ad been that it was one of Gypsy Nan's accomplices here ahead of the
appointed time. That would have given her cause, all too much of cause,
for fear; but it was not one of Gypsy Nan's accomplices, and, far worse
than the fear of any physical attack upon her, was the sense of ruin and
disaster that the realization of a quite different and more desperate
situation brought her now. She knew the man. She had seen those square,
heavy, clamped jaws scores of times. Those sharp, restless black eyes
under over-hanging, shaggy eyebrows were familiar to the whole East
Side. It was Rorke--"Rough" Rorke, of headquarters.

He came toward her, and halfway across the room another exclamation
burst from his lips; but this time it held a jeer, and in the jeer a
sort of cynical and savage triumph.

"The White Moll!"

He was close beside her now, and now he snatched from her hand the
banknotes that, all unconsciously, she had still been clutching tightly.

"So this is what all the sweet charity's been about, eh?" he snapped.
"The White Moll, the Little Saint of the East Side, that lends a helping
hand to the crooks to get 'em back on the straight and narrow again! The
White Moll-hell! You crooked little devil!"

Again she did not answer. Her mind was clear now, brutally clear,
brutally keen, brutally virile. What was there for her to say? She was
caught here at one o'clock in the morning after breaking into the place,
caught red-handed in the very act of taking the money. What story could
she tell that would clear her of that! That she had taken it so that
it wouldn't be stolen, and that she was going to give it back in the
morning? Was there anybody in the world credulous enough to believe
anything like that! Tell Gypsy Nan's story, all that had happened
to-night? Yes, she might have told that to-morrow, after she had
returned the money, and been believed. But now-no! It would even make
her appear in a still worse light. They would credit her with being a
member of this very gang to which Gypsy Nan belonged, one in the secrets
of an organized band of criminals, who was trying to clear her own
skirts at the expense of her confederates. Everything, every act of
hers to-night, pointed to that construction being placed upon her story,
pointed to duplicity. Why had she hidden the identity of Gypsy Nan? Why
had she not told the police that a crime was to be committed, and left
it to the police to frustrate it? It would fit in with the sto