He stood up—the letter in his hand.
“My God!” whispered Jimmie Dale.
It was a call to arms such as the Gray Seal had never received before—such as the Tocsin had never made before. And if it were true it—True! He laughed aloud a little gratingly. True! Had the Tocsin, astounding, unbelievable, mystifying as were the means by which she acquired her knowledge not only of this, but of countless other affairs, ever by so much as the smallest detail been astray. If it were true!
He pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine. Benson, his chauffeur, had sent the letter into the club. Benson had been waiting outside there ever since dinner. Jimmie Dale, for the first time since the first communication that he had ever received from the Tocsin, did not immediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket—and stepped quickly from the room.
In the cloakroom downstairs he secured his hat and overcoat, and, though it was a warm evening, put on the latter since he was in evening clothes, then walked leisurely out of the club.
At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and, touching his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
“I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson,” he said. “You may take the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the chauffeur.
“You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?” observed Jimmie Dale casually, opening his cigarette case.