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 exc