 THE WHITE MALL. CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD SHED. Go to Gray opened her eyes, and from the cot upon which she lay, stared with drowsy curiosity around the garret, and in another instant she 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 wanting-day. She must have slept, then, all through the morning and the afternoon, slept the dead, heavy sleep of exhaustion, from the moment she 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. In view of last night, in view of her failure to keep that appointment in the role of Dangler's wife, it was 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 the 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 would 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 Dangler with the crime of murder, she could ring from the man all that now remained necessary to substantiate her story and clear herself in the eyes of the law of that robbery at Skarbolev'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. Tonight, as the white maul, she had only to find and corner Dangler as she had planned to do last night. She still had only to get the man alone somewhere. Wrote a gray's hands clenched tightly. That was all that was necessary. Just the substantiation of her own story that the plot to rob Skarbolev lay at the door of Dangler and his gang, or rather, perhaps that the plot was in existence before she had ever heard of Skarbolev. 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, Dangler's wife, who had died that night, bad in eleventh-hour penitence, refused to implicate her criminal associates. There was a crime projected which, unless she, wrote a gray, would agree to forestall it in person and would give her oath not to warn the police about it, and to 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, wrote a gray, had given her oath. It became necessary only to substantiate those facts. Dangler 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 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 of depredations. She knew where their secret horde of ill-gotten gain was hidden, here in this attic, behind the 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 Robb Skarbelov was to be carried out by the gang, as she, wrote a 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 roark of headquarters. She did not have it now, but she would have it, stake all and everything in her life she had to have it, for it, and itself, literally meant everything and all, and Dangler would make a written confession or else, or else. She smiled mirthlessly. That was all. Last night she had failed. Tonight she would not fail. Before morning came, if it were humanly within her power, she and Dangler 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 wash stand 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 Perl was himself now in danger? Would it be a righteous thing, or an act of despicable ingratitude to trap him with the rest? She laughed out shortly. Warn him. Of course she would warn him. But then—what? She shivered a little, and her face grew drawn and tired. It was the old, old story of the pitcher and the well. It was almost inevitable that sooner or later, for some crime or another, the man she loved would be caught at last, and would spend the greater portion of his days behind prison-bars. That was what the love that had come into her life held as its promise to her. It was terrible enough, without her agency being the means of placing him there. She didn't want to think about it. She forced her mind into other channels, though they were scarcely less disquieting. Why was it that during the day just past there had been not a sign from Dangler or any one of the gang when every plan of theirs had gone awry last night, and she had failed to keep her appointment in the role of Dangler's wife? Why was it? What did it mean? Probably Dangler would never allow what had happened to pass unchallenged, and—was that someone now? She halted suddenly by the door to listen, her hand going instinctively into the wide, voluminous pocket of her greasy skirt for her revolver. Yes, there was a footstep in the hall below, but it was descending to the ground floor, not coming up. She even heard the street door close, but still she clung there in a strained, tense way, and into her face there came creeping a gray dismay. Her pocket was empty. The revolver was gone. Its loss, pregnant with a hundred ominous possibilities, seemed to bring a panic fear upon her, holding her for a moment inert. And then she rushed frantically to the cot. Perhaps it had fallen out of her pocket during the hours she had lain there asleep. She searched the folds of the soiled and crumpled blanket that was the cot's sole covering, then snatched the blanket completely off the cot and shook it, and then, down on her knees, searched the floor under the cot. There was no sign of the revolver. Rhoda Gray stood up and stared in a stunned way about her. Was this, then, the explanation of her having seemingly been left undisturbed all through the day? Had someone, after all, been here, and—? She shook her head suddenly with a quick, emphatic gesture of dissent. The door was still locked. She could see the key on the inside, and besides, as a theory, it wasn't logical. They wouldn't have taken her revolver and left her placidly asleep. The loss of the revolver was a vital matter. It was her one safeguard, the one means by which she could first gain and afterwards hold the whip hand over Dangler in the interview she proposed to have with him. The one means of escape, the last resort, if she herself were cornered and fell into his power. It had sustained her more than once, that resolution to turn it against herself if she were in extremity. It meant everything to her, that weapon, and it was gone, but the panic that had seized her was gone too, and she could think rationally and collectively again. Last night, or rather this morning, when she had made her way back to the shed out there in the lane behind the garret, she had been in a state of utter exhaustion. She had changed from the clothes of the White Mall to those of Gypsy Nan, but she must have done so almost mechanically, for she had no concrete recollection of it. It was quite likely then, even more than probable, that she had left the revolver in the pocket of her other clothes, for she had certainly had not only her revolver, but her flashlight and her skeleton keys as well when she had visited old Lurtz's place last night, and later on too, when she had jumped into the automobile in front of the Silver Sphinx. She had had her revolver, for she had used it to force the chauffeur out of the car, and she had no one of those articles now. Of course, that was it. She stepped impulsively to the door and opening it, made her way quickly down the stairs to the street. The revolver was undoubtedly in the pocket of her other skirt, and she felt a surge of relief sweep upon her, but a sense of relief was far from enough. She would not be safe until the weapon was again in her possession, and intuitively she felt that she had no time to lose in securing it. She had already been left too long alone not to make a break in that unaccountable isolation. They had accorded her as something to be expected at any moment. She hurried down the street to the lane that intervened between Gypsy Nant's house and the next corner, glanced quickly about her, and seeing no one in her immediate vicinity slipped into the lane. She gained the deserted shed some fifty yards along the lane, entered through the broken door that hung half open on sagging hinges, and dropping to her knees reached under the decayed and rotting flooring. She pushed aside impatiently the package of jewels at whose magnificence she had gazed awestruck and bewildered the night before and drew out the bundle that comprised her own clothing. Her hand sought the pocket eagerly. Yes, it was here, at least the flashlight was, and so were the skeleton keys. That was what had happened. She had been near utter collapse last night, and she had forgotten and—wrote a gray, unconscious even that she still had the clothing in her hands, rose mechanically to her feet. There was a sudden weariness in her eyes as she stared unseeingly about her. Yes, the flashlight and the keys were here, but the revolver was not. Her brain harked back in lightning flashes over the events of the preceding night. She must have lost it somewhere—where? She had had it in the automobile that she knew positively, but after that she did not remember, unless—yes, it must have been that. When she had jumped from the car and flung herself down at the roadside, it must have fallen out of her pocket then. Her heart seemed to stand still. Suppose they had found it. They would certainly recognize it as belonging to Gypsy Nan. They were not fools. The deduction would become obvious. The identity of the White Mall would be solved. Was that why no one had apparently come near her? Were they playing at Cat and Mouse, watching her before they struck, so that she would lead them to the jewels under the flooring here that were worth a king's ransom? They certainly believed that the White Mall had them. The adventurers note, so ironically true, that he had intended as an alibi for himself, and which he had exchanged for the package in old Lurtz's place, would have left no doubt in their minds that the stones were in her possession. Was that it? Were they—she held her breath. It seemed as though suddenly her limbs were refusing to support her weight. In the soft earth outside she had heard no step, but she saw now a shadow fall a thwart the half-open doorway. There was no time to move, even if she had been capable of action. It seemed as though even her soul had turned to stone, and with the White Mall's clothes in her hands, she stood there staring at the doorway, and something that was greater than fear, because it mingled horror, ugly and forbidding, fell upon her. It was still just light enough to see. The shadow moved forward and came inside. She wanted to scream, to rush madly in retreat to the farthest corner of the shed, but she could not move. It was Dangler who was standing there. He swayed a little on his feet, and the dark, sinister face seemed blotched, and he seemed to smile as though possessed by some unholy and perverted sense of humor. She was helpless, at his mercy, unarmed, save for her wits. Her wits—were wits any longer of a veil? She could believe nothing else now, except that he had been watching her, before he struck. What are you doing here, and what are those clothes you've got in your hands? He rasped out. She could only fence for a time in the meager hope that some loophole would present itself. She forced an assumed defiance into her tones and manner that was in keeping with the sort of armed truce which from her first meeting with Dangler she had inaugurated as a barrier between them. You've asked me two questions, she said tartly. Which one do you want me to answer first? Look here, he snapped, you cut that out. There's one or two things need explaining. See? What are those clothes? Her wits. Perhaps he did not know as much as she was afraid he did. She seemed to have become abnormally contained, her mind abnormally acute and active. It was not likely that the woman, his wife, whom he believed she was, had worn her own clothes in his presence since the day some two years ago when she had adopted the disguise of Gypsy Nan, and she wrote a gray, remembered that on the night Gypsy Nan, re-assuming her true personality, had gone to the hospital, the woman's clothes like these she now held had been of dark material. It was not likely that a man would be able to differentiate between those clothes and the clothes of the White Mall, especially as the latter hung folded in her hands now, and even though he had seen them on her at the Silver Spinks last night. What clothes do you suppose they are but my own, though I haven't had a chance to wear them much lately, she countered crisply. He scowled at her speculatively. What are you doing with them out here in this hole, then? He demanded. I had to wear them last night, hadn't I? She retorted. I'd have looked well coming out of Gypsy Nan's garret dressed as myself if anyone had seen me. She scowled at him in turn. She was beginning to believe that he had not even an inkling of her identity. Her safest play was to stake everything on that belief. Say, what's the matter with you? She inquired disdainfully. I came out here and changed last night. I had to change into these rags I'm wearing now when I got back again, and I left my own clothes here because I was expecting to get word that I could put them on again soon for keeps, though I might have known from past experience that something would have queried the fine promises you made at Maddie's last night. And the reason I'm out here now is because I left some things in the pocket amongst them. She stared at him mockingly. My marriage certificate. Dangler's face blackened. Curse you, he burst out angrily. When you get your tantrums on, you've got a tongue, haven't you? You'd have been wearing your clothes now if you had done as you were told. You were the one who queried things last night. His voice was rising. He was rocking even more unsteadily on his feet. Why the hell weren't you at the silver sphinx? Rota Gray squinted at him through Gypsy Nann's spectacles. She knew in hysterical impulse to laugh outright in the sure consciousness of supremacy over him. The man had been drinking. He was by no means drunk, but, on the other hand, he was by no means sober. And she was certain now that, though she did not know how he had found her here in the shed, not the slightest suspicion of her had entered his mind. I was at the silver sphinx, she announced, coolly. You lie, he said hoarsely. You weren't. I told you to be there at eleven, and you weren't. You lie. What are you lying to me for? Eh, I'll find out. You—you— Rota Gray dashed her clothes down on the floor at her feet, and faced the man as though suddenly overcome in turn herself with passion, shaking both her fists at him. Don't you talk to me like that, Pierre Dangler? She shrilled. I lie, do I? Well, I'll prove to you I don't. You said you were going to have supper with Clorin at eleven o'clock, and perhaps I was a few minutes after that. But maybe you think it's easy to get all this Gypsy Nann stuff off my face and all, and rig up in my own clothes that I haven't seen for so long it's a wonder they hold together at all? I lie, do I? Well, just as I got to the silver sphinx I saw a woman breaking her neck to get down the steps with you after her. She jumped into the automobile that was doped out I was to take, and you jumped in the other one, and both beat it down the street. I thought you'd gone crazy. I was afraid Clorin would come out and recognize me, so I turned and ran too. The safest thing I could do was come back into the Gypsy Nann game again, and that's what I did. And I've been lying low ever since, waiting to get some word from you, and not a soul came near me. You're a nice lot, you are. And now you come sneaking here and call me a liar. How'd you get to this shed, anyway? Dangler pushed his hand in a heavy confused way across his eyes. My God! He said heavily. So that's it, is it? His voice became suddenly conciliating in its tones. Look here, birth-old girl. Don't get sore. I didn't understand, see? And there was a whole lot that looked queer. We even lost the jewels at old Lurtz's last night. Do you know who that woman was? It was the White Mall. She led us on a chase all over Long Island, and— The White Mall, ejaculated, wrote a gray, and then her laugh, short and jeering, rang out. The tables were turned. She had him on the defensive, now. You needn't tell me she got away again, of course. Why don't you hire a detective to help you? You make me weary. So it was the White Mall, was it? Well, I'm listening. Only I'd like to know first how you got here to this shed. There's nothing in that, he answered impatiently. There's something more important to talk about. I was coming over to the garret, and just as I reached the corner I saw you go into the lane. And I followed you. That's all there is to that. Oh! She sniffed. She stared at him for a moment. There was something in which there was the uttermost of irony, it seemed, in this meeting between them. Last night she had striven to meet him alone, and she had meant to devote to-night to the same purpose. And she was here with him now, and in a place then which, in her wildest hopes, she could imagine one no better suited to the reckoning she would have demanded and forced. And she was helpless, powerless to make use of it. She was unarmed. Her revolver was gone. Without that to protect her, add an intimation that she was the White Mall, she would never leave this shed alive. The spot would be quite as ideal under those circumstances for him, as it would have been under other circumstances for her. She shrugged her shoulders. Dangler's continued silence evidently invited further comment on her part. Oh! She sniffed again. And I suppose, then, that you have been chasing the White Mall ever since last night at eleven, and that's why you didn't get around sooner to allay my fears, even though you knew I must be half mad with anxiety at the way things broke last night. She'll have us down and out for keeps if you haven't got brains enough to beat her. And how much longer is this thing going on? Dangler's little black eyes narrowed. She caught a sudden glint of triumph in them. It was Dangler now who laughed. Not much longer his voice was arrogant with malicious satisfaction. The luck had to turn, hadn't it? Well, it's turned. I've got the White Mall at last. She felt the color leave her face. It seemed as though something had closed with an icy clutch upon her heart. She had heard a rite, hadn't she, that he had said he had got the White Mall at last? And there was no mistaking the man's sinister delight in making that announcement. Had she been premature, terribly premature, in assuring herself that her identity was still safe as far as he was concerned? Did it mean that, after all, he had been playing at cat and mouse with her as she had first feared? You—you've got the White Mall? She forced the words from her lips, striving to keep her voice steady and in control, and to infuse into it an ironical incredulity. Sure, he said complacently, the showdown comes to-night. In another hour or so we'll have her where we want her, and— Oh! She laughed, almost hysterically in relief. I thought so. You haven't got her yet. You're only going to get her in another hour or so. You make me tired. It's always in another hour or so with you, and it never comes off. Dangler scowled under her taunt. It'll come off this time, he snarled, in savage menace. You hold that tongue of yours. Yes, it'll come off, and when it does, a sweep of fury sent the red into his working face. I'll keep the promise I made her once, that she'd wish she'd never been born. Do you hear, Bertha? I hear, she said indifferently. But would you mind telling me how you're going to do it? I might believe you then, perhaps. Damn you, Bertha! He exploded. Sometimes I'd like to ring that pretty neck of yours, and sometimes he moved suddenly toward her. I would sell my soul for you, and— She retreated from him coolly. Never mind that. This isn't a love scene, she purred, caustically. And as for the other, save it for the White Mall. What makes you think you've got her at last? I don't think, I know. He stood gnawing at his lips, eyeing her uncertainly, half angrily, half hungrily. And then he shrugged his shoulders. Listen, he said, I've got someone else, too. And I know where the leak that's queered every one of our games, and put the White Mall wise to every one of our plans beforehand has come from. I guess you'll believe me now, won't you? We've got that dude-pal of hers fastened up tighter than the night he fastened me with his cursed handcuffs. Do you know who that same dude-pal is? He laughed in an ugly, immoderate way. You don't, of course, so I'll tell you. It's the pug." Rhoda Gray didn't answer. It was growing dark here in the shed. Perhaps that's why the man's form blended suddenly into the doorway and the wall, and blurred before her. She tried to think, but there seemed to have fallen upon her unummed and agonized stupefication. There was no confusing this issue. Dangler had found out that the adventurer was the pug, and it meant—oh, what did it mean? They would kill him. Of course they would kill him. The adventurer, discovered, would be safer at the mercy of a pack of starved pumas, and— "'I thought that would hold you,' said Dangler, with brutal serenity. That's why I didn't get around till now. I didn't get back from that chase until daylight. The sheafing stole our car, and then I went to bed to get a little sleep. About three o'clock this afternoon Pinky Bond woke me up. He was half-baddy with excitement. He said he was over in the tenement in the pug's room. The pug wasn't in, and Pinky was waiting for him, and then all of a sudden he heard a woman screaming like mad from somewhere. He went to the door and looked out, and saw a man dash out of a room across the hall, and burst in the door of the next room. There was a woman in there with her clothes on fire. She upset a coal-oil stove or something. The man Pinky had seen beats the fire out, and everybody in the tenement begins to collect around the door. And then Pinky goes pop-eyed. The man's face was the face of the white mall's dude pal, but he had on the pug's clothes. Pinky's a wise guy. He slips away to me without getting himself in the limelight or spilling any beans. And I didn't ask him if he'd been punching the needle again over time, either. It fitted like a glove with what happened at Old Lertz's last night. You don't know about that. Pinky in this double-crossing snitch went there and only found a note from the white mall. He'd tipped her off before, of course, and the note made a nice little play so he'd be safe himself with us. Well, that's about all. We had to get him, where we wanted him, and we got him. We waited until he showed up again as the pug. And then we put over a frame-up deal on him that got him to go over to that old iron-plant in Harlem. You know, behind Jake Malley's saloon, where we had it fixed up to hand Clorin his last night, and the pug's there now. He's nicely gagged and tied and quite safe. The plant's been shut down for the last two months, and there's only the watchman there, and he's squared. He gave the pug two hours of solitary confinement to think it over and come across. We just asked him for the white mall's address so as we could get her and the sparklers she swiped at old Lertz's place last night. Still wrote a gray did not speak for a moment. She seemed to be held in the thrall of both terror and a sickening dismay. It didn't seem real, her surroundings here, this man, and the voice that was gloatingly pronouncing the death sentence upon the man who had come unbidden into her life and into her heart, the man she loved. Yes, she understood. Dangler's words had been plain enough. The adventurer had been trapped, not through Dangler's cunning, or lack of cunning on the adventurer's own part, but through force of circumstances that had caused him to fling all thought of self-consideration to the winds in an effort to save another's life. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her skirt, clenched until they hurt. And it was another self, it seemed, subconsciously enacting the role of Gypsy Nann, alias Dangler's wife, who spoke at last. You are a fool. You are all fools, she cried tempestuously. What do you expect to gain by that? Do you imagine you can make the pug come across with any information by a threat to kill him if he doesn't? You tried that once. You had him cold, or at least you thought you had, and so did he that night in old Nicky Viner's room, and he laughed at you even when he expected you to fire the next second. He's not likely to have changed since then, is he? No, said Dangler with a vicious chuckle, and that's why I'm not trying the same game twice. That's why we've got him over at the old iron-plant now. There was something she didn't like in Dangler's voice, something of ominous assurance, something that startled her. What do you mean, she demanded sharply? It's a lonely place, said Dangler complacently. There's no one around but the Watchman, and he's an old friend of Schluckers, and it's so roomy over there that no one could expect him to be everywhere at once. See? That lets him out. He's been well greased, and he won't know anything. Don't you worry, old girl? That's what I came here for, to tell you that everything is all right after all. The pug will talk. Maybe he wouldn't if he just had his choice between that and a quick, painless end that a bullet would bring. But there are things that a man can't stand. Get me? We'll try a few of those on the pug, and believe me, before we're through there won't be any secrets wrapped up in his bosom. Rota Gray stood motionless. Thank God it had grown dark, dark enough to hide the whiteness that she knew had crept over her face, and the horror that crept into her eyes. You mean her voice was very low. You mean you're going to torture him into talking? Sure, Dangler said. What do you think? And after that? We bump him off, of course, said Dangler callously. He knows all about us, don't he? And I guess we'll square up on what's coming to him. He's put the crimp into us for the last time. Dangler's voice pitched suddenly hoarse in fury. That's a hell of a question to ask. What do you think we'd do with a yellow cur that's double crossed us like that? Plead for the adventurer's life? It was useless. It was worse than useless. It would only arouse suspicion toward her. From the standpoint of any one of the gang, the adventurer's life was forfeit. Her mind was swift, cruelly swift in its workings. There came a prompting to disclose her own identity, to tell Dangler that he need not go to the adventurer to discover the whereabouts of the White Mall that she was here now before him. There came the prompting to offer herself in lieu of the man she loved. But that, too, was useless, and worse than useless. They would still do away with the adventurer because he had been the pug, and the only chance he had now, as represented by whatever she might be able to do, would be gone, since she would have delivered herself into their hands. She drew back suddenly. Dangler had stepped toward her. She was unable to avoid him, and his arm encircled her waist. She shivered as the pressure of his arm tightened. It's all right, old girl, he said exuberantly, you've been through hell you have, and it's all right at last. You leave it to me. Your husband's got a kiss to make up for every drop of that grease you've had to put on the prettiest face in New York. It seemed as though she must scream out. It was hideous. She could not force herself to endure it another instant, even for safety's sake. She pushed him away. It was unbearable, at any risk, cost what it might. Mind, soul, and body recoiled from the embrace. Leave me alone, she panted, you've been drinking. Leave me alone. He drew back and laughed. Not very much, he said. The celebration hasn't started yet, and you'll be in on that. I guess your nerves have been getting shaky lately, haven't they? Well, you can figure on the swellest re-cure you ever heard of, Bertha. Take it from me. We're going down to keep the pug company presently. You blow around Maddie's about midnight, and get the election returns. We'll finish the job by getting Clorin out of the road some way before morning, and that will let you out for keeps. There won't be any one left to recognize the woman who was with Deemer the night he shuffled out. He backed to the doorway. Get me? Come over to Maddie's and see the Rajah's sparklers about midnight. We'll have them then, and the sheafing, too. So long, Bertha. She scarcely heard him. She answered mechanically. Good night, she said. END OF CHAPTER XIII BREAD UPON THE WATERS For a moment after Dangler had gone, Rhoda Gray stood motionless, and then, the necessity for instant action upon her, she moved quickly toward the door herself. There was only one thing she could do, just one. She must be sure first that Dangler was well started on his way. She reached the doorway and looked out, and suddenly caught her breath in a low, quick inhalation. In the semi-darkness she could make out Dangler's form, perhaps twenty-five yards away, heading along the lane toward the street. But behind Dangler, at a well-guarded distance in the rear, hugging the shadows of the fence, she saw the form of another man. Her brows knitted in a perplexed and anxious frown. The second man was undoubtedly following Dangler. That was evident. But why? Who was it? What did it mean? She retreated back into the shed, and commenced hastily to disrobe, and dress again in her own clothes, which she had flung down upon the floor. In the last analysis, did it matter who it was that was following Dangler, even if it were one of the police? For supposing that man who was shadowing Dangler was a plain clothesman, and suppose he even followed Dangler and the rest of the gang to the old iron plant, and suppose that with the necessary assistance he rounded them all up, and in that sense affected the adventurer's rescue. It scarcely meant a better fate for the adventurer. It simply meant that the adventurer, as one of the gang, and against whom every one of the rest of them would testify, as the soul means left to them of wreaking their vengeance upon one who had tricked and outwitted them again and again for his own ends, would stand his trial with the others, and with the others go behind bars for a long term of years. She hurried now, completing the last touches that transformed her from Gypsy Nan into the veiled figure of the White Mall, stepped out into the lane, and walking rapidly reached the street and headed, not in the direction of Harlem, but deeper over into the East Side. Even as Dangler had been speaking she had realized that for the adventurer's own sake and irrespective of what any premature disclosure of her own identity to the authorities might mean to her she could not call upon the police for aid. There was only one way, just one, to go herself to reach the adventurer before Dangler returned there and had an opportunity of putting his worse than murderous intentions into effect. Well, she was going there, wasn't she? And if she lost no time she should be there easily ahead of them, and her chances would be excellent of releasing the adventurer with very little risk. From what Dangler had said, the adventurer was there alone. Once tied and gagged there had been no need to leave anybody to guard him, save that the Watchman would ordinarily serve to keep anyone off the premises, which was all that was necessary, but that he had been left at all worried her greatly. He had, of course, already refused to talk. What they had done to him she did not know, but the solitary confinement Dangler had referred to was undoubtedly the first step in their efforts to break his spirit. Her lips tightened as she went along. Surely she could accomplish it. She had but to avoid the Watchman, only, first, the lost revolver, the only safeguard against an adverse turn of fortune must be replaced, and that was where she was going now. She knew, from her associations with the underworld as the White Mall in the old days, where such things could be purchased and no questions asked if one were known. When she was known in the establishment to which she was going, for evil days had once fallen upon its proprietor, one Daddy Jack's, in that he had incurred the enmity of certain of his own ilk in the underworld, and on a certain night, which he would be not likely to forget, she had stood between him and a man-handling that would probably have cost him his life, and yes, this was the place. She entered a dirty windowed, small and musty pawn-shop. A little old man, almost dwarf-like in stature, with an unkempt, tawny beard, who wore a greasy and ill-fitting suit, and upon whose bald head was perched an equally greasy skull-cap gazed at her inquiringly from behind the counter. I want a gun and a good one, please, she said, after a glance around her, to assure herself that they were alone. The other squinted at her through his spectacles, as he shook his head. I haven't got one, lady, he answered, we're not allowed to sell them without— Oh, yes you have, Daddy, she contradicted quietly as she raised her veil, and quick, please, I'm in a hurry. The little old man leaned forward, staring at her for a moment as though fascinated, and then his hand, in a fumbling way, removed his skull-cap from his head. There was a curious, almost wistful reverence in his voice as he spoke. The white maul, he said. Yes, she smiled, but the gun, Daddy, quick, I haven't an instant to lose. Yes, yes, he said eagerly, and shuffled away. He was back in a moment, and automatic in his hand. It's loaded, of course, she said, as she took the weapon. She slipped it into her pocket as he nodded affirmatively. How much, Daddy? The white maul, he seems still under the spell of amazement. It's nothing, there is no charge, it's nothing, of course. Thank you, Daddy, she said softly, and laid a bill upon the counter, and stepped back to the door. Good night, she smiled. She heard him call to her, but she was already on the street again, and hurrying along. She felt better, somehow, in a mental way, for that little encounter with the shady old pawnbroker. She was not so much alone, perhaps, as she had thought. There were many, perhaps, even if they were of the underworld, who had not swerved from the loyalty they had once professed to the white maul. It brought a new train of thought, and she paused suddenly in her walk. She might rally around her some of those underworld intimates, upon whose allegiance she felt she could depend, and use them now, to-night, in behalf of the adventurer. She would be sure, then, to be a match for dangler, no matter what turn of affairs took. And then, with an impatient shake of her head, she hurried on again. There was no time for that. It would take a great deal of time to find, and pick her men. She had even wasted time herself, where there was no time to spare, in the momentary pause during which she had given the thought consideration. She reached the nearest subway station, which was her objective, and boarded a train to Harlem, satisfied that her heavy veil would protect her against recognition. Unobtrusively, she took a window seat. No one paid her any attention. Hours passed, it seemed, to her impatience, while the black walls rushed by, punctuated by occasional scintillating signalites, and, at longer intervals, by the fuller glare from the station platforms. In the neighborhood of 125th Street she left the train, and entering the first drug-store she found, consulted a directory. She did not know this section of New York at all. She did not know either the location or the firm name of the iron plant to which Dangler, assuming naturally, of course, that she was conversant with it, had referred, and she did not care to ask to be directed to Jake Malley's saloon, which was the only clue she had to guide her. The problem, however, did not appear to be a very difficult one. She found the saloon's address, and asking the clerk to direct her to the street indicated, left the drug-store again. But after all, it was not so easy, no easier than for one unacquainted with the locality to find one's way about. Several times she found herself at fault, and several times she was obliged to ask directions again. She began to grow panicky with fear, and dread, at the time she had lost, before finally she found the saloon. She was quite sure that it was already more than half an hour since she had left the drug-store, and that half an hour might easily be the difference between safety and disaster, not only for the adventurer, but for herself as well. Dangler might have been in no particular hurry, and he would probably have gone first to whatever rendezvous he had appointed for those of the gang selected to accompany him, but even to have done so in a leisurely way would surely not have taken more than that half hour. Yes, that was Jake Malley's saloon, across the road from her, but she could not recall the time that was already lost. They might be there now, ahead of her. She quickened her steps almost to a run. There should be no difficulty in finding the iron plant now. Behind Jake Malley's saloon, Dangler had said, she turned down the cross-street past the side entrance to the saloon and hastened along. The locality was lonely, deserted, and none too well-lighted. The arc lamps, powerful enough in themselves, were so far apart that they left great areas of shadow almost blackness between them. And the street, too, was very narrow, and the buildings, such as they were, were dark and unlighted. Certainly it was not a residential district. And she became aware that she was close to the river, for the sound of a passing craft caught her attention. Of course! She understood now. The iron plant, for shipping facilities, was undoubtedly on the bank of the river itself. And yes! This was it, wasn't it? This picket fence that began to parallel the right-hand side of the street and enclosed seemingly a very large area. She halted and stared at it, and suddenly her heart sank with a miserable sense of impotence and dismay. Yes, this was the place beyond question. Through the picket fence she could make out the looming shadows of many buildings, and spidery iron structures that seemed to cobweb the darkness and—and—her face mirrored her misery. She had thought of a single building. Where inside there, amongst all those rambling structures, with little time, perhaps none at all to search, was she to find the adventurer. She did not try to answer her own question. She was afraid that her dismay would get the better of her if she hesitated for an instant. She crossed the street, choosing a spot between two of the arc-lamps where the shadows were blackest. It was a high fence, but not too high to climb. She reached up, preparatory to pulling herself to the top, and drew back with a stifled cry. She was too late then, already too late. They were ahead of her, and on guard after all. A man's form, appearing suddenly out of the darkness but a few feet away, was making quickly toward her. She wrenched the automatic from her pocket. The touch of the weapon in her hand restored her self-control. Don't come any nearer, she cried out sharply. I will fire if you do." And then the man spoke. It's you, ain't it, he called, in guarded eagerness. It's the White Mall, ain't it? Thank God it's you. Her extended hand with the automatic fell to her side. She recognized his voice. It wasn't dangler. It wasn't one of the gang, or the watchman who was no better than an accomplice. It was Marty Finch, alias the sparrow. Marty, she exclaimed, You, what are you doing here? I'm here to keep you from going in there, he said excitedly, and say, I was afraid I was too late. Don't you go in there. For God's sake, don't you go. They're laying a trap for you. They're going to bump you off. I know all about it. You know? What do you mean? She asked quickly. How do you know? I quit my job a few days after that fellow you called dangler tried to murder me that night you saved me, said the sparrow with a savage laugh. I knew he had it in for you, and I guess I had something coming to him on my own account too, hadn't I? That's the job I've been on ever since, trying to find the dirty pup. And I found him. But it wasn't till to-night, though you can believe me, there weren't many joints in the old town where I didn't look for him. My luck turned to-night. I spotted him coming out of Italian Joe's bar, see? I followed him. After a while he slips into a lane, and from the street I saw him go into a shed there. I worked my way up quiet, and got as near as I dared without being heard, and I seen, and I listened. He was talking to a woman. I couldn't hear everything they said, and they quarreled a lot. But I heard him say something about framing up a job to get somebody down to the old iron plant behind Jake Malley's saloon, and bump him off. And I heard him say there wouldn't be any White Mall by morning, and I put two and two together, and beat it for here. Wrote a gray, reached out, and caught the sparrow's hand. Thank you, Marty. You haven't got it quite right, though thank heaven you got it the way you did, since you are here now, she said fervently. It wasn't me. It wasn't the White Mall they expected to get here. It's the man who helped me that night to clear you of the Hayden Bond robbery that Dangler meant to make you shoulder. He risked his life to do it, Marty. They got him prisoner somewhere in there, and they're coming back to torture him into telling them where I am, and afterwards to do away with him. That's why I'm here, Marty, to get him away if I can before they come back. The sparrow whistled low under his breath. Well, then I guess it's my hunt too, he said, coolly. And I guess this is where a prison bird horns in with the goods. Ever since I've been looking for that Dangler guy, I've been carrying a full kit, because I didn't know what might break, or what kind of mess I might want to get out of. Come on, we ain't got no time. There's a couple of broken pickets down there. We might be seen climbing the fence. Come on. Bread upon the waters. With a sense of warm gratitude upon her, Rhoda Gray followed the ex-convict. They made their way through the fence. A long, low building, a storied shed evidently, showed a few yards in front of them. It seemed to be quite close to the river, for now she could see the reflection of lights from here, and they're playing on the black, mirror-like surface of the water. Further on, over beyond the shed, the yard of the plant dotted with other buildings and those spidery iron structures which she had previously noticed, stretched away until it was lost in the darkness. Here, however, within the radius of one of the street arc lamps, it was quite light. Rhoda Gray paused, in almost helpless indecision, as to how or where to begin her search, when the sparrow spoke again. It looks like we got a long hunt, whispered the sparrow, but a few minutes before you came, a guy with a lantern comes over from across the yard there, and nosed around that shed, and acted kind of queer, and I could see him stick his head up against them side-doors there as though he was listening for something inside. Does that wise you up to anything? Yes, she breathed, tensely. That was the watchman. He's one of them. The man we want is in that shed beyond a doubt. Hurry, Marty! Hurry! They ran together, and reached the double-side door. It was evidently for freight purposes only, and probably barred on the inside, for they found there was no way of opening it from without. There must be an entrance, she said feverishly, and led the way toward the front of the building in the direction away from the river. Yes, here it is, she exclaimed, as they rounded the end of the shed. She tried the door. It was locked. She felt in her pocket for her skeleton-keys, for she had not been unprepared for just such an emergency, but the sparrow brushed her aside. Leave it to me, he said quickly. I'll pick that lock like one o'clock. It won't take me more than a minute. Rhoda Gray did not stand and watch him. Minutes were priceless things, and she could put the minute he asked for to better advantage than by idling it away. With an added injunction to hurry, and that she would be back in an instant, she was already racing around the opposite side of the shed. If they were pressed, cornered by the arrival of Dangler, it might well mean the difference between life and death to all of them if she had an intimate knowledge of the surroundings. She was running at top speed. Halfway down the length of the shed she tripped and fell over some object. She pushed it aside as she rose. It was an iron casting, more bulky in shape than in weight, though she found it none too light to lift comfortably. She ran on. The wharf projected out, she found, from this side of the shed. At the edge she peered over. It was quite light here again, away from the protecting shadows of the shed, the rays of the arc lamp played without hindrance on the wharf, just as they did on the shed's side door. Below some ten or twelve feet below, and at the corner of the wharf, a boat, or rather a sort of scow, for it was larger than a boat, though oars lay along its thwarts, was moored. It was partly decked over, and she could see a small black opening into the forward end of it, though the opening itself was almost hidden by a heap of tarpoleon, or sailcloth, or something of the kind that lay in the bottom of the craft. She nodded her head. They might all of them use that boat to advantage. Rhodogrey turned and ran back. The sparrow, with a grunt of satisfaction, was just opening the door. She stepped through the doorway. The sparrow followed. "'Close it,' said Rhodogrey, under her breath. She felt her heart beat quicken. The blood fled her face and then recede. Her imagination had suddenly become too horribly vivid. Suppose they—they had already gone farther than—with an effort she controlled herself, and the round white ray of her flashlight swept the place. A moment more, and with a low cry, she was running forward to where, on the floor near the wall of the shed, opposite the side door, she made out the motionless form of a man. She reached him, and dropped to her knees beside him. It was the adventurer. She spoke to him. He did not answer. And then she remembered what Dangler had said, and saw that he was gagged. But—but she was not sure that was the reason why he did not answer. The flashlight in her hand wavered unsteadily as she played it over him. Perhaps the whiteness of the ray itself exaggerated it, but his face held a deathly pallor. His eyes were closed. His hands and feet were twisted cruelly and tightly bound. Give me your knife, quick, Sparrow, she called, then go and keep watch just outside. Sparrow handed her the knife, and hurried back to the door. She worked in the darkness. She could not use both hands and still hold the flashlight, and besides, with the door partially open now where the Sparrow was on guard, there was always the chance, if Dangler and those of the gang with him were already in the vicinity of the light bringing them more quickly to the scene. Again she spoke to the adventurer as she removed the gag, and a fear that made her sick at heart seized up on her. There was still no answer. And now, as she worked, cutting at the cords on his hands and feet, the love that she knew for the man, its restraint broken by a sense of dread and fear at his condition, rose dominant within her, and impulse that she could not hold in least, took possession of her, and in the darkness, since he would not know, and there was none to see, she bent her head, and, half crying, her lips pressed upon his forehead. She drew back startled a crimson in her face that the darkness hid. What had she done? Did he know? Had he returned to consciousness, if he really had been unconscious, in time to know? She could not see, but she knew his eyes had opened. She worked frantically with his bonds. He was free now. She cast them off. He spoke, then, thickly, with great difficulty. It's you, the White Mall, isn't it? Yes, she answered. He raised himself on his elbow, only to fall back with a suppressed groan. I don't know how you found me, but get away at once. For God's sake, get away, he cried. Dangler will be here any minute. It's you, he wants. He thinks you know where some jewels are, and that I—I—I know all about, Dangler, she said hurriedly, and I know all about the jewels, for I've got them myself. He was up on his knees now, swaying there. She caught at his shoulder to support him. You, he cried out incredulously, you—you've got them? Say that again, you—you've—yes, she said, and with an effort steadied her voice, he—he was a thief. Cost her what it might, with all its bitter hurt, she must remember that, even—even if she had forgotten once. Yes, she said, and I mean to turn them over to the police, and expose every one of Dangler's gang. I—you are entitled to a chance. You once stood between me and the police. I can do no less by you. I couldn't turn the police loose on the gang without giving you warning, for you see, I know you are the pug. Good God, he stammered. You know that, too? Try and walk, she said breathlessly, there isn't any time. And once you are away from here, remember that when Dangler is in the hands of the police, he will take the only chance for vengeance he has left, and give the police all the information he can, so that they will get you, too. He stumbled pitifully. I can't walk much yet. He was striving to speak coolly. They trust me up a bit, you know? But I'll be all right in a little while when I get the cramps out of my joints, and the circulation back. And so, Miss Gray, won't you please go at once? I'm free now, and I'll manage all right. And the sparrow came running back from the door. They're coming, he said excitedly. They're coming from a different way than we came in. I saw them away up there across the yard for a second, when they showed up under a patch of light from an arc-lamp on the other street. There's three of them. We got about a couple of minutes, and—get those side doors open. Quick, and no noise! Ordered, rode a gray, tensely. And then to the adventurer, try, try and walk. I'll help you. The adventurer made a desperate attempt at a few steps. It was miserably slow. At that rate, Dangler would be upon them before they could even cross the shed itself. I can crawl faster, laugh the adventure with bitter whimsicality, give me a revolver, Miss Gray, and you two go, and God bless you. The sparrow was opening the side door, but she realized now even if they could carry the adventurer, they could not get away in time. Her mind itself seemed stunned for an instant, and then, in a lightning-flash inspiration came. She remembered that iron casting, and the wharf, and the other side of the shed in shadow. It was desperate, perhaps almost hopeless, but it was the only way that gave the adventurer a chance for his life. She spoke rapidly. The little margin of time they had must be narrowing perilously. Marty, help this gentleman. Crawl to the street if you have to. The only thing is that you are not to make the slightest noise, and— What are you going to do? demanded the adventurer, hoarsely. I'm going to take the only chance there is for all of us, she answered. She started back toward the front door of the shed, but he reached out and held her back. You're going to take the only chance there is for me, he cried brokenly. You're going out there, where they are. And oh my God! I know! You love me! 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. And 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-bye, 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, she stepped out and closed it behind her. End of chapter 19 THE WHITE MALL This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. THE WHITE MALL By Frank L. Packard Chapter 20 A LONE HAND Rhoda Gray was in the radius of the arc-lamp, and distinctly visible to anyone 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, danglers, by God it's the White Mall. It was the only way. She had the pack in cry now. They would pay no attention to the adventurer while the White Mall was seemingly almost within their grasp. If she could only hold them 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 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 since she was obliged to carry it awkwardly, 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, and there was not much further to go, and, and surely she could hold all the leads 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 believe they had, both the adventurer and the white maw within their grasp. She was running 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, rode a gray, in frantic haste, was crawling through the little locker-like opening under the decked-over bow of the half-scow, half-boat into which she had leapt. And as quick as a flash, huddled inside, she reached out, and drew the heap of what proved to be sail-cloth 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 Dangler's voice. Watch where she comes up. She can't get away. A queer, wan smile twisted rode a 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 pinky bonds reached her. It's damned hard to spot anything out there, the water's blacker in hell. From a savage and impatient oath from Dangler. She's got to come up, ain't she, or drowned, he rasp? Maybe she swum under the wharf, or maybe she swum under water far enough out so we can't see her from here. Anyway, jump into that boat, and we'll paddle around till we get her. Rode a 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 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 helpless of success, and as though caution were no longer of any service, began to talk louder. The third man was Schlucker. 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 a way, 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? Pinky Bond whined. If he's gone too, we're crimped. The whole works his bust up. The pug knows everything, where our money is and everything. They'll have us cold. Close your face, Pinky. It was Dangler speaking, his voice hoarse with uncontrollable rage. Go back then, Schlucker, 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 the 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 boots 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 excretion. 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 position now. She crawled half out from under the decking, 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 occasionally from the direction of the shed. Suddenly 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 Nann again. It was almost the end. Tonight she would keep the appointment Dangler 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 story which Dangler must supply. Her transformation completed. She reached under the flooring and took out the package of jewels. They would help very materially when she faced Dangler. And though it was somewhat large, tucked inside her blouse, it could not be noticed. The black, greasy shawl hit 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 Dangler to-night. She was to meet him at Matty's at midnight, and it was not more than half past 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 a 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 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 Dangler'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 Dangler 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 fruit of 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 maul 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 Chlorin so as 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 gangs thrown us down, he said, between his teeth. They're scared. They've got cold feet. They're going to quit. Schlucker and Pinky 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, the curse. They say he knows where all our coin is, too, and therefore splitting it up to-night, and ducking it out of New York for a while to get under cover. He laughed out, suddenly, rockously, 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, rockously. 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 trapped door, and making our getaway. See? I'll teach them to throw Pierre Dangler down. Come on. Hurry. Sure, she mumbled mechanically. Her mind was sifting, sorting, weighing what he had said. She was not surprised. She remembered Pinky's outburst in the boat. She walked on beside Dangler. The man was muttering, and cursing under his breath. Well, why wouldn't she appear to fall in with his plan? Under what choice her 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 Dangler, when she had got what she wanted out of him, held up at the point of her automatic, she could back to the door and lock him in there, and then notify the police. And the police would not only get Dangler and the ill-gotten horde hidden in the ceiling behind the trapped door, but they would get all of 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 Dangler 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, it seemed, Rhoda Gray had first found the original Gypsy Nann, and Dangler 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 Dangler, alone. But not in the darkness. He was too tricky. She crossed the garret to where the stubbed candle, stuck in the neck of the gym-bottle, stood on the rickety wash-stand. Come over here and light the candle, she said. I can't find my matches. Her hand was in the pocket of her skirt, her fingers tight closed on the stock of her automatic, as he shuffled his way across the attic to her side. A match spurred it 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 Dangler, 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 beat upon Dangler and herself. CHAPTER XXI 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 were acquainted with him, Dangler, 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 aghast. His voice hardened suddenly as he rose from the cot, and though he limped badly, stepped quickly toward them. Don't move, Dangler. Or you, Mrs. Dangler, he ordered sharply, and with a lightening movement of his hand felt for and whipped Dangler'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, Dangler, he smiled grimly, there's quite a change in the last few hours, isn't there? Dangler made no answer. His face was ashen, his little black eyes, like those of a cornered rat, and as those searching for some avenue of escape were darting hunted glances around the garret. Rhoda Gray, the first shock of surprise gone, leaned back against the wash-stand 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 there were other considerations. She saw that reckoning of her own with Dangler 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. Dangler?' 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, Dangler—' "'You damned traitor! Dangler 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 both of you, but in any case, as my hosts, I'm 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 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 raja in the state of Chota Nagpur, in the province of Bengal, where we then lived. I became an equally intimate friend of the raja's son, and—do I bore you, Dangler?—Dangler was crouched like an animal, his head drawn into his shoulders, his hands behind him, with fingers twisting and gripping at the edge of the wash-stand. 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 raja 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, Dangler, I am omitting everything but the essential details. In a certain city in the Middle West, I think you will remember it well, Dangler, the young raja met with an accident. He was out riding in the outskirts of town. 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 their head down, a blow from the horse's hoof rendered him unconscious, and he was being dragged along when a man by the name of Deemer, at risk of his own life, saved the raja'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. Wrote a 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 raja'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, dangler, though I thought nothing much of it then, I saw something of you, and something of Mrs. Dangler 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 dangler snarled. Yes, yes, I will hurry. I am almost through. While it was not made public throughout the country, in as much as the raja'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 raja, 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, an urgent message to return instantly to India on account of the old raja'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 I, dangler, smiled. Not pleasantly. I will not attempt to explain to you, he went on. The young raja'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 raja was one, and who do not lightly forget or forgive. But an eye for an eye, dangler, you will understand that. If it cost all he had, there should be justice. He could not stay himself, 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 remember you, dangler, 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 raja 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, dangler, I started out after you. I discovered you after about a month. Then I wormed myself into your gang as the pug. That took about a year. I was almost another year with you as an accepted member of the gang. You know what happened during that period. A little while ago I found out that the woman we wanted, with you, dangler, was your wife, living and hiding in this garret as Gypsy Nan. But the jewels themselves were still missing. Tonight they are not. A friend of mine, very much misjudged publicly, I might say, has them, and has told me that they would be handed to the police. And so, dangler, after coming here to-night, I sent the sparrow out to gather together a few of the authorities who are interested in the case. My friend, the assistant district attorney, chlorine the house detective, rough work of headquarters, who on one occasion was very interested in Gypsy Nan and enough men to make the round of arrests. They should be conveniently hidden across the road now and waiting for my signal. My idea, you see, was to allow Mrs. Dangler to enter here without having her suspicions aroused, and to see that she did not get away again if she arrived before those who were duly qualified, which I am not, to arrest her did. Also, in view of what transpired earlier this evening, I must confess I was a little anxious about those several years' accumulation of stolen funds up there in the ceiling. As I said at the beginning, I hardly expected the luck to get you both at the same time, though we should have got you, dangler, and every one of the rest of the gang before morning, and you, wrote a gray whispered, you are not a thief? Brain and soul seemed on fire. It seemed as though she had striven to voice those words a dozen times since he had been speaking, but that she had been afraid, afraid that this was not true, this great, wonderful thing, that it could not be true. You, you are not a thief? The adventurer's face lost its immobility. He half froze from his chair, staring at her in a startled way, but it was dangler now who spoke. It's a lie, he screamed out. It's a lie. The man's reason appeared to be almost unhinged. A mad terror seemed to possess him. It's all a lie. I never heard of this Rajabunk before in my life. I never heard of Deemer, or any jewels before. You lie. I tell you. You lie. You can't prove it. You can't. But I can," said Rhoda Gray in a low voice. The shawl fell from her shoulders. From her blouse she took the package of jewels and held them out to the adventurer. Here are the stones. I got them from where you had put them in Old Lertz's room. I was hidden there all the time last night. She was removing her spectacles and her wig of tangled gray hair as she spoke, and now she turned full face upon dangler. I heard you discuss Deemer's murder with your brother last night, and plan to get rid of Chlorin, who you thought was the only existing witness you need fear, and— Great God! the adventurer cried out. You, Rhoda? The white maul? I—I don't understand, though I can see you are not the woman who originally masqueraded as Gypsy Nan, for I knew her, as I said, by sight. He was on his feet now, his face aflame with a great light. He took a step toward her. Wait! She said hurriedly. She glanced at dangler. The man's face was blanched, his body seemed to have shriveled up, and there was a light in his eyes as they held upon her that was near to the borderland of insanity. That night at Skarbalov's, she said, and tried to hold her voice in control, Gypsy Nan, this man's wife, died that night in the hospital. I found her here sick, and I had promised not to defold her secret. I helped her get to the hospital. She was dying. She was penitent, in a way. She wanted to prevent a crime that she said was to be perpetrated that night, but she would not inform on her accomplices. She begged me to first thaw them, and return the money anonymously the next day. That was the choice I had, either to allow the crime to be carried out, or elsewhere to act alone in return for the information that would enable me to keep the money away from the thieves without bringing the police into it. I was caught. You saved me from rough work, but he followed me. I put on Gypsy Nan's clothes, and managed to outwit him. I had had no opportunity to return the money, which would have been proof of my innocence. The only way I could prove it, then, was to try and find the authors of the crime myself. I have lived since then, as Gypsy Nan, fighting this hideous gang of danglers here, to try and save myself, and tonight I thought I could see my way clear. I knew enough at last about this man to make him give me a written statement that it was a prearranged plan to rob Skarbalov. That would substantiate my story. And she looked again at Dangler. The man was still crouched there, eyeing her with that same mad light in his eyes. And he must be made to do it now, for— But why didn't you ask me, cried the adventurer? You knew me as the pug, and therefore must believe that I, too, knew all about it. Yes, she said, and turned her head away to hide the color she felt was mounting in her cheeks. I thought of that. But I thought you were a thief, and—and your testimony wouldn't have been much good unless with it I could have handed you, too, over to the police, as I intended to do with Dangler. And—and I—I couldn't do that. And— Did you see? She ended desperately. Rota! Rota! There was a glad, buoyant note in the adventurer's voice. Yes, I see. Well, I can prove it for you now without any of those fears on my behalf to worry you. I went to Skarbalov's myself, knowing their plan, to do exactly what you did. I did not know you then, and as Rough Rourke, who was there because, as I heard later, his suspicions had been aroused through seeing some of the gang lurking around the back door in the lane the night before, had taken the actual money from you, I contrived to let you get away, because I was afraid you were some new factor in the game—some member of the gang I did not know about, and that I must watch, too. Don't you understand? The jewels were still missing. I had not got the general warning that was sent out to the gang that night to lay low, for at the last moment it seems that Dangler here found out that Rough Rourke had suspicions about Skarbalov's place. He came close to her. With the muzzle of his revolver he pushed Dangler's huddled figure back a little further against the wash stand. Rota, you are clear. The assistant district attorney, who had your case, is the one I spoke of a few minutes ago. That night at Hayden Bonds, though I did not understand fully, I knew that you were the bravest, truest little woman into whom God had ever breathed the breath of life. I told him the next day that there was some mistake, something strange behind it all. I told him what happened at Hayden Bonds. He agreed with me. You have never been indicted. Your case has never come before the grand jury, and it never will. Rota, Rota, thank God for you. Thank God it has all come out right, and— The appeal of laughter, mad, insane, horrible in its perverted mirth, rang through the garret. Dangler's hands were creeping queerly up to his temples. And then, oblivious evidently in his frenzy of the revolver in the adventurer's hand, and his eye catching the weapons that lay on the cot, he made a sudden dash in that direction, and Rota Gray, divining his intention, sprang for the cot too at the same time. But Dangler never reached his objective. As Rota Gray caught up the weapons and thrust them into her pocket, she heard Dangler's furious snarl, and whirling around, she saw the two men locked and struggling in each other's embrace. The adventurer's voice reached her, quick, imperative. Show the candle at the window, Rota. The sparrow is waiting for it in the yard below. Then open the door for them. A sudden terror and fear seized her. The adventurer was not fit, after what he had been through tonight, to cope with Dangler. He had been limping badly even a few minutes ago. It seemed to her, as she rushed across the garret, and snatched up the candle, that Dangler was getting the best of it even now. And the adventurer could have shot him down, and been warranted in doing it. She reached the window, waved the candle frantically several times across the pane, then setting the candle down on the window ledge, she ran for the door. She looked back again, as she turned the key in the lock. Over the crash, pitching over the chair, both men went to the floor, and the adventurer was underneath. She cried out in alarm, and wrenched the door open, and stood for an instant there on the threshold in a startled way. They couldn't be coming already. The sparrow hadn't had time even to get out of the yard. But there were footsteps in the hall below, many of them. She stepped out on the landing. It was too dark to see, but—a sudden yell as she showed even in the faint light of the open garret door, the quicker rush of feet reached her from below. The white mull—that's her, the white mull. She flung herself flat down, wrenching both the automatic and the revolver from her pocket. She understood now. That was Pinky Bond's voice. It was the gang arriving to divide up the spoils, not the sparrow and the police. Her mind was racing now with lightning speed. If they got her, they would get the adventurer in there too, before the police could intervene. She must hold this little landing where she lay now, hold those short, ladder-like steps that the oncoming footsteps from below there had almost reached. She fired once, twice, again, but high over their heads to check the rush. Yells answered her. A vicious tongue-flame from a revolver, another and another leapt out at her from the black below. The spat, spat of bullets sounded from behind her as they struck the walls. Again she fired. They were at least more cautious now in their rush. No one seemed anxious to be the first upon the stairs. She cast a wild glance through the open door into the garret at her side. The two forms in there, on their feet again, were spinning around and around with the strange, lurching gyrations of automatons. And then she saw the adventurer whip a terrific blow to Dangler's face, and Dangler fell and lie still, and the adventurer came leaping toward her. But faces were showing now above the level of the floor, and there was suddenly an increased uproar from further back in the rear until it seemed that pandemonium itself were loosed. It's the police. The police behind us! She heard Shlucker's voice shriek out. She jumped to her feet. Two of the gang had reached the landing and were smashing at the adventurer. There seemed to be a swirling mob in a riot there below. The adventurer was fighting like a madman. It was hand to hand now. Quick, quick! she cried to the adventurer, jump back through the door. Oh, no you don't! It was skeeny. She could see the man's brutal face now. Oh, no you don't! You she-devil! He shouted, and overreaching the adventurer's guard, struck at her furiously with his clubbed revolver. Shlucker a-glancing blow on the head, and she reeled and staggered but recovered herself. And now it seemed as though it were another battle that she fought, and one more desperate, a battle to fight back a horrible giddiness from overpowering her, and with which her brain was swimming, to fight it back for just a second, the fraction of a second that was needed until—until—jump! She cried again, and staggered over the threshold, and as the adventurer leapt backward beside her she slammed the door and locked it and slid limply to the floor. When she regained consciousness she was lying on the cot. It seemed very still, very quiet in the garret. She opened her eyes. It—it must be all right, for that was the sparrow standing there watching her, and shifting nervously from foot to foot, wasn't it? He couldn't be there otherwise. She held out her hand. Marty, she said, and smiled with trembling lips, we—we owe you a great deal. The sparrow gulped. Gee! You're all right again. They said it wasn't nothing, but you had me scared worsened down at the iron-plant when I had to do the rough act with that gent friend of yours to stop him from crawling after you and fighting it out and queering the whole works. You don't owe me nothing, Miss Gray. And besides, I'm getting a lot more than is coming to me, because that same gent friend of yours there says I'm going to horn in on the rewards. And I guess that's going some, for they got the whole outfit from dangler down and the stuff up in the ceiling there, too. She turned her head. The adventurer was coming toward the cot. Better, he called cheerily. Yes, she said, quite. Only I—I'd like to get away from here, from this—this horrible place at once, and back to—to my flat if they'll let me. Are they all gone? The adventurer's gray eyes lighted with a whimsical smile. Nearly all, he said softly, and—er—Sparrow, suppose you go and find a taxi? Me? Sure. Of course. Sure," said the sparrow hurriedly, and retreated through the door. She felt the blood, flood her face, and tried to avert it. He bent his head close to hers. Rhoda, his voice was low, passionate, I—what was it? Wait, she said. Your friend, the assistant district attorney? Did he come? Yes, said the adventurer, but I shooed them all out. As soon as we found you were not seriously hurt, I thought you had had enough excitement for one night. He wants to see you in the morning. To see me? She rose anxiously up on her elbow. In the morning? He was smiling at her. His hands reached out and took her face between them and made her look at him. Rhoda, he said gently, I knew to-night in the iron plant that you cared. I told him so. What he wants to see you for is to tell you he thinks that I am the luckiest man in all the world. You are clear, dear. Even Ruff Rork is singing your praises. He says you were the only woman who ever put one over on him. She did not answer for a moment, and then, with a little sob of glad surrender, she buried her face on his shoulder. It—it's very wonderful, she said brokenly, for—for even we, you and I, each thought the other was a—a thief. And so we are, thank God, he whispered, and lifted her head until his lips met hers. We were both thieves, Rhoda, weren't we? And please God, we will be all our lives, for we have stolen each other's hearts. End of CHAPTER XXI. THE END OF THE WHITE MALL by Frank L. Packard. Read by Rowdy Delaney for LibriVox.org