ympathy for those two outraged old
people in the twilight of their lives, and if she were not a moral
coward, there remained no question as to what her decision should be.

Her mind began to mull over the details. Subconsciously, since the
moment she had made her escape from that cellar, she found now that she
had been walking in the direction of the garret that sheltered her as
Gypsy Nan. In another five minutes she could reach that deserted shed in
the lane behind Gypsy Nan's house where her own clothes were hidden,
and it would take her but a very few minutes more to effect the
transformation from Gypsy Nan to the White Moll. And then, in another
ten minutes, she should be back again at the Pug's room. The Pug had
said he would not be much more than half an hour, but, as nearly as she
could calculate it, that would still give her from five to ten minutes
alone with Pinkie Bonn. It was enough--more than enough. The prestige of
the White Moll would do the rest. A revolver in the hands of the White
Moll would insure instant and obedient respect from Pinkie Bonn, or
any other member of the gang under similar conditions. And so--and
so--it--would not be difficult. Only there was a queer fluttering at her
heart now, and her breath came in hard, short little inhalations. And
she spoke suddenly to herself:

"I'm glad," she whispered, "I'm glad I saw those two old faces on that
doorstep, because--because, if I hadn't, I--I would be afraid."

The minutes passed. The dissolute figure of an old hag disappeared, like
a deeper shadow in the blackness of a lane, through the broken door of
a deserted shed; presently a slim, neat little figure, heavily veiled,
emerged. Again the minutes passed. And now the veiled figure let herself
in through the back door of the Pug's lodging house, and stole softly
down the dark hall, and halted before the Pug's door. It was the White
Moll now.

From under the door, at the ill-fitting threshold, there showed a
thin line of light. Rhoda Gray, with her ear against the door panel,
listened. There was no sound of voices from within. Pinkie Bonn, then,
was still alone, and still waiting for the Pug. She glanced sharply
around her. There was only darkness. Her gloved right hand was hidden in
the folds of her skirt; she raised her left hand and knocked softly upon
the door-two raps, one rap, two raps. She repeated it. And as it had
been with Shluker, so it was now with her. A footstep crossed the floor