brokenly. “You're going out there--where they are. Oh, my God! I know!
You love me! I--I was only half conscious, but I am sure you kissed me
a little while ago. And but for this you would never have known that I
knew it, because, please God, whatever else I am, I am not coward enough
to take that advantage of you. But I love you, too! Rhoda! I have the
right to speak, the right our love gives me. You are not to go--that
way. Run--run through the side door there--they will not see you.”
She was trembling. Repudiate her love? Tell him there could be nothing
between them because he was a thief? She might never live to see him
again. Her soul was in riot, the blood flaming hot in her cheeks. He was
clinging to her arm. She tore herself forcibly away. The seconds were
counting now. She tried to bid him good-by, but the words choked in her
throat. She found herself running for the front door.
“Sparrow--quick! Do as I told you!” she half sobbed over her
shoulder--and opening the door, stepped out and dosed it behind her.
XX. A LONE HAND
And now Rhoda Gray was in the radius of the arc lamp, and distinctly
visible to any one coming down the yard. How near were they? Yes, she
saw them now--three forms-perhaps a little more than a hundred yards
away. She moved a few steps deliberately toward them, as though quite
unconscious of their presence; and then, as a shout from one of them
announced that she was seen, she halted, hesitated as though surprised,
terrified and uncertain, and, as they sprang forward, she turned and
ran--making for the side of the shed away from the side door.
A voice rang out--Danglar's:
“By God, it's the White Moll!”
It was the only way! She had the pack in cry now. They would pay no
attention to the Adventurer while the White Moll was seemingly almost
within their grasp. If she could only hold them now for a little
while--just a little while--the Adventurer wasn't hurt--only cramped and
numbed--he would be all right again and able to take care of himself in
a little while--and meanwhile the Sparrow would help him to get away.
She was running with all her speed. She heard them behind her--the
pound, pound, pound of feet. She had gained the side of the shed. The
light from the arc lamp was shut off from her now, and they would only
be able to see her, she knew, as a dim, fleeting shadow. Where was that
iron casting? Pray God, it was heavy enough; and pray God, it was not
too heavy! Yes, here it was! She pretended to stumble--and caught the
thing up in her arms. An exultant cry went up from behind her as she
appeared to fall--oaths, a chorus of them, as she went on again.
They had not gained on her before; but with the weight in her arms,
especially as she was obliged to carry it awkwardly in order to shield
it from their view with her body, she could not run so fast now, and
they were beginning to close up on her. But she was on the wharf now,
and there was not much farther to go, and--and surely she could hold all
the lead she needed until she reached the edge.
The light from the arc lamp held her in view again out here on the wharf
where she was clear of the shed; but she knew they would not fire at her
except as a last resort. They could not afford to sound an alarm that
would attract notice to the spot--when they had, or believed they had,
both the Adventurer and the White Moll within their grasp now.
She was running now with short, hard, panting gasps. There were still
five yards to go-three-one! She looked around her like a hunted animal
at bay, as she reached the end of the wharf and stood there poised at
the edge. Yes, thank God, they were still far enough behind to give her
the few seconds she needed! She cried out loudly as though in despair
and terror--and sprang from the edge of the wharf. And as she sprang she
dropped the casting; but even as it struck the water with a loud
splash, Rhoda Gray, in frantic haste, was crawling in through the little
locker-like opening under the decked-over bow of the half scow, half
boat into which she had leaped. And quick as a flash, huddled inside,
she reached out and drew the heap of what proved to be sailcloth nearer
to her to cover the opening-and lay still.
A few seconds passed; then she heard them at the edge of the wharf, and
heard Danglar s voice.
“Watch where she comes up! She can't get away!”
A queer, wan smile twisted Rhoda Gray's lips. The casting had served her
well; the splash had been loud enough! She listened, straining her ears
to catch every sound from above. It was miserably small this hiding
place into which she had crawled, scarcely large enough to hold her--she
was beginning to be painfully cramped and uncomfortable already.
Another voice, that she recognized as Pinkie Bonn's now, reached her:
“It's damned hard to spot anything out there; the water's blacker'n
hell.”
Came a savage and impatient oath from Danglar.
“She's got to come up, ain't she--or drown!” he rasped. “Maybe she's
swum under the wharf, or maybe she's swum under water far enough out
so's we can't see her from here. Anyway, jump into that boat there, and
we'll paddle around till we get her.”
Rhoda Gray held her breath. The boat rocked violently as, one after
another, the men jumped into it. Her right hand was doubled under her,
it was hard to reach her pocket and her automatic. She moved a little;
they were cursing, splashing with their oars, making too much noise to
hear any slight rustle that she might make.
A minute, two, went by. She had her automatic now, and she lay there,
grim-lipped, waiting. Even if they found her now, she had her own way
out; and by now, beyond any question, the Adventurer and the Sparrow
would have reached the street, and, even if they had to hide out there
somewhere until the Adventurer had recovered the use of his limbs, they
would be safe.
She could not see, of course. Once the boat bumped, and again. They were
probably searching around under the wharf. She could not hear what they
said, for they were keeping quiet now, talking in whispers--so as not to
give her warning of their whereabouts undoubtedly!
The time dragged on. Her cramped position was bringing her excruciating
agony now. She could understand how the Adventurer, in far worse case
in the brutal position in which they had bound him, had fainted. She
was afraid she would faint herself--it was not only the pain, but it was
terribly close in the confined space, and her head was swimming.
Occasionally the oars splashed; and then, after an interminable time,
the men, as though hopeless of success, and as though caution were no
longer of any service, began to talk louder.
The third man was Shluker. She recognized his voice, too.
“It's no use!” he snarled. “If she's a good swimmer, she could get
across the river easy. She's got away; that's sure. What the hell's
the good of this? We're playing the fool. Beat it back! She was nosing
around the shed. How do we know she didn't let the Pug loose before we
saw her?”
Pinkie Bonn whined:
“If he's gone too, we're crimped! The whole works is bust up! The Pug
knows everything, where our money is, an' everything. They'll have us
cold!”
“Close your face, Pinkie!” It was Danglar speaking, his voice hoarse
with uncontrollable rage. “Go on back, then, Shluker. Quick!”
Rhoda Gray heard the hurried splashing of the oars now; and presently
she felt the bumping of the boat against the wharf, and its violent
rocking as the men climbed out of it again. But she did not move--save
with her hand to push the folds of sailcloth a cautious inch or two away
from the opening. It did not ease the agony she was suffering from
her cramped position, but it gave her fresher air, and she could hear
better--the ring of their boot-heels on the wharf above, for instance.
The footsteps died away. There was silence then for a moment; and then,
faintly, from the direction of the shed, there came a chorus of baffled
rage and execration. She smiled a little wearily to herself. It was all
right. That was what she wanted to know. The Adventurer had got away.
Still she lay there. She dared not leave the boat yet; but she could
change her position now. She crawled half out from under the docking,
and lay with her head on the sailcloth. It was exquisite relief! They
could not come back along the wharf without her hearing them, and she
could retreat under the decking again in an instant, if necessary.
Voices reached her now occasionally from the direction of the shed.
Finally a silence fell. The minutes passed--ten--fifteen--twenty of
them. And then Rhoda Gray climbed warily to the wharf, made her way
warily past the shed, and gained the road--and three-quarters of an hour
later, in another shed, in the lane behind the garret, she was changing
quickly into the rags of Gypsy Nan again.
It was almost the end now. To-night, she would keep the appointment
Danglar had given her--and keep it ahead of time. It was almost the end.
Her lips set tightly. The Adventurer had been warned. There was nothing
now to stand in the way of her going to the police, save only the
substantiation of that one point in her own story which Danglar must
supply.
Her transformation completed, she reached in under the flooring and
took out the package of jewels--they would help very materially when she
faced Danglar!--and, though it was somewhat large, tucked it inside
her blouse. It could not be noticed. The black, greasy shawl hid it
effectively.
She stepped out into the lane, and from there to the street, and began
to make her way across town. She did not have to search for Danglar
to-night. She was to meet him at Matty's at midnight, and it was not
more than halfpast eleven now. Three hours and a half! Was that all
since at eight o'clock, as nearly as she could place it, he had left
her in the lane? It seemed as many years; but it was only twenty minutes
after eleven, she had noticed, when she had left the subway on her
return a few minutes ago. Her hand clenched suddenly. She was to meet
him at Matty's--and, thereafter, if it took all night, she would not
leave him until she had got him alone somewhere and disclosed herself.
The man was a coward in soul. She could trust to the effect upon him of
an automatic in the hands of the White Mall to make him talk.
Rhoda Gray walked quickly. It was not very far. She turned the corner
into the street where Danglar's deformed brother, Matty, cloaked the
executive activities of the gang with his cheap little notion store--and
halted abruptly. The store was just ahead of her, and Danglar himself,
coming out, had just closed the door.
He saw her, and stepping instantly to her side, grasped her arm roughly
and wheeled her about.
“Come on!” he said--and a vicious oath broke from his lips.
The man was in a towering, ungovernable passion. She cast a furtive
glance at his face. She had seen him before in anger; but now, with his
lips drawn back and working, his whole face contorted, he seemed utterly
beside himself.
“What's the matter?” she inquired innocently. “Wouldn't the Pug talk, or
is it a case of 'another hour or so,' and--”
He swung on her furiously.
“Hold your cursed tongue!” he flared. “You'll snicker on the wrong side
of your face this time!” He gulped, stared at her threateningly, and
quickened his step, forcing her to keep pace with him. But he spoke
again after a minute, savagely, bitterly, but more in control of
himself. “The Pug got away. The White Moll queered us again. But it's
worse than that. The game's up! I told you to be here at midnight. It's
only half past eleven yet. I figured you would still be over in the
garret, and I was going there for you. That's where we're going now.
There's no chance at those rajah's jewels now; there's no chance of
fixing Cloran so's you can swell it around in the open again--the only
chance we've got is to save what we can and beat it!”
She did not need to simulate either excitement or disquiet.
“What is it? What's happened?” she asked tensely.
“The gang's thrown us down!” he said between his teeth. “They're scared;
they've got cold feet--they're going to quit. Shluker and Pinkie were
with me at the iron plant. We went back to Matty's from there. Matty's
with them, too. They say the Pug knows every one of us, and every game
we've pulled, and that in revenge for our trying to murder him he'll
wise up the police--that he could do it easily enough without getting
nipped himself, by sending them a letter, or even telephoning the names
and addresses of the whole layout. They're scared--he curs! They say
he knows where all our coin is too; and they're for splitting it up
to-night, and ducking it out of New York for a while to get under
cover.” He laughed out suddenly, raucously. “They will--eh? I'll show
them--the yellow-streaked pups! They wouldn't listen to me--and it meant
that you and I were thrown down for fair. If we're caught, it's the
chair. I'll show them! When I saw it wasn't any use trying to get them
to stick, I pretended to agree with them. See? I said they could go
around and dig up the rest of the gang, and if the others felt the
same way about it, they were all to come over to the garret, and I'd be
waiting for them,--and we'd split up the swag, and everybody'd be on his
own after that.” Again he laughed out raucously. “It'll take them half
an hour to get together--but it won't take that long for us to grab all
that's worth grabbing out of that trap-door, and making our getaway.
See? I'll teach them to throw Pierre Danglar down! Come on, hurry!”
“Sure!” she mumbled mechanically.
Her mind was sifting, sorting, weighing what he had said. She was not
surprised. She remembered Pinkie Bonn's outburst in the boat. She walked
on beside Danglar. The man was muttering and cursing under his breath.
Well, why shouldn't she appear to fall in with his plans? Under what
choicer surroundings could she get him alone than in the garret? And
half an hour would be ample time for her, too! Yes, yes, she began to
see! With Danglar, when she had got what she wanted out of him herself,
held up at the point of her automatic, she could back to the door and
lock him in there--and notify the police--and the police would not only
get Danglar and the ill-gotten hoard hidden in the ceiling behind that
trap-door, but they would get all the rest of the gang as the latter
in due course appeared on the scene. Yes, why not? She experienced an
exhilaration creeping upon her; she even increased, unconsciously, the
rapid pace which Danglar had set.
“That's the stuff!” he grunted in savage approval. “We need every minute
we've got.”
They reached the house where once--so long ago now, it seemed!--Rhoda
Gray had first found the original Gypsy Nan; and, Danglar leading,
mounted the dark, narrow stairway to the hall above, and from there up
the short, ladder-like steps to the garret. He groped in the aperture
under the partition for the key, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Rhoda Gray, following, removed the key, inserted it on the inside of
the door, and, as she too entered, locked the door behind her. It was
pitch-black here in the attic. Her face was set now, her lips firm. She
had been waiting for this, hadn't she? It was near the end at last.
She had Danglar--alone. But not in the darkness! He was too tricky! She
crossed the garret to where the candle-stub, stuck in the neck of the
gin bottle, stood on the rickety washstand.
“Come over here and light the candle,” she said. “I can't find my
matches.”
Her hand was in the pocket of her skirt now, her fingers tight-closed on
the stock of her automatic, as he shuffled his way across the attic to
her side. A match spurted into flame; the candle wick flickered, then
steadied, dispersing little by little, as it grew brighter, the nearer
shadows--and there came a startled cry from Danglar--and Rhoda Gray, the
weapon in her pocket forgotten, was staring as though stricken of her
senses across the garret. The Adventurer was sitting on the edge of
the cot, and a revolver in his hand held a steady bead upon Danglar and
herself..
XXI. THE RECKONING
It was the Adventurer who spoke first.
“Both of you! What charming luck!” he murmured whimsically. “You'll
forgive the intrusion won't you? A friend of mine, the Sparrow by
name--I think you are acquainted with him, Danglar--was good enough
to open the door for me, and lock it again on the outside. You see, I
didn't wish to cause you any alarm through a premature suspicion that
you might have a guest!” His voice hardened suddenly as he rose from the
cot, and, though he limped badly, stepped quickly toward them. “Don't
move, Danglar--or you, Mrs. Danglar!” he ordered sharply--and with a
lightning movement of his hand felt for, and whipped Danglar's revolver
from the latter's pocket. “Pardon me!” he said--and his hand was in and
out of Rhoda Gray's pocket. He tossed the two weapons coolly over onto
the cot. “Well, Danglar,” he smiled grimly, “there's quite a change in
the last few hours, isn't there?”
Danglar made no answer. His face was ashen; his little black eyes, like
those of a cornered rat, and as though searching for some avenue of
escape, were darting hunted glances all around the garret.
Rhoda Gray, the first shock of surprise gone, leaned back against the
washstand with an air of composure that she did not altogether feel.
What was the Adventurer going to do? True, she need have no fear of
personal violence--she had only to disclose herself. But--but there were
other considerations. She saw that reckoning of her own with Danglar at
an end, though--yes!--perhaps the Adventurer would become her ally in
that matter. But, then, there was something else. The Adventurer was
a thief, and she could not let him get away with those packages of
banknotes up there behind the trap-door in the ceiling, if she could
help it. That was perhaps what he had come for, and--and--Her mind
seemed to tumble into chaos. She did not know what to do. She stared at
the Adventurer. He was still dressed as the Pug, though the eye-patch
was gone, and there was no longer any sign of the artificial facial
disfigurements.
The Adventurer spoke again.
“Won't you sit down--Mrs. Danglar?” He pushed the single chair the
garret possessed toward her--and shrugged his shoulders as she
remained motionless. “You'll pardon me, then, if I sit down myself.”
He appropriated the chair, and faced them, his revolver dangling
with ominous carelessness in his hand. “I've had a rather upsetting
experience this evening, and I am afraid I am still a little the worse
for it--as perhaps you know, Danglar?”
“You damned traitor!” Danglar burst out wildly. “I--I--”
“Quite so!” said the Adventurer smoothly. “But we'll get to that in a
minute. Do you mind if I inflict a little story on you? I promise you
it won't take long. It's a little personal history which I think will
be interesting to you both; but, in any case, as my hosts, I am sure you
will be polite enough to listen. It concerns the murder of a man named
Deemer; but in order that you may understand my interest in the matter,
I must go back quite a little further. Perhaps I even ought to introduce
myself. My name, my real name, you know, is David Holt. My father was
in the American Consular service in India when I was about ten. He
eventually left it and went into business there through the advice of a
very warm friend of his, a certain very rich and very powerful rajah
in the State of Chota Nagpur in the Province of Bengal, where we then
lived. I became an equally intimate friend of the rajah's son, and--do I
bore you, Danglar?”
Danglar was like a crouched animal, his head drawn into his shoulders,
his hands behind him with fingers twisting and gripping at the edge of
the washstand.
“What's your proposition?” he snarled. “Curse you, name your price, and
have done with it! You're as big a crook as I am!”
“You are impatient!” The Adventurer's shoulders went up again. “In due
time the rajah decided that a trip through Europe and back home through
America would round out his son's education, and broaden and fit him for
his future duties in a way that nothing else would. It was also decided,
I need hardly say to my intense delight, that I should accompany him.
We come now to our journey through the United States--you see, Danglar,
that I am omitting everything but the essential details. In a certain
city in the Middle West--I think you will remember it well, Danglar--the
young rajah met with an accident. He was out riding in the outskirts of
the city. His horse took fright and dashed for the river-bank. He was an
excellent horseman, but, pitched from his seat, his foot became tangled
in the stirrup, and as he hung there head down, a blow from he horse's
hoof rendered him unconscious, and he was being dragged along, when
a man by the name of Deemer, at the risk of his own life, saved the
rajah's son. The horse plunged over the bank and into the water with
both of them. They were both nearly drowned. Deemer, let me say in
passing, did one of the bravest things that any man ever did. Submerged,
half drowned himself, he stayed with the maddened animal until he had
succeeded in freeing the unconscious man. All this was some two years
ago.”
The Adventurer paused.
Rhoda Gray, hanging on his words, was leaning tensely forward--it seemed
as though some great, dawning wonderment was lifting her out of herself,
making her even unconscious of her surroundings.
“The rajah's son remained at the hotel there for several days to
recuperate,” continued the Adventurer deliberately; “and during that
time he saw a great deal of Deemer, and, naturally, so did I. And,
incidentally, Danglar, though I thought nothing much of it then, I saw
something of you; and something of Mrs. Danglar there, too, though--if
she will permit me to say it--in a more becoming costume than she is now
wearing!” Once more he shrugged his shoulders as Danglar snarled. “Yes,
yes; I will hurry. I am almost through. While it was not made public
throughout the country, inasmuch as the rajah's son was more or less an
official guest of the government, the details of the accident were of
course known locally, as also was the fact that the young rajah in token
of his gratitude had presented Deemer with a collection of jewels of
almost priceless worth. We resumed our journey; Deemer, who was a man in
very moderate circumstances, and who had probably never had any means
in his life before, went to New York, presumably to have his first real
holiday, and, as it turned out, to dispose of the stones, or at least
a portion of them. When we reached the coast we received two advices
containing very ill news. The first was an urgent message to return
instantly to India on account of the old rajah's serious illness; the
second was to the effect that Deemer had been murdered by a woman in New
York, and that the jewels had been stolen.”
Again the Adventurer paused, and, eying Danglar, smiled--not pleasantly.
“I will not attempt to explain to you,” he went on, “the young rajah's
feelings when he heard that the gift he had given Deemer in return for
his own life had cost Deemer his. Nor will I attempt to explain the
racial characteristics of the people of whom the young rajah was
one, and who do not lightly forget or forgive. But an eye for an eye,
Danglar--you will understand that. If it cost all he had, there should
be justice. He could not stay himself; and so I stayed-because he made
me swear I would, and because he made me swear that I would never allow
the chase to lag until the murderers were found.
“And so I came East again. I remembered you, Danglar--that on several
occasions when I had come upon Deemer unawares, you, sometimes
accompanied by a woman, and sometimes not, had been lurking in the
background. I went to Cloran, the house detective at the hotel here in
New York where Deemer was murdered. He described the woman. She was the
same woman that had been with you. I went to the authorities and showed
my credentials, with which the young rajah had seen to it I was supplied
from very high sources indeed. I did not wish to interfere with the
authorities in their handling of the case; but, on the other hand, I had
no wish to sit down idly and watch them, and it was necessary therefore
that I should protect myself in anything I did. I also made myself
known to one of New York's assistant district attorneys, who was an old
friend of my father's. And then, Danglar, I started out after you.