Jimmie Dale snatched the envelope from the tray, and waved the other from the room. As the door closed, he tore open the letter. There was just a single line:
Jimmie—Jimmie, you haven't failed, have you?
Jimmie Dale stared at it. Failed! Failed—HER! The haggard look was in his face again. It was the bond between them that was at stake—the Gray Seal—the bond that had come, he knew for all time in that instant, to mean his life.
“God knows!” he muttered hoarsely, and flung himself into a lounging chair, still staring at the note.
The hours dragged by. Luncheon time arrived and passed—and then by special messenger the little package from Carruthers came.
Jimmie Dale started to undo the string, then laid the package down, and held out his hands before him for inspection. They were trembling visibly. It was a strange condition for Jimmie Dale either to witness or experience, unlike him, foreign to him.
“This won't do, Jimmie,” he said grimly, shaking his head.
He picked up the package again, opened it, and from between two pieces of cardboard took out a large photographic print. A moment, two, Jimmie Dale examined it, used the magnifying glass again; and then a strange gleam came into the dark eyes, and his lips moved.
“I've won,” said Jimmie Dale, with ominous softness. “I've WON!”
He was standing beside the rosewood desk, and he reached for the phone. Carruthers would be at home now—he called Carruthers there. After a moment or two he got the connection.