It was the Wowzer who had stolen his pocketbook, and with it the letter.

There could be no doubt of that.
Well, there would be a reckoning at least before the end! He was in a downtown subway train now--the roar in his ears in consonance, it seemed, with the turmoil in his brain.

But now, too, he was Jimmie Dale again; and, apart from the slightly outthrust jaw, the tight-closed lips, impassive, debonair, composed.
There was yet a chance.

As Larry the Bat he knew every den and lair below the dead line, and he knew, too, the Wowzer's favourite haunts.
There was yet a chance, only one in a thousand, it was true, almost too pitiful to be depended upon--but yet a chance.

The Wowzer had probably not worked alone, and he and his pal, or pals, would certainly not remain uptown either to examine or divide their spoils--they would wait until they were safe somewhere in one of their hell holes on the East Side.