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Updated: May 16, 2025
"In here!" cried "Tiger," casting a wild and terrible gaze about him at the vast, empty trap of steel. "Can't you smell it? That ozone smell? My God, we're lost! We're lost!" "You're crazy!" retorted Flint, with vigor. "Nothing of the sort could happen!" His head was held high, now, and new life seemed surging through that spent and drug-wrecked body.
No one, then, had been here since last, as Smarlinghue, the seedy, drug-wrecked artist, he had left the place the day before; for, on entering, he had already satisfied himself that the French window had not been tampered with. A hard smile flickered across his lips.
Jimmie Dale's fingers, twitching, simulating even in that little detail the drug-wrecked role of Smarlinghue that he played, clutched with a sort of hideous eagerness at the hypodermic syringe which he held in his hands.
In the mirror he could see that huge jaw outthrust, the black eyes narrowed, an ugly leer on the working face and a revolver in the Wolf's hand that held a bead on his, Jimmie Dale's, head. It was "Smarlinghue," the wretched, nervous, drug-wrecked creature that turned around and, as though startled at the sight of the other, almost let the bottle fall from his hand. "So it was you eh Smarlinghue!
That he could play his role in the underworld with only the underworld to reckon with yes; but with the police as well, watching him in his character of a poor, drug-wrecked artist, constantly in touch with him, likely at any moment to make the discovery that Smarlinghue and Jimmie Dale, the millionaire clubman, a leader in New York's most exclusive set, were one and the same no!
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