The Adventures of Jimmie Dale

by Frank L. Packard

There was a thin, mirthless smile on Jimmie Dale's lips.

Below, in the shadow of the garage, a dark form, like a deeper shadow, stirred—and was still again.

“What time is it, Jason?” Jimmie Dale asked presently.

“It'll be about half-past four, sir.”

“Go to bed, Jason.”

“Yes, sir; but”—Jason's voice, low, troubled, came through the darkness from the upper end of the room—“Master Jim, sir, I—”

“Go to bed, Jason—and not a word of this.”

“Yes, sir. Good-night, Master Jim.”

“Good-night, Jason.”

Jimmie Dale groped his way to the big lounging chair in which he had found Jason asleep, and flung himself into it. They had struck quickly, these ingenious, dress-suited murderers of the Crime Club! The house was already watched, would be watched now untiringly, unceasingly; not a movement of his henceforth but would be under their eyes!