The danger was far from over yet.

And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale gave a little gasp of relief.

Just ahead, drawn up at the curb, stood a taxicab--waiting, probably, for a private slumming party.

Jimmie Dale put on a spurt, reached it, and wrenched the door open.
"Quick!" he flung at the startled chauffeur.

"The nearest subway station--there's a ten-spot in it for you! Quick man--QUICK! Here they come!" A crowd of Chinese, pouring like angry hornets from Chang Foo's shop, came yelling down the street--and the taxi took the corner on two wheels--and Jimmie Dale, panting, choking for his breath like a man spent, sank back against the cushions.
But five minutes later it was quite another Jimmie Dale, composed, nonchalant, imperturbable, who entered an up-town subway train, and, choosing a seat alone near the centre of the car, which at that hour of night in the downtown district was almost deserted, took the crushed letter from his pocket.