te
well aware that he was standing with his back to the door, evidently
trying to place his surroundings.

It was Gypsy Nan, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke.

"Who's dere?" she screeched. "D'ye hear, blast youse, who's dere?"

Rough Rorke laughed gratingly.

"That you, Nan, my dear?"

"Who d'youse t'ink it is-me gran'mother?" demanded Rhoda Gray
caustically. "Who are youse?"

"Rorke," said Rorke shortly. "I guess you know, don't you?"

"Is dat so?" snorted Rhoda Gray. "Well den, youse can beat it--hop
it--on de jump! Wot t'hell right have youse got bustin' into me room at
dis time of night--eh? I ain't done nothin'!"

Rough Rorke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward.

"Cut it out!" he snarled. "I ain't the only visitor you've got! It's not
you I want; it's the White Moll."

"Wot's dat got to do wid me?" Rhoda Gray flung back hotly. "She ain't
here, is she?"

"Yes, she's here!" Rough Rorke's voice held an ugly menace. "I lost
her around the corner, but a woman from a window across the street, who
heard the row, saw her run into this house. She ain't downstairs--so you
can figure the rest out the same way I do."

"De woman was kiddin' youse!" Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, cackled
derisively. "Dere ain't nobody here but me."

"We'll see about that!" said Rough Rorke shortly. "Strike a light!"

"Aw, strike it yerself!" retorted Rhoda Gray. "I ain't yer servant!
Dere's a candle over dere on de washstand against de wall, if youse
wants it."

A match crackled and spurted into flame; its light fell upon the lamp
standing on the chair beside the bed. Rough Rorke stepped toward it.

"Dere ain't any oil in dat," croaked Rhoda Gray. "Didn't I tell youse de
candle was over dere on de washstand, an'--"

The words seemed to freeze in her throat, the chair, the lamp, the
shadowy figure of the man in the match flame to swirl before her eyes,
and a sick nausea to come upon her soul itself. With a short, triumphant
oath, Rough Rorke had stopped suddenly and reached in under the chair.
And now he was dangling a new, black kid glove in front of her. Caught!
Yes, she was caught! She remembered Gypsy Nan's attempt to put on her
gloves--one must have fallen to the floor unnoticed by either of them
when Gypsy Nan had thought to put them in her pocket! The man's voice
came to her as from some great distance:

"So, she ain't here--ain't she! I'll teach you to lie to me! I'll--" The
match was dying out. Rorke raised it