen penitentiary walls--or death! A felon's death--the chair! He was running now, his hands clenched at his sides; his mind, working subconsciously, urging him onward in a blind, as yet unrealised, objectless way.

And then gradually impulse gave way to calmer reason, and he slowed his pace to a quick, less noticeable walk.

The Wowzer! That was it! There was yet a chance--the Wowzer! A merciless rage, cold, deadly, settled upon him.