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
within, the key turned in the lock, and the door was flung open.
“All right, Pug,” said Pinkie Bonn, “I--”
The man's words ended in a gasp of surprised amazement. With a quick
step forward, Rhoda Gray was in the room. Her revolver, suddenly
outflung, covered the other; and her free hand, reaching behind her,
closed and locked the door again.
There was an almost stupid look of bewilderment on Pinkie Bonn's face.
Rhoda Gray threw back her veil.
“My Gawd!” mumbled Pinkie Bonn--and licked his lips. “The White Moll!”
“Yes!” said Rhoda Gray tersely. “Put your hands up over your head and go
over there and stand against the wall--with your face to it!”
Pinkie Bonn, like an automaton moved purely by mechanical means, obeyed.
Rhoda Gray followed him, and with the muzzle of her revolver pressed
into the small of the man's back, felt rapidly over his clothes with her
left hand for the bulge of his revolver. She found and possessed herself
of the weapon, and, stepping back, ordered him to turn around again.
“I haven't much time,” she said icily. “I'll trouble you now for the
cash you took from Marny Day and French Pete.”
“My Gawd!” he mumbled again. “You know about that!”
“Quick!” she said imperatively. “Put it on the table there, and then go
back again to the wall!”
Pinkie Bonn fumbled in his pocket. His face was white, almost chalky
white, and it held fear; but its dominant expression was one of helpless
stupefaction. He placed the sheaf of banknotes on the table, and
shuffled back again to the wall.
Rhoda Gray picked up the money, and retreated to the door. Still facing
the man, working with her left hand behind her back, she unlocked the
door again, and this time removed the key from the lock.
“You are quite safe here,” she observed evenly, “since there appears to
be no window through which you could get out; but you might make it a
little unpleasant for me if you gave the alarm and aroused the other
occupants of the house before I had got well away. I dare say that was
in your mind, but”--she opened the door slightly, and inserted the key
on the outer side--“I am quite sure you will reconsider any such
intentions--Pinkie. It would be a very disastrous thing for you if
I were caught. Somebody is 'wanted' for the murder of Marny Day at
Charlie's a little while ago, and a jury would undoubtedly decide that
the guilty man was the one who broke in the door there and stole the
money. And if I were caught and were obliged to confess that I got it
from you, and French Pete swore that it was whoever broke into the room
that shot his pal, it might go hard with you, Pinkie--don't you think
so?” She smiled coldly at the man's staring eyes and dropped jaw.
“Good-night, Pinkie; I know you won't make any noise,” she said
softly--and suddenly opened the door, and in a flash stepped back into
the hall, and closed and locked the door, and whipped out the key from
the lock.
And inside Pinkie Bonn made no sound.
It was done now. Rhoda Gray drew in her breath in a great choking gasp
of relief. She found herself trembling violently. She found her limbs
were bearing her none too steadily, as she began to grope her way now
along the black hall toward the back door. But it was done now, and--No,
she was not safe away, even yet! Some one was coming in through that
back door just ahead of her; or, at least, she heard voices out there.
She was just at the end of the hall now. There was no time to go back
and risk the front entrance. She darted across the hall to the opposite
side from that of the Pug's room, because on that side the opening of
the door would not necessarily expose her, and crouched down in the
corner. It was black here, perhaps black enough to escape observation.
She listened, her heart beating wildly. The voices outside continued.
Why were they lingering there? Why didn't they do one thing or the
other--either go away, or come in? There wasn't any too much time! The
Pug might be back at any minute now. Perhaps one of those people out
there was the Pug! Perhaps it would be better after all to run back and
go out by the front door, risky as that would be. No, her escape in that
direction now was cut off, too!
She shrank as far back into the corner as she could. The door of the end
room on this side of the hall had opened, and now a man stepped out and
closed the door behind him. Would he see her? She held her breath. No!
It--it was all right. He was walking away from her toward the front
of the hall. And now for a moment it seemed as though she had lost her
senses, as though her brain were playing some mad, wild trick upon her.
Wasn't that the Pug's door before which the man had stopped? Yes, yes!
And he seemed to have a key to it, for he did not knock, and the door
was opening, and now for an instant, just an instant, the light fell
upon the man as he stepped with a quick, lightning-like movement inside,
and she saw his face. It was the Adventurer.
She stifled a little cry. Her brain was in turmoil. And now the back
door was opening. They--they might see her here! And--yes--it was
safer--safer to act on the sudden inspiration that had come to her. The
door of the room from which the Adventurer had emerged was almost
within reach; and he had not locked it as he had gone out--she had
subconsciously noted that fact. And she understood why he had not
now--that he had safeguarded himself against the loss of even the second
or two it would have taken him to unlock it when he ran back for cover
again from the Pug's room. Yes-that room! It was the safest thing she
could do. She could even get out that way, for it must be the room with
the low window, which she remembered gave on the back yard, and--She
darted silently forward, and, as the back door opened, slipped into the
room the Adventurer had just vacated.
It was pitch black. She must not make a sound; but, equally, she must
not lose a second. What was taking place in the Pug's room between
Pinkie Bonn and the Adventurer she did not know. But the Adventurer was
obviously on one of his marauding expeditions, and he might stay
there no more than a minute or two once he found out that he had been
forestalled. She must hurry--hurry!
She felt her way forward in what she believed to be the direction of
the window. She ran against the bed. But this afforded her something by
which to guide herself. She kept her touch upon it, her hand trailing
along its edge. And then, halfway down its length, what seemed to be a
piece of string caught in her extended, groping fingers. It seemed to
cling, but also to yield most curiously, as she tried to shake it off;
and then something, evidently from under the mattress, came away with a
little jerk, and remained, suspended, in her hand.
It didn't matter, did it? Nothing mattered except to reach the window.
Yes, here it was now! And the roller shade was drawn down; that was why
the room was so dark. She raised the shade quickly--and suddenly stood
there as though transfixed, her face paling, as in the faint light by
the window she gazed, fascinated, at the object that still dangled by a
cord from her hand.
And it seemed as if an inner darkness were suddenly riven as by a bolt
of lightning--a hundred things, once obscure and incomprehensible, were
clear now, terribly clear. She understood now how the Adventurer was
privy to all the inner workings of the organization; she understood now
how it was, and why, the Adventurer had a room so close to that other
room across the hall. That dangling thing on an elastic cord was a
smeared and dirty celluloid eye-patch that had once been flesh-colored!
The Adventurer and the Pug were one!
Her wits! Quick! He must not know! In a frenzy of haste she ran for the
bed, and slipped the eye-patch in under the mattress again; and then,
still with frenzied speed, she climbed to the window sill, drew the
roller shade down again behind her, and dropped to the ground.
Through the back yard and lane she gained the street, and sped on
along the street--but her thoughts outpaced her hurrying footsteps.
How minutely every detail of the night now seemed to explain itself
and dovetail with every other one! At the time, when Shluker had been
present, it had struck her as a little forced and unnecessary that the
Pug should have volunteered to seek out Danglar with explanations after
the money had been secured. But she understood now the craft and guile
that lay behind his apparently innocent plan. The Adventurer needed both
time and an alibi, and also he required an excuse for making Pinkie Bonn
the custodian of the stolen money, and of getting Pinkie alone with
that money in the Pug's room. Going to Danglar supplied all this. He had
hurried back, changed in that room from the Pug to the Adventurer, and
proposed in the latter character to relieve Pinkie of the money, to
return then across the hall, become the Pug again, and then go back,
as though he had just come from Danglar, to find his friend and ally,
Pinkie Bonn, robbed by their mutual arch-enemy--the Adventurer!
The Pug-the Adventurer! She did not quite seem to grasp its significance
as applied to her in a personal way. It seemed to branch out into
endless ramifications. She could not somehow think logically, coolly
enough now, to decide what this meant in a concrete way to her, and her
to-morrow, and the days after the to-morrow.
She hurried on. To-night, as she would lay awake through the hours that
were to come, for sleep was a thing denied, perhaps a clearer
vision would be given her. For the moment there--there was something
else--wasn't there? The money that belonged to the old couple.
She hurried on. She came again to the street where the old couple lived.
It was a dirty street, and from the curb she stooped and picked up a
dirty piece of old newspaper. She wrapped the banknotes in the paper.
There were not many people on the street as she neared the mean little
frame house, but she loitered until for the moment the immediate
vicinity was deserted; then she slipped into the alleyway, and stole
close to the side window, through which, she had noted from the street,
there shone a light. Yes, they were there, the two of them--she could
see them quite distinctly even through the shutters.
She went back to the front door then, and knocked. And presently the old
woman came and opened the door.
“This is yours,” Rhoda said, and thrust the package into the woman's
hand. And as the woman looked from her to the package uncomprehendingly,
Rhoda Gray flung a quick “good-night” over her shoulder, and ran down
the steps again.
But a few moments later she stole back, and stood for an instant once
more by the shuttered window in the alleyway. And suddenly her eyes grew
dim. She saw an old man, white and haggard, with bandaged head, sitting
in a chair, the tears streaming down his face; and on the floor, her
face hidden on the other's knees, a woman knelt--and the man's hand
stroked and stroked the thin gray hair on the woman' s head.
And Rhoda Gray turned away. And out in the street her face was lifted
and she looked upward, and there were myriad stars. And there seemed a
beauty in them that she had never seen before, and a great, comforting
serenity. And they seemed to promise something--that through the window
of that stark and evil garret to which she was going now, they would
keep her dreaded vigil with her until morning came again.
XIV. THE LAME MAN
Another night--another day! And the night again had been without rest,
lest Danglar's dreaded footstep come upon her unawares; and the day
again had been one of restless, abortive activity, now prowling the
streets as Gypsy Nan, now returning to the garret to fling herself upon
the cot in the hope that in daylight, when she might risk it, sleep
would come, but it had been without avail, for, in spite of physical
weariness, it seemed to Rhoda Gray as though her tortured mind would
never let her sleep again. Danglar's wife! That was the horror that was
in her brain, yes, and in her soul, and that would not leave her.
And now night was coming upon her once more. It had even begun to grow
dark here on the lower stairway that led up to that wretched, haunted
garret above where in the shadows stark terror lurked. Strange! Most
strange! She feared the night--and yet she welcomed it. In a little
while, when it grew a little darker, she would steal out again and take
up her work once more. It was only during the night, under the veil of
darkness, that she could hope to make any progress in reaching to the
heart and core of this criminal clique which surrounded her, whose
members accepted her as Gypsy Nan, and, therefore, as one of themselves,
and who would accord to her, if they but even suspected her to be the
White Mall, less mercy than would be shown to a mad dog.
She climbed the stairs. Fear was upon her now, because fear was
always there, and with it was abhorrence and loathing at the frightful
existence fate had thrust upon her; but, somehow, to-night she was not
so depressed, not so hopeless, as she had been the night before. There
had been a little success; she had come a little farther along the way;
she knew a little more than she had known before of the inner workings
of the gang who were at the bottom of the crime of which she herself
was accused. She knew now the Adventurer's secret, that the Pug and the
Adventurer were one; and she knew where the Adventurer lived, now in
one character, now in the other, in those two rooms almost opposite each
other across that tenement hall.
And so it seemed that she had the right to hope, even though there were
still so many things she did not know, that if she allowed her mind to
dwell upon that phase of it, it staggered her--where those code messages
came from, and how; why Rough Rorke of headquarters had never made a
sign since that first night; why the original Gypsy Nan, who was dead
now, had been forced into hiding with the death penalty of the
law hanging over her; why Danglar, though Gypsy Nan's husband, was
comparatively free. These, and a myriad other things! But she counted
now upon her knowledge of the Adventurer's secret to force from him
everything he knew; and, with that to work on, a confession from some of
the gang in corroboration that would prove the authorship of the crime
of which she had seemingly been caught in the act of committing.
Yes, she was beginning to see the way at last--through the Adventurer.
It seemed a sure and certain way. If she presented herself before him as
Gypsy Nan, whom he believed to be not only one of the gang, but actually
Danglar's wife, and let him know that she was aware of the dual role
he was playing, and that the information he thus acquired as the 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 down and grope
along the floor; and then, an instant later, it began to descend the
ladder-like steps--and abruptly Rhoda Gray, too, moved forward. It
wasn't Danglar. That was what had instantly taken hold of her mind, and
she knew a sudden relief now. The man on the stairs--she could see that
it was a man now--though he moved silently, swayed in a grotesquely
jerky way as though he were lame. It wasn't Danglar! She would go to
any length to track Danglar to his lair; but not here--here in the
darkness--here in the garret. Here she was afraid of him with a deadly
fear; here alone with him there would be a thousand chances of exposure
incident to the slightest intimacy he might show the woman whom he
believed to be his wife--a thousand chances here against hardly one in
any other environment or situation. But the man on the stairs wasn't
Danglar.
She halted now and uttered a sharp exclamation, as though she had caught
sight of the man for the first time.
The other, too, had halted--at the foot of the stairs. A plaintive drawl
reached her:
“Don't screech, Bertha! It's only your devoted brother-in-law. Curse
your infernal ladder, and my twisted back!”
Danglar's brother! Bertha! She snatched instantly at the cue with an
inward gasp of thankfulness. She would not make the mistake of using the
vernacular behind which Gypsy Nan sheltered herself. Here was some one
who knew that Gypsy Nan was but a role. But she had to remember that her
voice was slightly hoarse; that her voice, at least, could not sacrifice
its disguise to any one. Danglar had been a little suspicious of it
until she had explained that she was suffering from a cold.
“Oh!” she said calmly. “It's you, is it? And what brought you here?”
“What do you suppose?” he complained irritably. “The same old thing, all
I'm good for--to write out code messages and deliver them like an errand
boy! It's a sweet job, isn't it? How'd you like to be a deformed little
cripple?”
She did not answer at once. The night seemed suddenly to be opening
some strange, even premonitory, vista. The code messages! Their mode of
delivery! Here was the answer!
“Maybe I'd like it better than being Gypsy Nan!” she flung back
significantly.
He laughed out sharply.
“I'd like to trade with you,” he said, a quick note of genuine envy
in his voice. “You can pitch away your clothes; I can't pitch away
a crooked spine. And, anyway, after to-night, you'll be living swell
again.”
She leaned toward him, staring at him in the semi-darkness. That
premonitory vista was widening; his words seemed suddenly to set her
brain in tumult. After to-night! She was to resume, after to-night, the
character that was supposed to lay behind the disguise of Gypsy Nan! She
was to resume her supposedly true character--that of Pierre Danglar's
wife!
“What do you mean?” she demanded tensely.
“Aw, come on!” he said abruptly. “This isn't the place to talk. Pierre
wants you at once. That's what the message was for. I thought you were
out, and I left it in the usual place so you'd get it the minute you got
back and come along over. So, come on now with me.”
He was moving down the hallway, blotching like some misshapen toad in
the shadowy light, lurching in his walk, that was, nevertheless, almost
uncannily noiseless. Mechanically she followed him. She was trying to
think; striving frantically to bring her wits to play on this sudden and
unexpected denouement. It was obvious that he was taking her to Danglar.
She had striven desperately last night to run Danglar to earth in
his lair. And here was a self-appointed guide! And yet her emotions
conflicted and her brain was confused. It was what she wanted, what
through bitter travail of mind she had decided must be her course; but
she found herself shrinking from it with dread and fear now that it
promised to become a reality. It was not like last night when of her own
initiative she had sought to track Danglar, for then she had started
out with a certain freedom of action that held in reserve a freedom
to retreat if it became necessary. To-night it was as though she were
deprived of that freedom, and being led into what only too easily might
develop into a trap from which she could not retreat or escape.
Suppose she refused to go?
They had reached the street now, and now she obtained a better view of
the misshapen thing that lurched jerkily along beside her. The man was
deformed, miserably deformed. He walked most curiously, half bent over;
and one arm, the left, seemed to swing helplessly, and the left hand was
like a withered thing. Her eyes sought the other's face. It was an old
face, much older than Danglar's, and it was white and pinched and drawn;
and in the dark eyes, as they suddenly darted a glance at her, she read
a sullen, bitter brooding and discontent. She turned her head away. It
was not a pleasant face; it struck her as being both morbid and cruel to
a degree.
Suppose she refused to go?
“What did you mean by 'after to-night'?” she asked again.