physical weariness. She did not quite understand at first, unless it
was to be attributed to the reaction from the last few hours--and then,
smiling wanly to herself, she remembered. For two nights she had not
slept. It seemed very strange. That was it, of course, though she was
not in the least sleepy now--just tired, just near the breaking point.
But she must go on. To-night was the end, anyhow. To-night, failing to
keep her appointment as “Bertha,” the crash must come; but before it
came, as the White Moll, armed with the knowledge of the crime that had
driven Danglar's wife into hiding, and which was Danglar's crime too,
and with the evidence in the shape of those jewels in her possession,
she and Danglar would meet somewhere--alone. Before the law got him,
when he would be close-mouthed and struggling with all his cunning to
keep the evidence of other crimes from piling up against him and damning
whatever meager chances he might have to escape the penalty for Deemer's
murder, she meant--yes, even if she pretended to compound a felony
with him--to force or to inveigle from him, it mattered little which, a
confession of the authorship and details of the scheme to rob Skarbolov
that night when she, Rhoda Gray, in answer to a dying woman's pleading,
had tried to forestall the plan, and had been caught, apparently, in the
very act of committing the robbery herself! With that confession in her
possession, with the identity of the unknown woman who had died in the
hospital that night established, her own story would be believed.
And so, if she were weary, what did it matter? It was only until
morning. Danglar was at the Silver Sphinx now with the man he meant that
she should help him murder, only--only that plan would fail, because
there would be no “Bertha” to lure the man to his death, and she, Rhoda
Gray, had only to keep track of Danglar until somewhere, where he lived
perhaps, she should have that final scene, that final reckoning with him
alone.
It was a long way to the Silver Sphinx, which she knew, as every one in
the underworld, and every one in New York who was addicted to slumming
knew, was a combination dance-hall and restaurant in the Chatham Square
district. She tried to find a taxi, but with out avail. A clock in a
jeweler's window which she passed showed her that it was ten minutes
after eleven. She had had no idea that it was so late. At eleven,
Danglar had said. Danglar would be growing restive! She took the
elevated. If she could risk the protection of her veil in the Silver
Sphinx, she could risk it equally in an elevated train!
But, in spite of the elevated, it was, she knew, well on towards half
past eleven when she finally came down the street in front of the Silver
Sphinx. From under her veil, she glanced, half curiously, half in a
sort of grim irony, at the taxis lined up before the dancehall. The two
leading cars were not taxis at all, though they bore the ear-marks, with
their registers, of being public vehicles for hire; they were large,
roomy, powerful, and looked, with their hoods up, like privately owned
motors. Well, it was of little account! She shrugged her shoulders,
as--she mounted the steps of the dance-hall. Neither “Bertha” nor Cloran
would use those cars to-night!
XVII. THE SILVER SPHINX
A Bedlam of noise smote Rhoda Gray's ears as she entered the Silver
Sphinx. A jazz band was in full swing; on the polished section of the
floor in the center, a packed mass of humanity swirled and gyrated
and wriggled in the contortions of the “latest” dance, and laughed
and howled immoderately; and around the sides of the room, the waiters
rushed this way and that amongst the crowded tables, mopping at their
faces with their aprons. It seemed as though confusion itself held sway!
Rhoda Gray scanned the occupants of the tables. The Silver Sphinx was
particularly riotous to-night, wasn't it? Yes, she understood! A great
many of the men were wearing little badges. Some society or other was
celebrating--and was doing it with abandon. Most of the men were half
drunk. It was certainly a free-and-easy night! Everything went!
Danglar! Yes, 'there he was--quite close to her, only a few tables
away--and beside him sat a heavy built, clean-shaven man of middle age.
That would be Cloran, of course--the man who was to have been lured
to his death. And Danglar was nervous and uneasy, she could see. His
fingers were drumming a tattoo on the table; his eyes were roving
furtively about the room; and he did not seem to be paying any but the
most distrait attention to his companion, who was talking to him.
Rhoda Gray sank quickly into a vacant chair. Three men, linked arm in
arm, and decidedly more than a little drunk, were approaching her. She
turned her head away to avoid attracting their attention. It was too
free and easy here to-night, and she began to regret her temerity at
having ventured inside; she would better, perhaps, have waited until
Danglar came out--only there were two exits, and she might have missed
him--and...
A cold fear upon her, she shrank back in her chair. The three men had
halted at the table, and were clustered around her. They began a jocular
quarrel amongst themselves as to who should dance with her. Her heart
was pounding. She stood up, and pushed them away.
“Oh, no, you don't!” hiccoughed one of the three. “Gotta see
your--hic!--pretty face, anyhow!”
She put up her hands frantically and clutched at her veil--but just an
instant too late to save it from being wrenched aside. Wildly her eyes
flew to Danglar. His attention had been attracted by the scene. She saw
him rise from his seat; she saw his eyes widen--and then, stumbling over
his chair in his haste, he made toward her. Danglar had recognized the
White Moll!
She turned and ran. Fear, horror, desperation, lent her strength. It was
not like this that she had counted on her reckoning with Danglar! She
brushed the roisterers aside, and darted for the door. Over her shoulder
she glimpsed Danglar following her. She reached the door, burst through
a knot of people there, and, her torn veil clutched in her hand, dashed
down the steps. She could only run--run, and pray that in some way she
might escape.
And then a mad exultation came upon her. She saw the man in the
chauffeur's seat of the first car in the line lean out and swing the
door open. And in a flash she grasped the situation. The man was waiting
for just this--for a woman to come running for her life down the steps
of the Silver Sphinx. She put her hand up to her face, hiding it with
the torn veil, raced for the car, and flung herself into the tonneau.
The door slammed. The car leaped from the curb. Danglar was coming down
the steps. She heard him shout. The chauffeur, in a startled way, leaned
out, as he evidently recognized Danglar's voice--but Rhoda Gray was
mistress of herself now. The tonneau of the car was not separated from
the driver's seat, and bending forward, she wrenched her revolver from
her pocket, and pressed the muzzle of her weapon to the back of the
man's neck.
“Don't stop!” she gasped, struggling for her breath. “Go on! Quick!”
The man, with a frightened oath, obeyed. The car gained speed. A glance
through the window behind showed Danglar climbing into the other car.
And then for a moment Rhoda Gray sat there fighting for her
self-control, with the certain knowledge in her soul that upon her
wits, and her wits alone, her life depended now. She studied the car's
mechanism over the chauffeur's shoulder, even as she continued to hold
her revolver pressed steadily against the back of the man's neck.
She could drive a car--she could drive this one. The presence of this
chauffeur, one of the gang, was an added menace; there were too many
tricks he might play before she could forestall them, any one of which
would deliver her into the hands of Danglar behind there--an apparently
inadvertent stoppage due to traffic, for instance, that would bring
the pursuing car alongside--that, or a dozen other things which would
achieve the same end.
“Open the door on your side!” she commanded abruptly. “And get
out--without slowing the car! Do you understand?”
He turned his head for a half incredulous, half frightened look at her.
She met his eyes steadily--the torn veil, quite discarded now, was in
her pocket. She did not know the man; but it was quite evident from the
almost ludicrous dismay which spread over his face that he knew her.
“The--the White Moll!” he stammered. “It's the White Moll!”
“Jump!” she ordered imperatively--and her revolver pressed still more
significantly against the man's flesh.
He seemed in even frantic haste to obey her. He whipped the door open,
and, before she could reach to the wheel, he had leaped to the street.
The car swerved sharply. She flung herself over into the vacated seat,
and snatched at the wheel barely in time to prevent the machine from
mounting the curb.
She looked around again through the window of the hood. The man had
swung aboard Danglar's car, which was only a few yards behind.
Rhoda Gray drove steadily. Here in the city streets her one aim must be
never to let the other car come abreast of her; but she could prevent
that easily enough by watching Danglar's movements, and cutting across
in front of him if he attempted anything of the sort. But ultimately
what was she to do? How was she to escape? Her hands gripped and
clenched in a sudden, almost panic-like desperation at the wheel. Turn
suddenly around a corner, and jump from the car herself? It was useless
to attempt it; they would keep too close behind to give her a chance
to get out of sight. Well, then, suppose she jumped from the car, and
trusted herself to the protection of the people on the street. She shook
her head grimly. Danglar, she knew only too well, would risk anything,
go to any length, to put an end to the White Moll. He would not hesitate
an instant to shoot her down as she jumped and he would be fairly safe
himself in doing it. A few revolver shots from a car that speeded away
in the darkness offered an even chance of escape. And yet, unless she
forced an issue such as that, she knew that Danglar would not resort to
firing at her here in the city. He would want to be sure that was the
only chance he had of getting her, before he accepted the risk that he
would run of being caught for it by the police.
She found herself becoming strangely, almost unnaturally, cool and
collected now. The one danger, greater than all others, that menaced her
was a traffic block that would cause her to stop, and allow those in the
other car behind to rush in upon her as she sat here at the wheel. And
sooner or later, if she stayed in the city, a block such as that was
inevitable. She must get out of the city, then. It was only to invite
another risk, the risk that Danglar was in the faster car of the two but
there was no other way.
She drove more quickly, made her way to the Bridge, and crossed it. The
car behind followed with immutable persistence. It made no effort to
close the short gap between them; but, neither, on the other hand, did
it permit that gap to widen.
They passed through Brooklyn; and then, reaching the outskirts, Rhoda
Gray, with headlights streaming into the black, with an open Long Island
road before her, flung her throttle wide, and the car leaped like a
thing of life into the night. It was a sudden start, it gained her a
hundred yards but that was all.
The wind tore at her and whipped her face; the car rocked and reeled as
in some mad frenzy. There was not much traffic, but such as there was
it cleared away from before her as if by magic, as, seeking shelter from
the wild meteoric thing running amuck, the few vehicles, motor or horse,
that she encountered hugged; the edge of the road, and the wind whisked
to her ears fragments of shouts and execrations. Again and again she
looked back two fiery balls of light blazed behind her always those same
two fiery balls.
She neither gained nor lost. Rigid, like steel, her little figure was
crouched over the wheel. She did not know the road. She knew nothing
save that she was racing for her life. She did not know the end; she
could not see the end. Perhaps there would be some merciful piece of
luck for her that would win her through a break-down to that roaring
thing, with its eyes that were balls of fire, behind.
She passed through a town with lighted streets and lighted windows or
was it only imagination? It was gone again, anyhow, and there was just
black road ahead. Over the roar of the car and the sweep of the wind,
then, she caught, or fancied she caught, a series of faint reports. She
looked behind her. Yes, they were firing now. Little flashes leaped out
above and at the sides of those blazing headlights.
How long was it since she had left the Silver Sphinx? Minutes or hours
would not measure it, would they? But it could not last much longer!
She was growing very tired; the strain upon her arms, yes, and upon her
eyes, was becoming unbearable. She swayed a little in her seat, and the
car swerved, and she jerked it back again into the straight. She began
to laugh a little hysterically and then, suddenly, she straightened up,
tense and alert once more.
That swerve was the germ of an inspiration! It took root swiftly now. It
was desperate--but she was desperate. She could not drive much more, or
much longer like this. Mind and body were almost undone. And, besides,
she was not outdistancing that car behind there by a foot; and sooner or
later they would hit her with one of their shots, or, perhaps what they
were really trying to do, puncture one of her tires.
Again she glanced over her shoulder. Yes, Danglar was just far enough
behind to make the plan possible. She began to allow the car to swerve
noticeably at intervals, as though she were weakening and the car was
getting beyond her control--which was, indeed, almost too literally the
case. And now it seemed to her that each time she swerved there came an
exultant shout from the car behind. Well, she asked for nothing better;
that was what she was trying to do, wasn't it?--inspire them with the
belief that she was breaking under the strain.
Her eyes searched anxiously down the luminous pathway made by her
high-powered headlights. If only she could reach a piece of road that
combined two things--an embankment of some sort, and a curve just sharp
enough to throw those headlights behind off at a tangent for an instant
as they rounded it, too, in following her.
A minute, two, another passed. And then Rhoda Gray, tight-lipped, her
face drawn hard, as her own headlights suddenly edged away from the road
and opened what looked like a deep ravine on her left, while the road
curved to the right, flung a frenzied glance back of her. It was her
chance--her one chance. Danglar was perhaps a little more than a hundred
yards in the rear. Yes--now! His headlights were streaming out on her
left as he, too, touched the curve. The right-hand side of her car, the
right-hand side of the road were in blackness. She checked violently,
almost to a stop, then instantly opened the throttle wide once more,
wrenching the wheel over to head the machine for the ravine; and before
the car picked up its momentum again, she dropped from the right-hand
side, darted to the far edge of the road, and flung herself flat down
upon the ground.
The great, black body of her car seemed to sail out into nothingness
like some weird aerial monster, the headlights streaming uncannily
through space--then blackness--and a terrific crash.
And now the other car had come to a stop almost opposite where she
lay. Danglar and the two chauffeurs, shouting at each other in wild
excitement, leaped out and rushed to the edge of the embankment. And
then suddenly the sky grew red as a great tongue-flame shot up from
below. It outlined the forms of the three men as they stood there,
until, abruptly, as though with one accord, they rushed pell-mell down
the embankment toward the burning wreckage. And as they disappeared from
sight Rhoda Gray jumped to her feet, sprang for Danglar's car, flung
herself into the driver's seat, and the car shot forward again along the
road.
A shout, a wild chorus of yells, the reports of a fusillade of shots
reached her; she caught a glimpse of forms running insanely after her
along the edge of the embankment--then silence save for the roar of the
speeding car.
She drove on and on. Somewhere, nearing a town, she saw a train in the
distance coming in her direction. She reached the station first, and
left the car standing there, and, with the torn veil over her face
again, took the train.
She was weak, undone, exhausted. Even her mind refused its functions
further. It was only in a subconscious way she realized that, where she
had thought never to go to the garret again, the garret and the role of
Gypsy Nan were, more than ever now, her sole refuge. The plot against
Cloran had failed, but they could not blame that on “Bertha's”
non-appearance; and since it had failed she would not now be expected
to assume the dead woman's personality. True, she had not, as had been
arranged, reached the Silver Sphinx at eleven, but there were a hundred
excuses she could give to account for her being late in keeping the
appointment so that she had arrived just in time, say, to see Danglar
dash wildly in pursuit of a woman who had jumped into the car that she
was supposed to take!
The garret! The garret again--and Gypsy Nan! Her surroundings seemed
to become a blank to her; her actions to be prompted by some purely
mechanical sense. She was conscious only that finally, after an
interminable time, she was in New York again; and after that, long,
long after that, dressed as Gypsy Nan, she was stumbling up the dark,
ladder-like steps to the attic.
How her footsteps dragged! She opened the door, staggered inside, locked
the door again, and staggered toward the cot, and dropped upon it; and
the gray dawn came in with niggardly light through the grimy little
window panes, as though timorously inquisitive of this shawled and
dissolute figure prone and motionless, this figure who in other dawns
had found neither sleep nor rest--this figure who lay there now as one
dead.
XVIII. THE OLD SHED
Rhoda Gray opened her eyes, and, from the cot upon which she lay, stared
with drowsy curiosity around the garret--and in another instant was
sitting bolt upright, alert and tense, as the full flood of memory swept
upon her.
There was still a meager light creeping in through the small, grimy
window panes, but it was the light of waning day. She must have slept,
then, all through the morning and the afternoon, slept the dead, heavy
sleep of exhaustion from the moment she had flung herself down here a
few hours before daybreak.
She rose impulsively to her feet. It was strange that she had not been
disturbed, that no one had come to the garret! The recollection of the
events of the night before were crowding themselves upon her now. In
view of last night, in view of her failure to keep that appointment in
the role of Danglar's wife, it was very strange indeed that she had been
left undisturbed!
Subconsciously she was aware that she was hungry, that it was long since
she had eaten, and, almost mechanically, she prepared herself something
now from the store the garret possessed; but, even as she ate, her mind
was far from thoughts of food. From the first night she had come here
and self-preservation had thrust this miserable role of Gypsy Nan upon
her, from that first night and from the following night when, to save
the Sparrow, she had been whirled into the vortex of the gang's criminal
activities, her mind raced on through the sequence of events that seemed
to have spanned some vast, immeasurable space of time until they had
brought her to--last night.
Last night! She had thought it was the end last night, but instead--The
dark eyes grew suddenly hard and intent. Yes, she had counted upon last
night, when, with the necessary proof in her possession with which to
confront Danglar with the crime of murder, she could wring from the man
all that now remained necessary to substantiate her own story and clear
herself in the eyes of the law of that robbery at Skarbolov's antique
store of which she was held guilty--and instead she had barely escaped
with her life. That was the story of last night.
Her eyes grew harder. Well, the way was still open, wasn't it? Last
night had changed nothing in that respect. To-night, as the White Moll,
she had only to find and corner Danglar as she had planned to do last
night. She had still only to get the man alone somewhere.
Rhoda Gray's hands clenched tightly. That was all that was
necessary--just the substantiation of her own story that the plot to rob
Skarbolov lay at the door of Danglar and his gang; or, rather, perhaps,
that the plot was in existence before she had ever heard of Skarbolov.
It would prove her own statement of what the dying woman had said. It
would exonerate her from guilt; it would prove that, rather than having
any intention of committing crime, she had taken the only means within
her power of preventing one. The real Gypsy Nan, Danglar's wife, who
had died that night, bad, even in eleventh-hour penitence, refused to
implicate her criminal associates. There was a crime projected which,
unless she, Rhoda Gray, would agree to forestall it in person and would
give her oath not to warn the police about it and so put the actual
criminals in jeopardy, would go on to its fulfillment!
She remembered that night in the hospital. The scene came vividly before
her now. The woman's pleading, the woman's grim loyalty even in death to
her pals. She, Rhoda Gray, had given her oath.
It became necessary only to substantiate those facts. Danglar could be
made to do it. She had now in her possession the evidence that would
convict him of complicity in the murder of Deemer, and for which
murder the original Gypsy Nan had gone into hiding; she even had in her
possession the missing jewels that had prompted that murder; she had,
too, the evidence now to bring the entire gang to justice for their
myriad depredations; she knew where their secret hoard of ill-gotten
gains was hidden--here in this attic, behind that ingeniously contrived
trap-door in the ceiling. She knew all this; and this information placed
before the police, providing only it was backed by the proof that the
scheme to rob Skarbolov was to be carried out by the gang, as she, Rhoda
Gray, would say the dying woman had informed her, would be more than
enough to clear her. She had not had this proof on that first night when
she had snatched at the mantle of Gypsy Nan as the sole means of escape
from Rough Rorke, of headquarters; she did not have it now--but she
would have it, stake all and everything in life she had to have it, for
it, in itself, literally meant everything and all--and Danglar would
make a written confession, or else--or else--She smiled mirthlessly.
That was all! Last night she had failed. To-night she would not fail.
Before morning came, if it were humanly within her power, she and
Danglar would have played out their game--to the end.
And now a pucker came and gathered her forehead into little furrows, and
anxiety and perplexity crept into her eyes. Another thought tormented
her. In the exposure that was to come the Adventurer, alias the Pug, was
involved. Was there any way to save the man to whom she owed so much,
the splendidly chivalrous, high-couraged gentleman she loved, the thief
she abhorred?
She pushed the remains of her frugal meal away from her, stood up
abruptly from the rickety washstand at which she had been seated, and
commenced to pace nervously up and down the stark, bare garret. Where
was the line of demarcation between right and wrong? Was it a grievous
sin, or an infinitely human thing to do, to warn the man she loved, and
give him a chance to escape the net she meant to furnish the police? He
was a thief, even a member of the gang--though he used the gang as his
puppets. Did ethics count when one who had stood again and again between
her and peril was himself in danger now? Would it be a righteous thing,
or an act of despicable ingratitude, to trap him with the rest?