Danglar’s little black eyes narrowed. She caught a sudden glint of triumph in them. It was Danglar now who laughed.
“Not much longer!” His voice was arrogant with malicious satisfaction. “The luck had to turn, hadn’t it? Well, it’s turned! I’ve got the White Moll at last!”
She felt the color leave her face. It seemed as though something had closed with an icy clutch upon her heart. She had heard aright, hadn’t she? – that he had said he had got the White Moll at last. And there was no mistaking the mans s sinister delight in making that announcement. Had she been premature, terribly premature, in assuring herself that her identity was still safe as far as he was concerned? Did it mean that, after all, he had been playing at cat-and-mouse with her, as she had at first feared?
“You – you’ve got the White Moll?” She forced the words from her lips, striving to keep her voice steady and in control, and to infuse into it an ironical incredulity.
“Sure!” he said complacently. “The showdown comes to-night. In another hour or so we’ll have her where we want her, and -“
“Oh!” She laughed almost hysterically in relief. “I thought so! You haven’t got her yet. You’re only going to get her – in another hour or so! You make me tired! It’s always in ‘another hour or so’ with you – and it never comes off!”
Danglar scowled at her under the taunt.
“It’ll come off this time!” he snarled in savage menace. “You hold that tongue of yours! Yes, it’ll come off! And when it does” – a sweep of fury sent the red into his working face – “I’ll keep the promise I made her once – that she’d wish she had never been born! D’ye hear, Bertha?”
“I hear,” she said indifferently. “But would you mind telling me how you are going to do it? I might believe you then – perhaps!”
“Damn you, Bertha!” he exploded. “Sometimes I’d like to wring that pretty neck of yours; and sometimes!” – he moved suddenly toward her – “I would sell my soul for you, and -“
She retreated from him coolly.
“Never mind about that! This isn’t a love scene!” she purred caustically. “And as for the other, save it for the White Moll. What makes you think you’ve got her at last?”
“I don’t think – I know.” He stood gnawing at his lips, eying her uncertainly, half angrily, half hungrily. And then he shrugged his shoulders. “Listen!” he said. “I’ve got some one else, too! And I know now where the leak that’s queered every one of our games and put the White Moll wise to every one of our plans beforehand has come from. I guess you’ll believe me now, won’t you? We’ve got that dude pal of hers fastened up tighter than the night he fastened me with his cursed handcuffs! Do you know who that same dude pal is?” He laughed in an ugly, immoderate way. “You don’t, of course, so I’ll tell you. It’s the Pug!” Rhoda Gray did not answer. It was growing dark here in the shed now – perhaps that was why the man’s form blended suddenly into the doorway and wall, and blurred before her. She tried to think, but there seemed to have fallen upon her a numbed and agonized stupefaction. There was no confusing this issue. Danglar had found out that the Adventurer was the Pug. And it meant – oh, what did it mean? They would kill him. Of course, they would kill him! The Adventurer, discovered, would be safer at the mercy of a pack of starved pumas, and…
“I thought that would hold you!” said Danglar with brutal serenity. “That’s why I didn’t get around till now. I didn’t get back from that chase until daylight – the she-fiend stole our car – and then I went to bed to get a little sleep. About three o’clock this afternoon Pinkie Bonn woke me up. He was half batty with excitement. He said he was over in the tenement in the Pug’s room. The Pug wasn’t in, and Pinkie was waiting for him, and then all of a sudden he heard a woman screaming like mad from somewhere. He went to the door and looked out, and saw a man dash out of a room across the hall, and burst in the door of the next room. There was a woman in there with her clothes on fire. She’d upset a coal-oil stove, or something. The man Pinkie had seen beats the fire out, and everybody in the tenement begins to collect around the door. And then Pinkie goes pop-eyed. The man’s face was the face of the White Moll’s dude pal – but he had on the Pug’s clothes. Pinkie’s a wise guy. He slips away to me without getting himself in the limelight or spilling any beans. And I didn’t ask him if he’d been punching the needle again overtime, either. It fitted like a glove with what happened at old Luertz’s last night. You don’t know about that. Pinkie and this double-crossing snitch went there – and only found a note from the White Moll. He’d tipped her off before, of course, and the note made a nice little play so’s he’d be safe himself with us. Well, that’s about all. We had to get him – where we wanted him – and we got him. We waited until he showed up again as the Pug, and then we put over a frame-up deal on him that got him to go over to that old iron plant in Harlem, you know, behind Jake Malley’s saloon, where we had it fixed to hand Cloran his last night – and the Pug’s there now. He’s nicely gagged, and tied, and quite safe. The plant’s been shut down for the last two months, and there’s only the watchman there, and he’s ‘squared.’ We gave the Pug two hours of solitary confinement to think it over and come across. We just asked him for the White Moll’s address, so’s we could get her and the sparklers she swiped at Old Luertz’s place last night.”
Still Rhoda Gray did not speak for a moment. She seemed to be held in thrall by both terror and a sickening dismay. It did not seem real, her surroundings here, this man, and the voice that was gloatingly pronouncing the death sentence upon the man who had come unbidden into her life, and into her heart, the man she loved. Yes, she understood! Danglar’s words had been plain enough. The Adventurer had been trapped – not through Danglar’s cunning, or lack of cunning on the Adventurer’s own part, but through force of circumstances that had caused him to fling all thought of self-consideration to the winds in an effort to save another’s life. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her skirt, clenched until they hurt. And it was another self, it seemed, subconsciously enacting the role of Gypsy Nan, alias Danglar’s wife, who spoke at last.
“You are a fool! You are all fools!” she cried tempestuously. “What do you expect to gain by that? Do you imagine you can make the Pug come across with any information by a threat to kill him if he doesn’t? You tried that once. You had him cold, or at least you thought you had, and so did he, that night in old Nicky Viner’s room, and he laughed at you even when he expected you to fire the next second. He’s not likely to have changed any since then, is he?”
“No,” said Danglar, with a vicious chuckle; “and that’s why I’m not trying the same game twice. That’s why we’ve got him over in the old iron plant now.”
There was something she did not like in Danglar’s voice, something of ominous assurance, something that startled her.
“What do you mean?” she demanded sharply.
“It’s a lonely place,” said Danglar complacently. “There’s no one around but the watchman, and he’s an old friend of Shluker’s; and it’s so roomy over there that no one could expect him to be everywhere at once. See? That let’s him out. He’s been well greased, and he won’t know anything. Don’t you worry, old girl! That’s what I came here for – to tell you that everything is all right, after all. The Pug will talk. Maybe he wouldn’t if he just had his choice between that and the quick, painless end that a bullet would bring; but there are some things that a man can’t stand. Get me? We’ll try a few of those on the Pug, and, believe me, before we’re through, there won’t be any secrets wrapped up in his bosom.”
Rhoda Gray stood motionless. Thank God it had grown dark – dark enough to hide the whiteness that she knew had crept over her face, and the horror that had crept into her eyes. “You mean” – her voice was very low – “you mean you’re going to torture him into talking?”
“Sure!” said Danglar. “What do you think!”
“And after that?”
“We bump him off, of course,” said Danglar callously. “He knows all about us, don’t he? And I guess we’ll square up on what’s coming to him! He’s put the crimp into us for the last time!” Danglar’s voice pitched suddenly hoarse in fury. “That’s a hell of a question to ask! What do you think we’d do with a yellow cur that’s double-crossed us like that?”
Plead for the Adventurer’s life? It was useless; it was worse than useless – it would only arouse suspicion toward herself. From the standpoint of any one of the gang, the Adventurer’s life was forfeit. Her mind was swift, cruelly swift, in its workings now. There came the prompting to disclose her own identity to tell Danglar that he need not go to the Adventurer to discover the whereabouts of the White Moll, that she was here now before him; there came the prompting to offer herself in lieu of the man she loved. But that, too, was useless, and worse than useless; they would still do away with the Adventurer because he had been the Pug, and the only chance he now had, as represented by whatever she might be able to do, would be gone, since she would but have delivered herself into their hands.
She drew back suddenly. Danglar had stepped toward her. She was unable to avoid him, and his arm encircled her waist. She shivered as the pressure of his arm tightened.
“It’s all right, old girl!” he said exuberantly. “You’ve been through hell, you have; but it’s all right at last. You leave it to me! Your husband’s got a kiss to make up for every drop of that grease you’ve had to put on the prettiest face in New York.”
It seemed as though she must scream out. It was hideous. She could not force herself to endure it another instant even for safety’s safe. She pushed him away. It was unbearable – at any risk, cost what it might. Mind, soul and body recoiled from the embrace.
“Leave me alone!” she panted. “You’ve been drinking. Leave me alone!”
He drew back, and laughed.
“Not very much,” he said. “The celebration hasn’t started yet, and you’ll be in on that. I guess your nerves have been getting shaky lately, haven’t they? Well, you can figure on the swellest rest-cure you ever heard of, Bertha. Take it from me! We’re going down to keep the Pug company presently. You blow around to Matty’s about midnight and get the election returns. We’ll finish the job after that by getting Cloran out of the road some way before morning, and that will let you out for keeps – there won’t be any one left to recognize the woman who was with Deemer the night he shuffled out.” He backed to the doorway. “Get me? Come over to Matty’s and see the rajah’s sparklers about midnight. We’ll have ’em then – and the she-fiend, too. So long, Bertha!”
She scarcely heard him; she answered mechanically.
“Good-night,” she said.
XIX. DREAD UPON THE WATERS
For a moment after Danglar had gone, Rhoda Gray stood motionless; and then, the necessity for instant action upon her, she moved quickly toward the doorway herself. There was only one thing she could do, just one; but she must be sure first that Danglar was well started on his way. She reached the doorway, looked out – and suddenly caught her breath in a low, quick inhalation, In the semi-darkness she could just make out Danglar’s form, perhaps twenty-five yards away now, heading along the lane toward the street; but behind Danglar, at a well-guarded distance in the rear, hugging the shadows of the fence, she saw the form of another man. Her brows knitted in a perplexed and anxious frown. The second man was undoubtedly following Danglar. That was evident. But why? Who was it? What did it mean?
She retreated back into the shed, and commenced hastily to disrobe and dress again in her own clothes, which she had flung down upon the floor. In the last analysis, did it matter who it was that was following Danglar – even if it were one of the police? For, supposing that the man who was shadowing Danglar was a plain-clothes man, and suppose he even followed Danglar and the rest of the gang to the old iron plant, and suppose that with the necessary assistance he rounded them all up, and in that sense effected the Adventurer’s rescue, it scarcely meant a better fate for the Adventurer! It simply meant that the Adventurer, as one of the gang, and against whom every one of the rest would testify as the sole means left to them of wreaking their vengeance upon one who had tricked and outwitted them again and again for his own ends, would stand his trial with the others, and with the others go behind prison bars for a long term of years.
She hurried now, completing the last touches that transformed her from Gypsy Nan into the veiled figure of the White Moll, stepped out into the lane, and walking rapidly, reached the street and headed, not in the direction of Harlem, but deeper over into the East Side. Even as Danglar had been speaking she had realized that, for the Adventurer’s own sake, and irrespective of what any premature disclosure of her own identity to the authorities might mean to her, she could not call upon the police for aid. There was only one way, just one – to go herself, to reach the Adventurer herself before Danglar returned there and had an opportunity of putting his worse than murderous intentions into effect.
Well, she was going there, wasn’t she? And if she lost no time she should be there easily ahead of them, and her chances would be excellent of releasing the Adventurer with very little risk. From what Danglar had said, the Adventurer was there alone. Once tied and gagged there had been no need to leave anybody to guard him, save that the watchman would ordinarily serve to keep any one off the premises, which was all that was necessary. But that he had been left at all worried her greatly. He had, of course, already refused to talk. What they had done to him she did not know, but the ‘solitary confinement’ Danglar had referred to was undoubtedly the first step in their efforts to break his spirit. Her lips tightened as she went along. Surely she could accomplish it! She had but to evade the watchman – only, first, the lost revolver, the one safeguard against an adverse turn of fortune, must be replaced, and that was where she was going now. She knew, from her associations with the underworld as the White Moll in the old days, where such things could be purchased and no questions asked, if one were known. And she was known in the establishment to which she was going, for evil days had once fallen upon its proprietor, one “Daddy” Jacques, in that he had incurred the enmity of certain of his own ilk in the underworld, and on a certain night, which he would not be likely to forget, she had stood between him and a manhandling that would probably have cost him his life, and – Yes, this was the place.
She entered a dirty-windowed, small and musty pawnshop. A little old man, almost dwarf-like in stature, with an unkempt, tawny beard, who wore a greasy and ill-fitting suit, and upon whose bald head was perched an equally greasy skull cap, gazed at her inquiringly from behind the counter.
“I want a gun, and a good one, please,” she said, after a glance around her to assure herself that they were alone.
The other squinted at her through his spectacles, as he shook his head.
“I haven’t got any, lady,” he answered. “We’re not allowed to sell them without -“
“Oh, yes, you have, Daddy,” she contradicted quietly, as she raised her veil. “And quick, please; I’m in a hurry.”
The little old man leaned forward, staring at her for a moment as though fascinated; and then his hand, in a fumbling way, removed the skull cap from his bead. There was a curious, almost wistful reverence in his voice as he spoke.
“The White Moll!” he said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “But the gun, Daddy. Quick! I haven’t an instant to lose.”
“Yes, yes!” he said eagerly – and shuffled away.
He was back in a moment, an automatic in his hand.
“It’s loaded, of course?” she said, as she took the weapon. She slipped it into her pocket as he nodded affirmatively. “How much, Daddy?”
“The White Moll!” He seemed still under the spell of amazement. “It is nothing. There is no charge. It is nothing, of course.”
“Thank you, Daddy!” she said softly – and laid a bill upon the counter, and stepped back to the door. “Good-night!” she smiled.
She heard him call to her; but she was already on the street again, and hurrying along. She felt better, somehow, in a mental way, for that little encounter with the shady old pawnbroker. She was not so much alone, perhaps, as she had thought; there were many, perhaps, even if they were of the underworld, who had not swerved from the loyalty they had once professed to the White Moll.
It brought a new train of thought, and she paused suddenly in her walk. She might rally around her some of those underworld intimates upon whose allegiance she felt she could depend, and use them now, to-night, in behalf of the Adventurer; she would be sure then to be a match for Danglar, no matter what turn affairs took. And then, with an impatient shake of her head, she hurried on again. There was no time for that. It would take a great deal of time to find and pick her men; she had even wasted time herself, where there was no time to spare, in the momentary pause during which she had given the thought consideration.
She reached the nearest subway station, which was her objective, and boarded a Harlem train, satisfied that her heavy veil would protect her against recognition. Unobtrusively she took a window seat. No one paid her any attention. Hours passed, it seemed to her impatience, while the black walls rushed by, punctuated by occasional scintillating signal lights, and, at longer intervals, by the fuller glare from the station platforms.
In the neighborhood of 125th street she left the train, and, entering the first drug store she found, consulted a directory. She did not know this section of New York at all; she did not know either the location or the firm name of the iron plant to which Danglar, assuming naturally, of course, that she was conversant with it, had referred; and she did not care to ask to be directed to Jake Malley’s saloon, which was the only clew she had to guide her. The problem, however, did not appear to be a very difficult one. She found the saloon’s address, and, asking the clerk to direct her to the street indicated, left the drug store again.
But, after all, it was not so easy; no easier than for one unacquainted with any locality to find one’s way about. Several times she found herself at fault, and several times she was obliged to ask directions again. She had begun to grow panicky with fear and dread at the time she had lost, before, finally, she found the saloon. She was quite sure that it was already more than half an hour since she had left the drug store; and that half an hour might easily mean the difference between safety and disaster, not only for the Adventurer, but for herself as well. Danglar might have been in no particular hurry, and he would probably have gone first to whatever rendezvous he had appointed for those of the gang selected to accompany him, but even to have done so in a leisurely way would surely not have taken more than that half hour!
Yes, that was Jake Malley’s saloon now, across the road from her, but she could not recall the time that was already lost! They might be there now – ahead of her.
She quickened her steps almost to a run. There should be no difficulty in finding the iron plant now. “Behind Jake Malley’s saloon,” Danglar had said. She turned down the cross street, passed the side entrance to the saloon, and hastened along. The locality was lonely, deserted, and none too well lighted. The arc lamps, powerful enough in themselves, were so far apart that they left great areas of shadow, almost blackness, between them. And the street too was very narrow, and the buildings, such as they were, were dark and unlighted – certainly it was not a residential district!
And now she became aware that she was close to the river, for the sound of a passing craft caught her attention. Of course! She understood now. The iron plant, for shipping facilities, was undoubtedly on the bank of the river itself, and – yes, this was it, wasn’t it? – this picket fence that began to parallel the right-hand side of the street, and enclose, seemingly, a very large area. She halted and stared at it – and suddenly her heart sank with a miserable sense of impotence and dismay. Yes, this was the place beyond question. Through the picket fence she could make out the looming shadows of many buildings, and spidery iron structures that seemed to cobweb the darkness, and – and – Her face mirrored her misery. She had thought of a single building. Where, inside there, amongst all those rambling structures, with little time, perhaps none at all, to search, was she to find the Adventurer?
She did not try to answer her own question – she was afraid that her dismay would get the better of her if she hesitated for an instant. She crossed the street, choosing a spot between two of the arc lamps where the shadows were blackest. It was a high fence, but not too high to climb. She reached up, preparatory to pulling herself to the top – and drew back with a stifled cry. She was too late, then – already too late! They were here ahead of her – and on guard after all! A man’s form, appearing suddenly out of the darkness but a few feet away, was making quickly toward her. She wrenched her automatic from her pocket. The touch of the weapon in her hand restored her self-control.
“Don’t come any nearer!” she cried out sharply. “I will fire if you do!”
And then the man spoke.
“It’s you, ain’t it?” he called in guarded eagerness. “It’s the White Moll, ain’t it? Thank God, it’s you!”
Her extended hand with the automatic fell to her side. She had recognized his voice. It wasn’t Danglar, it wasn’t one of the gang, or the watchman who was no better than an accomplice; it was Marty Finch, alias the Sparrow.
“Marty!” she exclaimed. “You! What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to keep you from goin’ in there!” he answered excitedly. “And – and, say, I was afraid I was too late. Don’t you go in there! For God’s sake, don’t you go! They’re layin’ a trap for you! They’re goin’ to bump you off! I know all about it!”
“You know? What do you mean?” she asked quickly. “How do you know?”
“I quit my job a few days after that fellow you called Danglar tried to murder me that night you saved me,” said the Sparrow, with a savage laugh. “I knew he had it in for you, and I guess I had something comm’ to him on my own account too, hadn’t I? That’s the job I’ve been on ever since – tryin’ to find the dirty pup. And I found him! But it wasn’t until to-night, though you can believe me there weren’t many joints in the old town where I didn’t look for him. My luck turned to-night. I spotted him comin’ out of Italian Joe’s bar. See? I followed him. After a while he slips into a lane, and from the street I saw him go into a shed there. I worked my way up quiet, and got as near as I dared without bein’ heard and seen, and I listened. He was talkin’ to a woman. I couldn’t hear everything they said, and they quarreled a lot; but I heard him say something about framin’ up a job to get somebody down to the old iron plant behind Jake Malley’s saloon and bump ’em off, and I heard him say there wouldn’t be any White Moll by morning, and I put two and two together and beat it for here.”
Rhoda Gray reached out and caught the Sparrow’s hand.
“Thank you, Marty! You haven’t got it quite right – though, thank Heaven, you got it the way you did, since you are here now!” she said fervently. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t the White Moll, they expected to get here; it’s the man who helped me that night to clear you of the Hayden-Bond robbery that Danglar meant to make you shoulder. He risked his life to do it, Marty. They’ve got him a prisoner somewhere in there; and they’re coming back to – to torture him into telling them where I am, and – and afterwards to do away with him. That’s why I’m here, Marty – to get him away, if I can, before they come back.”
The Sparrow whistled low under his breath.
“Well, then, I guess it’s my hunt too,” he said coolly. “And I guess this is where a prison bird horns in with the goods. Ever since I’ve been looking for that Danglar guy, I’ve been carryin’ a full kit – because I didn’t know what might break, or what kind of a mess I might want to get out of. Come on! We ain’t got no time. There’s a couple of broken pickets down there. We might be seen climbin’ the fence. Come on!”
Bread upon the waters! With a sense of warm gratitude upon her, Rhoda Gray followed the ex-convict. They made their way through the fence. A long, low building, a storage shed evidently, showed a few yards in front of them. It seemed to be quite close to the river, for now she could see the reflection of lights from here and there playing on the black, mirror-like surface of the water. Farther on, over beyond the shed, the yard of the plant, dotted with other buildings and those spidery iron structures which she had previously noticed, stretched away until it was lost in the darkness. Here, however, within the radius of one of the street arc lamps it was quite light.
Rhoda Gray had paused in almost hopeless indecision as to how or where to begin her search, when the Sparrow spoke again.
“It looks like we got a long hunt,” whispered the Sparrow; “but a few minutes before you came, a guy with a lantern comes from over across the yard there and nosed around that shed, and acted kind of queer, and I could see him stick his head up against them side doors there as though he was listenin’ for something inside. Does that wise you up to anything?”
“Yes!” she breathed tensely. “That was the watchman. He’s one of them. The man we want is in that shed beyond a doubt. Hurry, Marty – hurry!”
They ran together now, and reached the double side-door. It was evidently for freight purposes only, and probably barred on the inside, for they found there was no way of opening it from without.
“There must be an entrance,” she said feverishly – and led the way toward the front of the building in the direction away from the river. “Yes, here it is!” she exclaimed, as they rounded the end of the shed.
She tried the door. It was locked. She felt in her pocket for her skeleton keys, for she had not been unprepared for just such an emergency, but the Sparrow brushed her aside.
“Leave it to me!” he said quickly. “I’ll pick that lock like one o’clock! It won’t take me more’n a minute.”
Rhoda Gray did not stand and watch him. Minutes were priceless things, and she could put the minute he asked for to better advantage than by idling it away. With an added injunction to hurry and that she would be back in an instant, she was already racing around the opposite side of the shed. If they were pressed, cornered, by the arrival of Danglar, it might well mean the difference between life and death to all of them if she had an intimate knowledge of the surroundings.
She was running at top speed. Halfway down the length of the shed she tripped and fell over some object. She pushed it aside as she rose. It was an old iron casting, more bulky in shape than in weight, though she found it none too light to lift comfortably. She ran on. A wharf projected out, she found, from this end of the shed. At the edge, she peered over. It was quite light here again; away from the protecting shadows of the shed, the rays of the arc lamp played without hindrance on the wharf just as they did on the shed’s side door. Below, some ten or twelve feet below, and at the corner of the wharf, a boat, or, rather, a sort of scow, for it was larger than a boat though oars lay along its thwarts, was moored. It was partly decked over, and she could see a small black opening into the forward end of it, though the opening itself was almost hidden by a heap of tarpaulin, or sailcloth, or something of the kind, that lay in the bottom of the craft. She nodded her head. They might all of them use that boat to advantage!
Rhoda Gray turned and ran back. The Sparrow, with a grunt of satisfaction, was just opening the door. She stepped through the doorway. The Sparrow followed.
“Close it!” said Rhoda Gray, under her breath. She felt her heart beat quicken, the blood flood her face and then recede. Her imagination had suddenly become too horribly vivid. Suppose they – they had already gone farther than…
With an effort she controlled herself – and the round, white ray of her flashlight swept the place. A moment more, and, with a low cry, she was running forward to where, on the floor near the wall of the shed opposite the side door, she made out the motionless form of a man. She reached him, and dropped on her knees beside him. It was the Adventurer. She spoke to him. He did not answer. And then she remembered what Danglar had said, and she saw that he was gagged. But – but she was not sure that was the reason why he did not answer. The flashlight in her hand wavered unsteadily as it played over him. Perhaps the whiteness of the ray itself exaggerated it, but his face held a deathly pallor; his eyes were closed; and his hands and feet were twisted cruelly and tightly bound.
“Give me your knife – quick – Sparrow!” she called. “Then go and keep watch just outside.”
The Sparrow handed her his knife, and hurried back to the door.
She worked in the darkness now. She could not use both hands and still hold the flashlight; and, besides, with the door partially open now where the Sparrow was on guard there was always the chance, if Danglar and those of the gang with him were already in the vicinity, of the light bringing them all the more quickly to the scene.
Again she spoke to the Adventurer, as she removed the gag – and a fear that made her sick at heart seized up on her. There was still no answer. And now, as she worked, cutting at the cords on his hands and feet, the love that she knew for the man, its restraint broken by the sense of dread and fear at his condition, rose dominant within her, and impulse that she could not hold in least took possession of her, and in the darkness, since he would not know, and there was none to see, she bent her head, and, half crying, her lips pressed upon his forehead.
She drew back startled, a crimson in her face that the darkness hid. What had she done? Did he know? Had he returned to consciousness, if he really had been unconscious, in time to know? She could not see; but she knew his eyes had opened.
She worked frantically with the bonds. He was free now. She cast them off.
He spoke then – thickly, with great difficulty.
“It’s you, the White Moll, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered.
He raised himself up on his elbow, only to fall back with a suppressed groan.
“I don’t know how you found me, but get away at once – for God’s sake, get away!” he cried. “Danglar’ll be here at any minute. It’s you he wants. He thinks you know where some – some jewels are, and that I – I -“
“I know all about Danglar,” she said hurriedly. “And I know all about the jewels, for I’ve got them myself.”
He was up on his knees now, swaying there. She caught at his shoulder to support him.
“You!” he cried out incredulously. “You – you’ve got them? Say that again! You – you’ve -“
“Yes,” she said, and with an effort steadied her voice. He – he was a thief. Cost her what it might, with all its bitter hurt, she must remember that, even – even if she had forgotten once. “Yes,” she said. “And I mean to turn them over to the police, and expose every one of Danglar’s gang. I – you are entitled to a chance; you once stood between me and the police. I can do no less by you. I couldn’t turn the police loose on the gang without giving you warning, for, you see, I know you are the Pug.”
“Good God!” he stammered. “You know that, too?”
“Try and walk,” she said breathlessly. “There isn’t any time. And once you are away from here, remember that when Danglar is in the hands of the police he will take the only chance for revenge he has left, and give the police all the information he can, so that they will get you too.
He stumbled pitifully.
“I can’t walk much yet.” He was striving to speak coolly. “They trussed me up a bit, you know – but I’ll be all right in a little while when I get the cramps out of my joints and the circulation back. And so, Miss Gray, won’t you please go at once? I’m free now, and I’ll manage all right, and-“
The Sparrow came running back from the door.
“They’re comm’!” he said excitedly. “They’re comm’ from a different way than we came in. I saw ’em sway up there across the yard for a second when they showed up under a patch of light from an arc lamp on the other street. There’s three of ’em. We. got about a couple of minutes, and -“
“Get those side doors open! Quick! And no noise!”‘ ordered Rhoda Gray tersely. And then to the Adventurer: “Try – try and walk! I’ll help you.”
The Adventurer made a desperate attempt at a few steps. It was miserably slow. At that rate Danglar would be upon them before they could even cross the shed itself.
“I can crawl faster,” laughed the Adventurer with bitter whimsicality. “Give me your revolver, Miss Gray, and you two go – and God bless you!”
The Sparrow was opening the side door, but she realized now that even if they could carry the Adventurer they could not get away in time. Her mind itself seemed stunned for an instant – and then, in a lightning flash, inspiration came. She remembered that iron casting, and the wharf, and the other side of the shed in shadow. It was desperate, perhaps almost hopeless, but it was the only way that gave the Adventurer a chance for his life.
She spoke rapidly. The little margin of time they had must be narrowing perilously.
“Marty, help this gentleman! Crawl to the street, if you have to. The only thing is that you are not to make the slightest noise, and -“
“What are you going to do?” demanded the Adventurer hoarsely.
“I’m going to take the only chance there is for all of us,” she answered.
She started toward the front door of the shed; but he reached out and held her back.
“You are going to take the only chance there is for me!” he cried brokenly. “You’re going out there – where they are. Oh, my God! I know! You love me! I – I was only half conscious, but I am sure you kissed me a little while ago. And but for this you would never have known that I knew it, because, please God, whatever else I am, I am not coward enough to take that advantage of you. But I love you, too! Rhoda! I have the right to speak, the right our love gives me. You are not to go – that way. Run – run through the side door there – they will not see you.
She was trembling. Repudiate her love? Tell him there could be nothing between them because he was a thief? She might never live to see him again. Her soul was in riot, the blood flaming hot in her cheeks. He was clinging to her arm. She tore herself forcibly away. The seconds were counting now. She tried to bid him good-by, but the words choked in her throat. She found herself running for the front door.
“Sparrow – quick! Do as I told you!” she half sobbed over her shoulder – and opening the door, stepped out and dosed it behind her.
XX. A LONE HAND
And now Rhoda Gray was in the radius of the arc lamp, and distinctly visible to any one coming down the yard. How near were they? Yes, she saw them now – three forms-perhaps a little more than a hundred yards away. She moved a few steps deliberately toward them, as though quite unconscious of their presence; and then, as a shout from one of them announced that she was seen, she halted, hesitated as though surprised, terrified and uncertain, and, as they sprang forward, she turned and ran – making for the side of the shed away from the side door.
A voice rang out – Danglar’s:
“By God, it’s the White Moll!”
It was the only way! She had the pack in cry now. They would pay no attention to the Adventurer while the White Moll was seemingly almost within their grasp. If she could only hold them now for a little while – just a little while – the Adventurer wasn’t hurt – only cramped and numbed – he would be all right again and able to take care of himself in a little while – and meanwhile the Sparrow would help him to get away.
She was running with all her speed. She heard them behind her – the pound, pound, pound of feet. She had gained the side of the shed. The light from the arc lamp was shut off from her now, and they would only be able to see her, she knew, as a dim, fleeting shadow. Where was that iron casting? Pray God, it was heavy enough; and pray God, it was not too heavy! Yes, here it was! She pretended to stumble – and caught the thing up in her arms. An exultant cry went up from behind her as she appeared to fall – oaths, a chorus of them, as she went on again.
They had not gained on her before; but with the weight in her arms, especially as she was obliged to carry it awkwardly in order to shield it from their view with her body, she could not run so fast now, and they were beginning to close up on her. But she was on the wharf now, and there was not much farther to go, and – and surely she could hold all the lead she needed until she reached the edge.
The light from the arc lamp held her in view again out here on the wharf where she was clear of the shed; but she knew they would not fire at her except as a last resort. They could not afford to sound an alarm that would attract notice to the spot – when they had, or believed they had, both the Adventurer and the White Moll within their grasp now.
She was running now with short, hard, panting gasps. There were still five yards to go-three-one! She looked around her like a hunted animal at bay, as she reached the end of the wharf and stood there poised at the edge. Yes, thank God, they were still far enough behind to give her the few seconds she needed! She cried out loudly as though in despair and terror – and sprang from the edge of the wharf. And as she sprang she dropped the casting; but even as it struck the water with a loud splash, Rhoda Gray, in frantic haste, was crawling in through the little locker-like opening under the decked-over bow of the half scow, half boat into which she had leaped. And quick as a flash, huddled inside, she reached out and drew the heap of what proved to be sailcloth nearer to her to cover the opening-and lay still.
A few seconds passed; then she heard them at the edge of the wharf, and heard Danglar s voice.
“Watch where she comes up! She can’t get away!”
A queer, wan smile twisted Rhoda Gray’s lips. The casting had served her well; the splash had been loud enough! She listened, straining her ears to catch every sound from above. It was miserably small this hiding place into which she had crawled, scarcely large enough to hold her – she was beginning to be painfully cramped and uncomfortable already.
Another voice, that she recognized as Pinkie Bonn’s now, reached her:
“It’s damned hard to spot anything out there; the water’s blacker’n hell.”
Came a savage and impatient oath from Danglar.
“She’s got to come up, ain’t she – or drown!” he rasped. “Maybe she’s swum under the wharf, or maybe she’s swum under water far enough out so’s we can’t see her from here. Anyway, jump into that boat there, and we’ll paddle around till we get her.”
Rhoda Gray held her breath. The boat rocked violently as, one after another, the men jumped into it. Her right hand was doubled under her, it was hard to reach her pocket and her automatic. She moved a little; they were cursing, splashing with their oars, making too much noise to hear any slight rustle that she might make.
A minute, two, went by. She had her automatic now, and she lay there, grim-lipped, waiting. Even if they found her now, she had her own way out; and by now, beyond any question, the Adventurer and the Sparrow would have reached the street, and, even if they had to hide out there somewhere until the Adventurer had recovered the use of his limbs, they would be safe.
She could not see, of course. Once the boat bumped, and again. They were probably searching around under the wharf. She could not hear what they said, for they were keeping quiet now, talking in whispers – so as not to give her warning of their whereabouts undoubtedly!
The time dragged on. Her cramped position was bringing her excruciating agony now. She could understand how the Adventurer, in far worse case in the brutal position in which they had bound him, had fainted. She was afraid she would faint herself – it was not only the pain, but it was terribly close in the confined space, and her head was swimming.
Occasionally the oars splashed; and then, after an interminable time, the men, as though hopeless of success, and as though caution were no longer of any service, began to talk louder.
The third man was Shluker. She recognized his voice, too.
“It’s no use!” he snarled. “If she’s a good swimmer, she could get across the river easy. She’s got away; that’s sure. What the hell’s the good of this? We’re playing the fool. Beat it back! She was nosing around the shed. How do we know she didn’t let the Pug loose before we saw her?”
Pinkie Bonn whined:
“If he’s gone too, we’re crimped! The whole works is bust up! The Pug knows everything, where our money is, an’ everything. They’ll have us cold!”
“Close your face, Pinkie!” It was Danglar speaking, his voice hoarse with uncontrollable rage. “Go on back, then, Shluker. Quick!”
Rhoda Gray heard the hurried splashing of the oars now; and presently she felt the bumping of the boat against the wharf, and its violent rocking as the men climbed out of it again. But she did not move – save with her hand to push the folds of sailcloth a cautious inch or two away from the opening. It did not ease the agony she was suffering from her cramped position, but it gave her fresher air, and she could hear better – the ring of their boot-heels on the wharf above, for instance.
The footsteps died away. There was silence then for a moment; and then, faintly, from the direction of the shed, there came a chorus of baffled rage and execration. She smiled a little wearily to herself. It was all right. That was what she wanted to know. The Adventurer had got away.
Still she lay there. She dared not leave the boat yet; but she could change her position now. She crawled half out from under the docking, and lay with her head on the sailcloth. It was exquisite relief! They could not come back along the wharf without her hearing them, and she could retreat under the decking again in an instant, if necessary.
Voices reached her now occasionally from the direction of the shed. Finally a silence fell. The minutes passed – ten – fifteen – twenty of them. And then Rhoda Gray climbed warily to the wharf, made her way warily past the shed, and gained the road – and three-quarters of an hour later, in another shed, in the lane behind the garret, she was changing quickly into the rags of Gypsy Nan again.
It was almost the end now. To-night, she would keep the appointment Danglar had given her – and keep it ahead of time. It was almost the end. Her lips set tightly. The Adventurer had been warned. There was nothing now to stand in the way of her going to the police, save only the substantiation of that one point in her own story which Danglar must supply.
Her transformation completed, she reached in under the flooring and took out the package of jewels – they would help very materially when she faced Danglar! – and, though it was somewhat large, tucked it inside her blouse. It could not be noticed. The black, greasy shawl hid it effectively.
She stepped out into the lane, and from there to the street, and began to make her way across town. She did not have to search for Danglar to-night. She was to meet him at Matty’s at midnight, and it was not more than halfpast eleven now. Three hours and a half! Was that all since at eight o’clock, as nearly as she could place it, he had left her in the lane? It seemed as many years; but it was only twenty minutes after eleven, she had noticed, when she had left the subway on her return a few minutes ago. Her hand clenched suddenly. She was to meet him at Matty’s – and, thereafter, if it took all night, she would not leave him until she had got him alone somewhere and disclosed herself. The man was a coward in soul. She could trust to the effect upon him of an automatic in the hands of the White Mall to make him talk.
Rhoda Gray walked quickly. It was not very far. She turned the corner into the street where Danglar’s deformed brother, Matty, cloaked the executive activities of the gang with his cheap little notion store – and halted abruptly. The store was just ahead of her, and Danglar himself, coming out, had just closed the door.
He saw her, and stepping instantly to her side, grasped her arm roughly and wheeled her about.
“Come on!” he said – and a vicious oath broke from his lips.
The man was in a towering, ungovernable passion. She cast a furtive glance at his face. She had seen him before in anger; but now, with his lips drawn back and working, his whole face contorted, he seemed utterly beside himself.
“What’s the matter?” she inquired innocently. “Wouldn’t the Pug talk, or is it a case of ‘another hour or so,’ and -“
He swung on her furiously.
“Hold your cursed tongue!” he flared. “You’ll snicker on the wrong side of your face this time!” He gulped, stared at her threateningly, and quickened his step, forcing her to keep pace with him. But he spoke again after a minute, savagely, bitterly, but more in control of himself. “The Pug got away. The White Moll queered us again. But it’s worse than that. The game’s up! I told you to be here at midnight. It’s only half past eleven yet. I figured you would still be over in the garret, and I was going there for you. That’s where we’re going now. There’s no chance at those rajah’s jewels now; there’s no chance of fixing Cloran so’s you can swell it around in the open again – the only chance we’ve got is to save what we can and beat it!”
She did not need to simulate either excitement or disquiet.
“What is it? What’s happened?” she asked tensely.
“The gang’s thrown us down!” he said between his teeth. “They’re scared; they’ve got cold feet – they’re going to quit. Shluker and Pinkie were with me at the iron plant. We went back to Matty’s from there. Matty’s with them, too. They say the Pug knows every one of us, and every game we’ve pulled, and that in revenge for our trying to murder him he’ll wise up the police – that he could do it easily enough without getting nipped himself, by sending them a letter, or even telephoning the names and addresses of the whole layout. They’re scared – he curs! They say he knows where all our coin is too; and they’re for splitting it up to-night, and ducking it out of New York for a while to get under cover.” He laughed out suddenly, raucously. “They will – eh? I’ll show them – the yellow-streaked pups! They wouldn’t listen to me – and it meant that you and I were thrown down for fair. If we’re caught, it’s the chair. I’ll show them! When I saw it wasn’t any use trying to get them to stick, I pretended to agree with them. See? I said they could go around and dig up the rest of the gang, and if the others felt the same way about it, they were all to come over to the garret, and I’d be waiting for them, – and we’d split up the swag, and everybody’d be on his own after that.” Again he laughed out raucously. “It’ll take them half an hour to get together – but it won’t take that long for us to grab all that’s worth grabbing out of that trap-door, and making our getaway. See? I’ll teach them to throw Pierre Danglar down! Come on, hurry!”
“Sure!” she mumbled mechanically.
Her mind was sifting, sorting, weighing what he had said. She was not surprised. She remembered Pinkie Bonn’s outburst in the boat. She walked on beside Danglar. The man was muttering and cursing under his breath. Well, why shouldn’t she appear to fall in with his plans? Under what choicer surroundings could she get him alone than in the garret? And half an hour would be ample time for her, too! Yes, yes, she began to see! With Danglar, when she had got what she wanted out of him herself, held up at the point of her automatic, she could back to the door and lock him in there – and notify the police – and the police would not only get Danglar and the ill-gotten hoard hidden in the ceiling behind that trap-door, but they would get all the rest of the gang as the latter in due course appeared on the scene. Yes, why not? She experienced an exhilaration creeping upon her; she even increased, unconsciously, the rapid pace which Danglar had set.
“That’s the stuff!” he grunted in savage approval. “We need every minute we’ve got.”
They reached the house where once – so long ago now, it seemed! – Rhoda Gray had first found the original Gypsy Nan; and, Danglar leading, mounted the dark, narrow stairway to the hall above, and from there up the short, ladder-like steps to the garret. He groped in the aperture under the partition for the key, opened the door, and stepped inside. Rhoda Gray, following, removed the key, inserted it on the inside of the door, and, as she too entered, locked the door behind her. It was pitch-black here in the attic. Her face was set now, her lips firm. She had been waiting for this, hadn’t she? It was near the end at last. She had Danglar – alone. But not in the darkness! He was too tricky! She crossed the garret to where the candle-stub, stuck in the neck of the gin bottle, stood on the rickety washstand.
“Come over here and light the candle,” she said. “I can’t find my matches.”
Her hand was in the pocket of her skirt now, her fingers tight-closed on the stock of her automatic, as he shuffled his way across the attic to her side. A match spurted into flame; the candle wick flickered, then steadied, dispersing little by little, as it grew brighter, the nearer shadows – and there came a startled cry from Danglar – and Rhoda Gray, the weapon in her pocket forgotten, was staring as though stricken of her senses across the garret. The Adventurer was sitting on the edge of the cot, and a revolver in his hand held a steady bead upon Danglar and herself..
XXI . THE RECKONING
It was the Adventurer who spoke first.
“Both of you! What charming luck!” he murmured whimsically. “You’ll forgive the intrusion won’t you? A friend of mine, the Sparrow by name – I think you are acquainted with him, Danglar – was good enough to open the door for me, and lock it again on the outside. You see, I didn’t wish to cause you any alarm through a premature suspicion that you might have a guest!” His voice hardened suddenly as he rose from the cot, and, though he limped badly, stepped quickly toward them. “Don’t move, Danglar – or you, Mrs. Danglar!” he ordered sharply – and with a lightning movement of his hand felt for, and whipped Danglar’s revolver from the latter’s pocket. “Pardon me!” he said – and his hand was in and out of Rhoda Gray’s pocket. He tossed the two weapons coolly over onto the cot. “Well, Danglar,” he smiled grimly, “there’s quite a change in the last few hours, isn’t there?”
Danglar made no answer. His face was ashen; his little black eyes, like those of a cornered rat, and as though searching for some avenue of escape, were darting hunted glances all around the garret.
Rhoda Gray, the first shock of surprise gone, leaned back against the washstand with an air of composure that she did not altogether feel. What was the Adventurer going to do? True, she need have no fear of personal violence – she had only to disclose herself. But – but there were other considerations. She saw that reckoning of her own with Danglar at an end, though – yes! – perhaps the Adventurer would become her ally in that matter. But, then, there was something else. The Adventurer was a thief, and she could not let him get away with those packages of banknotes up there behind the trap-door in the ceiling, if she could help it. That was perhaps what he had come for, and – and – Her mind seemed to tumble into chaos. She did not know what to do. She stared at the Adventurer. He was still dressed as the Pug, though the eye-patch was gone, and there was no longer any sign of the artificial facial disfigurements.
The Adventurer spoke again.
“Won’t you sit down – Mrs. Danglar?” He pushed the single chair the garret possessed toward her – and shrugged his shoulders as she remained motionless. “You’ll pardon me, then, if I sit down myself.” He appropriated the chair, and faced them, his revolver dangling with ominous carelessness in his hand. “I’ve had a rather upsetting experience this evening, and I am afraid I am still a little the worse for it – as perhaps you know, Danglar?”
“You damned traitor!” Danglar burst out wildly. “I – I -“
“Quite so!” said the Adventurer smoothly. “But we’ll get to that in a minute. Do you mind if I inflict a little story on you? I promise you it won’t take long. It’s a little personal history which I think will be interesting to you both; but, in any case, as my hosts, I am sure you will be polite enough to listen. It concerns the murder of a man named Deemer; but in order that you may understand my interest in the matter, I must go back quite a little further. Perhaps I even ought to introduce myself. My name, my real name, you know, is David Holt. My father was in the American Consular service in India when I was about ten. He eventually left it and went into business there through the advice of a very warm friend of his, a certain very rich and very powerful rajah in the State of Chota Nagpur in the Province of Bengal, where we then lived. I became an equally intimate friend of the rajah’s son, and – do I bore you, Danglar?”
Danglar was like a crouched animal, his head drawn into his shoulders, his hands behind him with fingers twisting and gripping at the edge of the washstand.
“What’s your proposition?” he snarled. “Curse you, name your price, and have done with it! You’re as big a crook as I am!”
“You are impatient!” The Adventurer’s shoulders went up again. “In due time the rajah decided that a trip through Europe and back home through America would round out his son’s education, and broaden and fit him for his future duties in a way that nothing else would. It was also decided, I need hardly say to my intense delight, that I should accompany him. We come now to our journey through the United States – you see, Danglar, that I am omitting everything but the essential details. In a certain city in the Middle West – I think you will remember it well, Danglar – the young rajah met with an accident. He was out riding in the outskirts of the city. His horse took fright and dashed for the river-bank. He was an excellent horseman, but, pitched from his seat, his foot became tangled in the stirrup, and as he hung there head down, a blow from he horse’s hoof rendered him unconscious, and he was being dragged along, when a man by the name of Deemer, at the risk of his own life, saved the rajah’s son. The horse plunged over the bank and into the water with both of them. They were both nearly drowned. Deemer, let me say in passing, did one of the bravest things that any man ever did. Submerged, half drowned himself, he stayed with the maddened animal until he had succeeded in freeing the unconscious man. All this was some two years ago.”
The Adventurer paused.
Rhoda Gray, hanging on his words, was leaning tensely forward – it seemed as though some great, dawning wonderment was lifting her out of herself, making her even unconscious of her surroundings.
“The rajah’s son remained at the hotel there for several days to recuperate,” continued the Adventurer deliberately; “and during that time he saw a great deal of Deemer, and, naturally, so did I. And, incidentally, Danglar, though I thought nothing much of it then, I saw something of you; and something of Mrs. Danglar there, too, though – if she will permit me to say it – in a more becoming costume than she is now wearing!” Once more he shrugged his shoulders as Danglar snarled. “Yes, yes; I will hurry. I am almost through. While it was not made public throughout the country, inasmuch as the rajah’s son was more or less an official guest of the government, the details of the accident were of course known locally, as also was the fact that the young rajah in token of his gratitude had presented Deemer with a collection of jewels of almost priceless worth. We resumed our journey; Deemer, who was a man in very moderate circumstances, and who had probably never had any means in his life before, went to New York, presumably to have his first real holiday, and, as it turned out, to dispose of the stones, or at least a portion of them. When we reached the coast we received two advices containing very ill news. The first was an urgent message to return instantly to India on account of the old rajah’s serious illness; the second was to the effect that Deemer had been murdered by a woman in New York, and that the jewels had been stolen.”
Again the Adventurer paused, and, eying Danglar, smiled – not pleasantly.
“I will not attempt to explain to you,” he went on, “the young rajah’s feelings when he heard that the gift he had given Deemer in return for his own life had cost Deemer his. Nor will I attempt to explain the racial characteristics of the people of whom the young rajah was one, and who do not lightly forget or forgive. But an eye for an eye, Danglar – you will understand that. If it cost all he had, there should be justice. He could not stay himself; and so I stayed-because he made me swear I would, and because he made me swear that I would never allow the chase to lag until the murderers were found.
“And so I came East again. I remembered you, Danglar – that on several occasions when I had come upon Deemer unawares, you, sometimes accompanied by a woman, and sometimes not, had been lurking in the background. I went to Cloran, the house detective at the hotel here in New York where Deemer was murdered. He described the woman. She was the same woman that had been with you. I went to the authorities and showed my credentials, with which the young rajah had seen to it I was supplied from very high sources indeed. I did not wish to interfere with the authorities in their handling of the case; but, on the other hand, I had no wish to sit down idly and watch them, and it was necessary therefore that I should protect myself in anything I did. I also made. myself known to one of New York’s assistant district attorneys, who was an old friend of my father’s. And then, Danglar, I started out after you.
“I discovered you after about a month; then I wormed myself into your gang as the Pug. That took about a year. I was almost another year with you as an accepted member of the gang. You know what happened during that period. A little while ago I found out that the woman we wanted – with you, Danglar – was your wife, living in hiding in this garret as Gypsy Nan. But the jewels themselves were still missing. To-night they are not. A – a friend of mine, one very much misjudged publicly, I might say, has them, and has told me they would be handed to the police.
“And so, Danglar, after coming here to-night, I sent the Sparrow out to gather together a few of the authorities who are interested in the case – my friend the assistant district attorney; Cloran, the house detective; Rough Rorke of headquarters, who on one occasion was very much interested in Gypsy Nan; and enough men to make the round of arrests. They should be conveniently hidden across the road now, and waiting for my signal. My idea, you see, was to allow Mrs. Danglar to enter here without having her suspicions aroused, and to see that she did not get away again if she arrived before those who are duly qualified – which I am not – to arrest her did; also, in view of what transpired earlier this evening, I must confess I was a little anxious about those several years’ accumulation of stolen funds up there in the ceiling. As I said at the beginning, I hardly expected the luck to get you both at the same time; though we should have got you, Danglar, and every one of the rest of the gang before morning, and -“
“You,” Rhoda Gray whispered, “you – are not a thief!” Brain and soul seemed on fire. It seemed as though she had striven to voice those words a dozen times since he had been speaking, but that she had been afraid – afraid that this was not true, this great, wonderful thing, that it could not be true. “You – you are not a – a thief!”
The Adventurer’s face lost its immobility. He half rose from his chair, staring at her in a startled way – but it was Danglar now who spoke.
“It’s a lie!” he screamed out. “It’s a lie!” The man’s reason appeared to be almost unhinged; a mad terror seemed to possess him. “It’s all a lie! I never heard of this rajah bunk before in my life! I never heard of Deemer, or any jewels before. You lie! I tell you, you lie! You can’t prove it; you can’t -“
“But I can,” said Rhoda Gray in a low voice. The shawl fell from her shoulders; from her blouse she took the package of jewels and held them out to the Adventurer. “Here are the stones. I got them from where you had put them in old Luertz’s room. I was hidden there all the time last night.” She was removing her spectacles and her wig of tangled gray hair as she spoke, and now she turned her face full upon Danglar. “I heard you discuss Deemer’s murder with your brother last night, and plan to get rid of Cloran, who you thought was the only existing witness you need fear, and -“
“Great God!” The Adventurer cried out. “You – Rhoda! The White Moll! I – I don’t understand, though I can see you are not the woman who originally masqueraded as Gypsy Nan, for I knew her, as I said, by sight.”
He was on his feet now, his face aflame with a great light. He took a step toward her.
“Wait!” she said hurriedly. She glanced at Danglar. The man’s face was blanched, his body seemed to have shriveled up, and there was a light in his eyes as they held upon her that was near to the borderland of insanity. “That night at Skarbolov’s!” she said, and tried to hold her voice in control. “Gypsy Nan, this man’s wife, died that night in the hospital. I had found her here sick, and I had promised not to divulge her secret. I helped her get to the hospital. She was dying; she was penitent in a way; she wanted to prevent a crime that she said was to be perpetrated that night, but she would not inform on her accomplices. She begged me to forestall them, and return the money anonymously the next day. That was the choice I had – either to allow the crime to be carried out, or else swear to act alone in return for the information that would enable me to keep the money away from the thieves without bringing the police into it. I – I was caught. You – you saved me from Rough Rorke, but he followed me. I put on Gypsy Nan’s clothes, and managed to outwit him. I had had no opportunity to return the money, which would have been proof of my innocence; the only way I could prove it, then, was to try and find the authors of the crime myself. I – I have lived since then as Gypsy Nan, fighting this hideous gang of Danglar’s here to try and save myself, and – and to-night I thought I could see my way clear. I – I knew enough at last about this man to make him give me a written statement that it was a pre-arranged plan to rob Skarbolov. That would substantiate my story. And” – she looked again at Danglar; the man was still crouched there, eying her with that same mad light in his eyes – “and he must be made to – to do it now for -“
“But why didn’t you ask me?” cried the Adventurer. “You knew me as the Pug, and therefore must have believed that I, too, know all about it.”
“Yes,” she said, and turned her head away to hide the color she felt was mounting to her cheeks. “I – I thought of that. But I thought you were a thief, and – and your testimony wouldn’t have been much good unless, with it, I could have handed you, too, over to the police, as I intended to do with Danglar; and – and – I – I couldn’t do that, and – Oh, don’t you see?” she ended desperately.
“Rhoda! Rhoda!” There was a glad, buoyant note in the Adventurer’s voice. “Yes, I see! Well, I can prove it for you now without any of those fears on my behalf to worry you! I went to Skarbolov’s myself, knowing their plans, to do exactly what you did. I did not know you then, and, as Rough Rorke, who was there because, as I heard later, his suspicions had been aroused through seeing some of the gang lurking around the back door in the lane the night before, had taken the actual money from you, I contrived to let you get away, because I was afraid that you were some new factor in the game, some member of the gang that I did not know about, and that I must watch, too! Don’t you understand? The jewels were still missing. I had not got the general warning that was sent out to the gang that night to lay low, for at the last moment it seems that Danglar here found out that Rough Rorke had suspicions about Skarbolov’s place.” He came close to her – and with the muzzle of his revolver he pushed Danglar’s huddled figure back a little further against the washstand. “Rhoda – you are clear. The assistant district attorney who had your case is the one I spoke of a few minutes ago. That night at Hayden-Bond’s, though I did not understand fully, I knew that you were the bravest, truest little woman into whom God had ever breathed the breath of life. I told him the next day there was some mistake, something strange behind it all. I told him what happened at Hayden-Bond’s. He agreed with me. You have never been indicted. Your case has never come before the grand jury. And it never will now! Rhoda! Rhoda! Thank God for you! Thank God it has all come out right, and -“
A peal of laughter, mad, insane, horrible in its perverted mirth, rang through the garret. Danglar’s hands were creeping queerly up to his temples. And then, oblivious evidently in his frenzy of the revolver in the Adventurer’s hand, and his eye catching the weapons that lay upon the cot, he made a sudden dash in that direction – and Rhoda Gray, divining his intention, sprang for the cot, too, at the same time. But Danglar never reached his objective. As Rhoda Gray caught up the weapons and thrust them into her pocket, she heard Danglar’s furious snarl, and whirling around, she saw the two men locked and struggling in each other’s embrace.
The Adventurer’s voice reached her, quick, imperative:
“Show the candle at the window, Rhoda! The Sparrow is waiting for it in the yard below. Then open the door for them.”
A sudden terror and fear seized her. The Adventurer was not fit, after what he had been through to-night to cope with Danglar. He had been limping badly even a few minutes ago. It seemed to her, as she rushed across the garret and snatched up the candle, that Danglar was getting the best of it even now. And the Adventurer could have shot him down, and been warranted in doing it! She reached the window, waved the candle frantically several times across the pane, then setting the candle down on the window ledge, she ran for the door.
She looked back again, as she turned the key in the lock. With a crash, pitching over the chair, both men went to the floor – and the Adventurer was underneath. She cried out in alarm, and wrenched the door open – and stood for an instant there on the threshold in a startled way.
They couldn’t be coming already! The Sparrow hadn’t had time even to get out of the yard. But there were footsteps in the hall below, many of them. She stepped out on the landing; it was too dark to see, but…
A sudden yell as she showed even in the faint light of the open garret door, the quicker rush of feet, reached her from below.
“The White Moll! That’s her! The White Moll!” She flung herself flat down, wrenching both the automatic and the revolver from her pocket. She understood now! That was Pinkie Bonn’s voice. It was the gang arriving to divide up the spoils, not the Sparrow and the police. Her mind was racing now with lightning speed. If they got her, they would get the Adventurer in there, too, before the police could intervene. She must hold this little landing where she lay now, hold those short, ladder-like steps that the oncoming footsteps from below there had almost reached.
She fired once – twice – again; but high, over their heads, to check the rush.
Yells answered her. A vicious tongue-flame from a revolver, another and another, leaped out at her from the black below; the spat, spat of bullets sounded from behind her as they struck the walls.
Again she fired. They were at least more cautious now in their rush – no one seemed anxious to be first upon the stairs. She cast a wild glance through the open door into the garret at her side. The two forms in there, on their feet again, were spinning around and around with the strange, lurching gyrations of automatons – and then she saw the Adventurer whip a terrific blow to Danglar’s face – and Danglar fall and lie still – and the Adventurer come leaping toward her.
But faces were showing now above the level of the floor, and there was suddenly an increased uproar from further back in the rear until it seemed that pandemonium itself were loosed.
“It’s the police! The police behind us!” she heard Shluker’s voice shriek out.
She jumped to her feet. Two of the gang had reached the landing and were smashing at the Adventurer. There seemed to be a swirling mob in riot there below. The Adventurer was fighting like a madman. It was hand to hand now.
“Quick! Quick!” she cried to the Adventurer. “Jump back through the door.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” It was Skeeny – she could see the man’s brutal face now. “Oh, no, you don’t, you she-devil!” he shouted, and, over-reaching the Adventurer’s guard, struck at her furiously with his clubbed revolver.
It struck her a glancing blow on the head, and she reeled and staggered, but recovered herself. And now it seemed as though it were another battle that she fought – and one more desperate; a battle to fight back a horrible giddiness from overpowering her, and with which her brain was swimming, to fight it back for just a second, the fraction of a second that was needed until – until – “Jump!” she cried again, and staggered over the threshold, and, as the Adventurer leaped backward beside her, she slammed the door, and locked it – and slid limply to the floor.
When she regained consciousness she was lying on the cot. It seemed very still, very quiet in the garret. She opened her eyes. It – it must be all right, for that was the Sparrow standing there watching her, and shifting nervously from foot to foot, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be there, otherwise. She held out her hand.
“Marty,” she said, and smiled with trembling lips, “we – we owe you a great deal.”
The Sparrow gulped.
“Gee, you’re all right again! They said it wasn’t nothin’, but you had me scared worse’n down at the iron plant when I had to do the rough act with that gent friend of yours to stop him from crawlin’ after you and fightin’ it out, and queerin’ the whole works. You don’t owe me nothin’, Miss Gray; and, besides, I’m gettin’ a lot more than is comm’ to me, ’cause that same gent friend of yours there says I’m goin’ to horn in on the rewards, and I guess that’s goin’ some, for they got the whole outfit from Danglar down, and the stuff up in the ceiling there, too.”
She turned her head. The Adventurer was coming toward the cot.
“Better?” he called cheerily.
“Yes,” she said. “Quite! Only I – I’d like to get away from here, from this – this horrible place at once, and back to – to my flat if they’ll let me. Are – are they all gone?”
The Adventurer’s gray eyes lighted with a whimsical smile.
“Nearly all!” he said softly. “And – er – Sparrow, suppose you go and find a taxi!”
“Me? Sure! Of course! Sure!” said the Sparrow hurriedly, and retreated through the door.
She felt the blood flood her face, and she tried to avert it.
He bent his head close to hers.
“Rhoda,” his voice was low, passionate, “I -“
“Wait!” she said. “Your friend – the assistant district attorney – did he come?”
“Yes,” said the Adventurer. “But I shooed them all out, as soon as we found you were not seriously hurt. I thought you had had enough excitement for one night. He wants to see you in the morning.”
“To see me” – she rose up anxiously on her elbow – “in the morning?”
He was smiling at her. His hands reached out and took her face between them, and made her look at him.
“Rhoda,” he said gently, “I knew to-night in the iron plant that you cared. I told him so. What he wants to see you for is to tell you that he thinks I am the luckiest man in all the world. You are clear, dear. Even Rough Rorke is singing your praises; he says you are the only woman who ever put one over on him.”
She did not answer for a moment; and then with a little sob of glad surrender she buried her face on his shoulder.
“It – it is very wonderful,” she said brokenly, “for – for even we, you and I, each thought the other a – a thief.”
“And so we were, thank God!” he whispered – and lifted her head until now his lips met hers. “We were both thieves, Rhoda, weren’t we? And, please God, we will be all our lives – for we have stolen each other’s heart.”