tray. From the man, Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed on a white envelope on the tray. One glance was enough—it was hers, that letter. The Tocsin again! His brain seemed suddenly to be afire, and he could feel his pulse quicken, the blood begin to pound in fierce throbs at his heart. Life and death lay in that white, innocent-looking, unaddressed envelope, danger, peril—it was always life and death, for those were the stakes for which the Tocsin played. But, master of many things, Jimmie Dale was most of all master of himself. Not a muscle of his face moved. He reached nonchalantly for the letter.
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale.
The man bowed and started away, Jimmie Dale laid the envelope on the arm of the lounging chair. The man had reached the door when Jimmie Dale stopped him.
"Oh, by the way," said Jimmie Dale languidly, "where did this come from?"
"Your chauffeur, sir," replied the other. "Your chauffeur gave it to the hall porter a moment ago, sir."
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale again.
The door closed.
Jimmie Dale glanced around the room. It was the caution of habit, that glance; the habit of years in which his life had hung on little things. He was alone in one of the club's private library rooms. He picked up the envelope, tore it open, took out the folded sheets inside, and began to read. At the first words he leaned forward, suddenly tense in his chair. He read on, turning the pages hurriedly, incredulity, amazement, and, finally, a strange menace mirroring itself in turn upon his face.
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 af-
