Pug
he turned to his own account and to the undoing of the gang, he must of
necessity be at her mercy. Her mercy! What exquisite irony! Her mercy!
The man her heart loved; the thief her common sense abhorred! What
irony! When she, too, played a double role; when in their other
characters, that of the Adventurer and the White Moll, he and she were
linked together by the gang as confederates, whereas, in truth, they
were wider apart than the poles of the earth!

Her mercy! How merciful would she be--to the thief she loved? He knew,
he must know, all the inner secrets of the gang. She smiled wanly now
as she reached the landing. Would he know that in the last analysis her
threat would be only an idle one; that, though her future, her safety,
her life depended on obtaining the evidence she felt he could supply,
her threat would be empty, and that she was powerless--because she loved
him. But he did not know she loved him--she was Gypsy Nan. If she kept
her secret, if he did not penetrate her disguise as she had penetrated
his, if she were Gypsy Nan and Danglar's wife to him, her threat would
be valid enough, and--and he would be at her mercy!

A flush, half shamed, half angry, dyed the grime that was part of Gypsy
Nan's disguise upon her face. What was she saying to herself? What was
she thinking? That he did not know she loved him! How would he? How
could he? Had a word, an act, a single look of hers ever given him a
hint that, when she had been with him as the White Moll, she cared!
It was unjust, unfair, to fling such a taunt at herself. It seemed as
though she had lost nearly everything in life, but she had not yet lost
her womanliness and her pride.

She had certainly lost her senses, though! Even if that word, that look,
that act had passed between them, between the Adventurer and the White
Moll, he still did not know that Gypsy Nan was the White Moll--and that
was the one thing now that he must not know, and...

Rhoda Gray halted suddenly, and stared along the hallway ahead of her,
and up the short, ladder-like steps that led to the garret. Her ears--or
was it fancy?--had caught what sounded like a low knocking up there upon
her door. Yes, it came again now distinctly. It was dusk outside; in
here, in the hall, it was almost dark. Her eyes strained through the
murk. She was not mistaken. Something darker than the surrounding
darkness, a form, moved up there.

The knocking ceased, and now the form seemed to bend