ure of bringing the police to the scene, and then the two
of them had run for it.

Rhoda Gray's eyes darkened angrily. The newspapers said that Danglar had
been temporarily held by the police, though his story was believed to be
true, for certainly the man would make no mistake as to the identity of
the White Moll, since his life, what the police could find out about it,
coincided with his own statements, and he would naturally therefore have
seen her many times in the Bad Lands when she was working there under
cover of her despicable role of sweet and innocent charity. Danglar had
made no pretensions to self-righteousness--he was too cute for that. He
admitted that he had no "specific occupation," that he hung around the
gambling hells a good deal, that he followed the horses--that, frankly,
he lived by his wits. He had probably given some framed-up address to
the police, but, if so, the papers had not stated where it was. Rhoda
Gray's face, under the grime of Gypsy Nan's disguise, grew troubled
and perplexed. Neither had the papers, even the evening papers, stated
whether Danglar had as yet been released--they had devoted the rest of
their space to the vilification of the White Moll. They had demanded
in no uncertain tones a more conclusive effort on the part of the
authorities to bring her, and with her now the man in the case, as they
called the Adventurer, to justice, and...

The thought of the Adventurer caused her mind to swerve sharply off at
a tangent. Where he had piqued and aroused her curiosity before, he
now, since last night, seemed more complex a character than ever. It
was strange, most strange, the way their lives, his and hers, had become
interwoven! She had owed him much; but last night she had repaid him and
squared accounts. She had told him so. She owed him nothing more. If a
sense of gratitude had once caused her to look upon him with--with--She
bit her lips. What was the use of that? Had it become so much a part of
her life, so much a habit, this throwing of dust in the eyes of others,
this constant passing of herself off for some one else, this constant
deception, warranted though it might be, that she must now seek to
deceive herself! Why not frankly admit to her own soul, already in the
secret, that she cared in spite of herself--for a thief? Why not admit
that a great hurt had come, one that no one but herself would ever know,
a hurt that would last for always because it was a wound that coul