 CHAPTER I. NIGHT IN THE UNDERWORLD. It was like some shadowy pantomime, the dark mouth of the alleyway, thrown into murky relief by rays of a distant street-lamp, the swift forward leap of a skulking figure, a girl's form swaying and struggling in the man's embrace. Then, a pantomime no longer, there came a half-threatening, half-triumphant oath, and then the girl's voice, quiet, strangely contained, almost impuruous. Now give me back that purse, please, instantly. The man, already retreating into the alleyway, paused to fling back a jeering laugh. Say, you's got your nerve, ain't you? The girl turned her head, so the rays of the street-lamp, faint as they were, fell upon her, disclosing a sweet, oval face, out of which the dark eyes gazed steadily at the man. And suddenly the man leaned forward, staring for an instant, and then his hand went awkwardly to touch his cap. The white maul, he mumbled differentially. He pulled the peak of his cap down over his eyes, in a sort of shame-faced way, as though to avoid recognition, and, stepping nearer, returned the purse. "'Scuse me, miss,' he said, uneasily. I didn't know it was used. Honest to God, I didn't. Excuse me, miss. Good night!' For a moment the girl stood motionless, looking down the alleyway after the retreating figure. From somewhere in the distance came the rumble of an elevated train. It drowned out the pound of the man's speeding footsteps. It died away itself, and now there was no other sound. A pucker, strangely wistful, curiously perturbed, came and furrowed her forehead into little wrinkles, and then she turned and walked slowly on along the deserted street. The white maul. She shook her head a little. The attack had not unnerved her. Why should it? It was simply that the man had not recognized her at first in the darkness. The white maul here at night, in one of the loneliest, as well as one of the most vicious and abandoned quarters of New York, was as safe and inviolate as—as—she shook her head again. Her mind did not instantly suggest a comparison that seemed wholly adequate. The pucker deepened, but the sensitive, delicate chiseled lips parted now in a smile. Well, she was safer here than anywhere else in the world. That was all. It was the first time that anything like this had happened, and for the very reason that it was unprecedented, it seemed to stir her memory now, and awaken a dormant train of thought. The white maul. She remembered the first time she had been called by that name. It took her back almost three years, and since that time, here in this soared realm of crime and misery, the name of Rhoda Gray, her own name, her actual identity, seemed to have become lost, obliterated in that of the white maul. A dip had given it to her, and the underworld, quick and trenchant in its monikers, had instantly ratified it. There was not a crook or denison of crime-land, probably, who did not know the white maul. There was, probably, not one to-day who knew, or cared, that she was Rhoda Gray. She went on, traversing block after block, entering a less deserted, though now less unsavory neighborhood. Here a saloon flung a sudden glow of yellow light a-thwart the sidewalk, as its swinging doors jerked apart, and a form lurched out into the night. There, from a dance-hall, came the rattle of a tinny piano, the squeak of a raspy violin, a high-pitched, hectic burst of laughter, while flanking the street on each side, like interjected inanimate blotches, rows of squalid tenements, and cheap, tumbled-down frame-houses, silhouetted themselves in broken, jagged points against the skyline. And now and then, a man spoke to her, his untrained fingers fumbling in clumsy homage at the brim of his hat. How strange a thing memory was! How strange, too, the coincidences that sometimes aroused it into activity. It was a man, a thief, just like the man to-night, who had first brought her into this shadow-land of crime. That was just before her father died. Her father had been a mining engineer, and though an American, had been for many years a resident in South America, as the representative of a large English concern, he had been in ill health for a year down there, when, acting on his physician's advice, he had come to New York for a consultation, and she had accompanied him. They had taken a little flat, the engineer had placed himself in the hands of a famous specialist, and an operation had been decided upon. And then, a few days prior to the date set for the operation, and before her father, who was still able to be about, had entered the hospital, the flat had been broken into during the early morning hours. The thief, obviously not counting on the engineer's wakefulness, had been caught red-handed. At first defiant, the man had finally broken down, and told a miserable story. It was hacknied, possibly, the same story told by a thousand others, as a last defense, in the hope of inducing leniency, through an appeal to pity, but somehow, to her, that night, the story had rung true. Pete McGee, alias the buzzard, the man had said his name was, he couldn't get any work. There was a shadow of a long abode in Sing Sing, that lay upon him as a curse. A job here to-day, his record discovered to-morrow, and the next day, out on the street again. It was very old, very threadbare, that story. There were even the sick wife, the hungry, unclothed children, but to her it had rung true. Her father had not placed the slightest faith in it, and but for her intervention, the buzzard would have been incontinently consigned to the mercies of the police. Her face softened suddenly now as she walked along. She remembered well that scene, when, at the end, she had written down the address the man had given her. Father is going to let you go, McGee, because I ask him to. She had said, and to-morrow morning I will go to this address, and if I find your story as true as I believe it is, I will see what I can do for you. It's true, Miss, so help me God! The man had answered brokenly. Use come and see. I'll be there, and God bless you, Miss. Even so they had let the man go free, and her father, with a whimsical, tolerant smile, had shaken his head at her. You'll never find that address, Rhoda, or our friend the buzzard either. But she had found both the buzzard and the address, and destitution, and squalor unspeakable. Pathetic still, but the vernacular of the underworld, where men called their women by no more gracious names than mauls, and skirts no longer strange to her ears, there came to her again now the buzzard's words in which she had paid her tribute on that morning long ago, and with which he had introduced her to a shrunken form that lay upon a dirty cot in a bare-floored room. Meet de Maul I was telling you's about, Mag. She's white. All the way up. She's white, Mag. She's a white maul. Take it from me. The white maul. The firm little chin came suddenly upward, but into the dark eyes unbidden came a sudden film and mist. Her father's health had been too far undermined, and he had been unable to withstand the shock of the operation, and he had died in the hospital. There weren't any relatives, except distant ones on her mother's side, somewhere out in California, whom she had never seen. She and her father had been all in all to each other, chums, pals, comrades, since her mother's death many years ago. She had gone everywhere with him, save when the demands of her education had necessarily kept them apart. She had hunted with him in South America, ridden with him in sections where civilization was still in the making, shared the crude, rough life of mining camps with him, and it had seemed as though her life, too, had gone out with his. She brushed her hand hastily across her eyes. There hadn't been any friends, either, apart from a few of her father's casual business acquaintances, no one else, except the buzzard. It was very strange. Her reward for that one friendly act had come in a manner little expected, and it had come very quickly. She had sought, and found, a genuine relief from her own sorrow in doing what she could, to alleviate the misery in that squalid one-room home. And then the sphere of her activities had broadened, slowly at first, not through any preconceived intention on her part, but naturally, and as an almost inevitable corollary, consequent upon her relations with the buzzard and his ill-fortunate family. The buzzard's circle of intimates was amongst those who lay outside the law, those who gambled for their livelihood by staking their wits to win against the toils of the police. And so, more and more, she had come into close and intimate contact with the criminal element of New York, until to-day, throughout its length and breadth she was known, and, she had reason to believe, was loved and trusted by every crook in the underworld. It was a strange eulogy, self-pronounced, but it was none the less true. Then she had been wrote aggray, now even the buzzard, doubtless, had forgotten her name in the one with which he himself, at that queer baptismal font of crime-land, had christened her, the White Mall. It even went further than that. It embraced what might be called the entourage of the underworld, the police, and the social workers with whom she inevitably came in contact. These, too, had long known her as the White Mall, and had come, since she had volunteered no further information, tacitly to accept her as such, and nothing more. Again she shook her head. It wasn't altogether a normal life. She was only a woman, with all the aspirations of a woman, with all the yearning of youth for its measure of gaiety and pleasure. True, she had not made a recluse of herself outside her work, but equally, on the other hand, she had not made any intimate friends in her station in life. She had never proposed continuing indefinitely the work she was doing, nor did she now. But, little by little, it had focused its claims upon her until those claims were not easy to ignore. Even though the circumstances in which her father had left her were barely more than sufficient for a modest little flat-up town, there was still always a little surplus, and that surplus counted in certain quarters for very much indeed. But it wasn't only that. The small amount of money that she was able to spend in that way had little to do with it. The bonds which linked her to the sored surroundings that she had come to know so well were stronger far than that. There wasn't any money involved in this visit, for instance, that she was going now to make to Gypsy Nann. Gypsy Nann was, wrote a gray halted before the doorway of a small, hovel-like two-story building that was jammed in between two tenements, which relatively in their own class were even more disreputable than was the little frame-house itself. A second-hand clothes-store occupied the ground floor and housed the proprietor and his family as well, permitting the rooms on the second floor to be rented out. The garret above was the abode of Gypsy Nann. There was a separate entrance, apart from that into the second-hand clothes-store, and she pushed this door open and stepped forward into an absolutely black and musty-smelling hallway. By feeling with her hands along the wall she reached the stair and began to make her way upward. She had found Gypsy Nann last night huddled in the lower doorway, and apparently in a condition that was very much the worse for wear. She had stopped and helped the woman up to her garret, whereupon Gypsy Nann, in language far more fervent than elegant, had ordered her to be gone and slammed the door in her face. Rhoda Gray smiled a little wearily, as on the second floor now she groped her way to the rear and began to mount a short, ladder-like flight of steps to the attic. Gypsy Nann's lack of cordiality did not absolve her, Rhoda Gray, from coming back tonight to see how the woman was, to crowd one more visit on her already over-expanded list. She had never had any personal knowledge of Gypsy Nann before, but in a sense the woman was no stranger to her. Gypsy Nann was a character known far and wide in the underworld as possessing an insatiable and unquenchable thirst. As to who she was, or what she was, or where she got the money for the gin she bought, it was not in the ethics of the badlands to inquire. She was just Gypsy Nann. So that she did not obtrude herself too obviously upon their notice the police suffered her. So that she gave the underworld no reason for complaint the underworld accepted her at face value as one of their own. There was no hallway here at the head of the ladder-like stairs, just a sort of narrow platform in front of the attic door. Rhoda Gray, groping out with her hands again, felt for the door, and knocked softly upon it. There was no answer. She knocked again, and, opening it, stood for an instant on the threshold. A lamp, almost empty, ill-trimmed, and smoking badly, stood on a chair beside a cheap iron bed. It threw a dull, yellow glow about its immediate vicinity, and threw the remainder of the garret into deep, impenetrable shadows. But it also disclosed the motionless form of a woman on the bed. Rhoda Gray's eyes darkened as she closed the door behind her, and stepped quickly forward to the bedside. For a moment she stood looking down at the recumbent figure, at the matted tangle of gray-streaked brown hair that straggled across the pillow which was none too clean, at the heavy-lensed, old-fashioned, steel-bowed spectacles, a rye now, that were still grotesquely perched on the woman's nose, at the sallow face, baked with grime and dirt, as though it had not been washed for months, at the hands, as ill-cared for, which lay exposed on the torn blanket that did duty for a counterpane, at the dirty shawl that enveloped the woman's shoulders, and which was tightly fastened around Gypsy Nan's neck, and from the woman her eyes shifted to an empty bottle on the floor that protruded from under the bed. Nan! she called sharply, and stooping over, she shook the woman's shoulder. Nan! she repeated. There was something about the woman's breathing that she did not like, something in the queer, pinched condition of the other's face that suddenly frightened her. Nan! she called again. Gypsy Nan opened her eyes, stared for a moment dully. Then, in a curiously quick, desperate way, jerked herself up on her elbow. "'Yous get to hell outta here,' she croaked. Get out!' "'I'm going to,' said Rhoda Gray, evenly, and I'm going at once. She turned abruptly, and walked toward the door. "'I'm going to get a doctor. You've gone too far this time, Nan, and—' "'No, yous don't!' Gypsy Nan's voice rose to a sudden scream. She sat bolt upright in the bed, and pulled a revolver from under the covers. "'Yous don't bring no doctor here. See? Yous put a finger on that door, and it won't be the door yous'll be going out by.' Rhoda Gray didn't move. Nan, put that revolver down. She ordered quietly. You don't know what you're doing. "'Don't,' leered Gypsy Nan. The revolver held, swaying a little unsteadily on Rhoda Gray. There was silence for a moment, then Gypsy Nan spoke again, evidently through dry lips, for she wet them again and again with her tongue. "'Say, use her to White Mall. Ain't yous?' "'Yes,' said Rhoda Gray. Gypsy Nan appeared to ponder this for an instant. "'Well, then, come back here, and sit down on the foot of the bed,' she commanded, finally. Rhoda Gray obeyed without hesitation. There was nothing to do but humor the woman in her present state, a state that seemed one bordering on delirium, and a complete collapse. "'Nan,' she said, you, to White Mall,' mumbled Gypsy Nan. "'I wonder if the dope day-hands out about yous is all on de-level. My God, I wonder if what they say is true. What do they say?' asked Rhoda Gray gently. Gypsy Nan lay back on her pillow, as though her strength overtaxed had failed her. Her hand, though it still clutched the revolver, seemed to have been dragged down by the weapon's weight, and now rested upon the blanket. "'They say,' said Gypsy Nan slowly, that yous knows more on de-inside than anybody else. "'Things yous got from de-spacers' malls, and from de-dipsed themselves, when you was linden dem a hand. They say there ain't many yous couldn't send up de-river just by lifting your finger, but that yous are straight, and that yous have kept your map closed, and that yous are safe.' Rhoda Gray's dark eyes softened, as she leaned forward, and laid a gentle hand over the one of Gypsy Nan that held the revolver. "'It couldn't be any other way, could it, Nan?' she said simply. "'What you're after?' demanded Gypsy Nan, with sudden mockery. "'De gun? Well, take it.' She let go her hold on the weapon. "'But don't kid yourself, did yous are kid me and de-given it to use, because yous got a pretty smile and a sweet voice. Savvy? I—she choked, suddenly, and caught at her throat. I guess use her de-only chance I got. That's all.' "'That's better,' said Rhoda Gray, encouragingly. And now you'll let me go and get a doctor. Won't you, Nan?' "'Wait,' said Gypsy Nan, hoarsely. "'Yous are de-only chance I got. Will yous swear yous won't throw me down if I tells you something? I got no other way. Will yous swear yous'll see me through?' "'Of course, Nan,' said Rhoda Gray, soothingly. "'Of course I will, Nan. I promise.' Gypsy Nan came up on her elbow. That ain't good enough,' she cried out. "'A promise ain't good enough. For God's sake, come across all the way. Swear yous'll keep mum and see me through.' "'Yes, Nan,' wrote a Gray's eyes, smiled reassurance. I swear it. But you will be all right again in the morning.' "'Will I? You think so, do you?' "'Well, I can only say that I wish I did.' Rhoda Gray leaned sharply forward, staring in amazement at the figure on the bed. The woman's voice was the same. It was still hoarse, still heavy, and the words came with painful effort, but the English was suddenly perfect now. "'Nan, what is it? I don't understand,' she said, tensely. "'What do you mean?' "'You think you know what's the matter with me. There was a curious mocking in the weak voice. You think I've drunk myself into a state. You think I'm on the verge of the DTs now. That empty bottle under the bed proves it, doesn't it? And anybody around will tell you that Gypsy Nan has thrown enough empties out of the window to stock a bottle factory for years. Some of them on the flat roof just outside the window. Some of them on the roof of the shed below. Some of them down into the yard, just depending upon how drunk she was. And how far she could throw. And that proves it, too, doesn't it? "'Well, maybe it does. That's what I did it for. But I never touched this stuff. Not a drop of it. From the day I came here. I didn't dare touch it. I had to keep my wits. Last night you thought I was drunk when you found me in the doorway downstairs? I wasn't. I was too sick and weak to get up here. I almost told you then, only I was afraid, and I thought that perhaps I'd be all right today. "'Oh, I didn't know,' wrote a gray, was on her knees beside the bed. There was no room to question the truth of the woman's words. It was in Gypsy Nan's eyes, in the struggling, labored voice. "'Yes,' Gypsy Nan clutched at the shawl around her neck, and shivered. "'I thought I might be all right today, and I thought I'd get better, but I didn't. And now I've got about a chance in a hundred. I know. It's my heart. You mean you've been here alone, sick, since last night? Why didn't you call someone? Why did you even hold me back a few minutes ago, when you admit yourself, that you need immediate medical assistance so badly? "'Cause,' said Gypsy Nan, "'if I've got a chance at all, I'd finish it for keeps if a doctor came here. I'd rather go out this way, than in that horrible thing they call the chair. Oh, my God! Don't you understand that? I've seen pictures of it. It's a horrible thing. A horrible thing. Horrible!' "'Nan,' wrote a gray, steadied her voice, "'you're delirious. You do not know what you're saying. There isn't any horrible thing to frighten you. Now just like quietly here, I'll only be a few minutes, and—' She stopped, abruptly, as her wrist was suddenly imprisoned in a frantic grip. "'You swore it,' Gypsy Nan whispered feverishly. "'You swore it. They say the white maul never snitched. That's the one chance I've got, and I'm going to take it. I'm not delirious, not yet. I wish to God it was nothing more than that. Look!' With a low, startled cry, Rhoda was on her feet. Gypsy Nan was gone. A sweep of the woman's hand, and the spectacles were off. The gray, streaked hair, a tangled wig upon the pillow. And Rhoda Gray found herself staring in a numbed sort of way at a dark-haired woman who could not have been more than thirty, but whose face, with its streaks of grime and dirt, looked grotesquely and incongruously old. CHAPTER II For a moment, neither spoke. Gypsy Nan broke the silence with a bitter laugh. She threw back the bed-clothes, and gripping at the edge of the bed sat up. The white maul, the words rattled in her throat. A fleck of blood showed on her lips. "'Well, you know now. You're going to help me, aren't you?' "'I—I've got to get out of here. Get to a hospital.'" Rhoda Gray laid her hands firmly on the other shoulders. "'Get back into bed,' she said steadily. "'Do you want to make yourself worse? You'll kill yourself.'" Gypsy Nan pushed her away. "'Don't make me use what little strength I've got left in talking,' she cried out piteously, and suddenly rung her hands together. I'm wanted by the police. If I'm caught—it's—it's that chair. I couldn't have a doctor brought here, could I? How long would it be before he saw that Gypsy Nan was a fake? I can't let you go and have an ambulance say, come and get me, can I? Even with the disguise hidden. They'd say this is where Gypsy Nan lives. There's something queer. Where is Gypsy Nan? I've got to get away from here. Away from Gypsy Nan. Don't you understand? It's death one way. Maybe it is the other. Maybe it'll finish me to get out of here. But it's the only thing left to do. I thought someone—someone I could trust, never mind who—would come today. But—but no one came, and—and maybe it's too late. But there's just the one chance. And I've got to take it." Gypsy Nan tore at the shawl around her throat as though it choked her, and flung it from her shoulders. Her eyes were gleaming with unhealthy feverish light. Don't you see? We get out on the street. I collapse. You find me. I tell you my name is Charlotte Green. That's all you know. There isn't much chance that anybody at the hospital will recognize me. I've got money. I take a private room. Don't you understand? Wrote a grey's face had gone white. There was no doubt about the woman's serious condition. And yet—and yet— She stood there hesitant. There must be some other way. It was not likely, even that the woman had strength enough to walk down the stairs to begin with. Strange things had come to her in this world of shadow, but none before like this. If the law got the woman, it would cost the woman her life. If the woman did not receive immediate and adequate medical assistance, it would cost the woman her life. Over and over, in her brain, like a jangling refrain, that thought repeated itself. It was not like her to stand hesitant before an emergency, no matter what the emergency might be. She had never done it before, but now— For God's sake, Gypsy Nan implored, don't stand there looking at me. Can't you understand? If I'm caught, I go out. Do you think I'd have lived in this filthy hole if there had been any other way to save my life? Are you going to let me die here like a dog? Get me my clothes. Oh, for God's sake, get them, and give me the one chance that's left. A queer little smile came to Rota Gray's lips, and her shoulders straightened back. Where are your clothes, she asked. God bless you, the tears were suddenly streaming down the grimy face. God bless the White Mall. It's true—it's true—all they said about her. The woman had lost control of herself. Nan, keep your nerve, ordered Rota Gray almost brutally. It was the White Mall in another light now—cool, calm, collected, efficient. Her eyes swept Gypsy Nan. The woman, who had obviously flung herself down on the bed fully dressed the night before, was garbed in coarse, heavy boots, the cheapest of stockings which were also sadly in need of repair, a tattered and crumpled skirt of some rough material, and previously hidden by the shawl, a soiled, greasy and spotted black blouse. Rota Gray's forehead puckered into a frown. What about your hands and face? They go with the clothes, don't they? It'll wash off, whispered Gypsy Nan. It's just some stuff I keep in a box over there—the ceiling. Her voice trailed off weakly, then with a desperate effort strengthened again. The door. I forgot the door. It isn't locked. Lock the door first. Lock the door. Then you take the candle over there on the washstand, and I'll show you. You get the things while I'm undressing. I can't help myself that much. Rota Gray crossed quickly to the door, turned the key in the lock, and retraced her steps to the washstand that stood in the shadows against the wall on the opposite side of the bed and near the far end of the garret. Here she found the short stub of a candle that was stuck in the mouth of a gin-bottle and matches lay beside it. She lighted the candle and turned inquiringly to Gypsy Nan. The woman pointed to the end of the garret where the roof sloped sharply down until at the wall itself it was scarcely four feet above the floor. Go down there, right to the wall, in the center, instructed Gypsy Nan weakly, and then, as Rota Gray obeyed, now push up that wide board in the ceiling. Rota Gray, already in a stooped position, reached up and pushed at the rough, unplanned board. It swung back without a sound, like a narrow trap door, until it rested in the upright position against the outer frame of the house, disclosing an aperture through which, by standing erect, Rota Gray easily thrust her head and shoulders. She raised the candle through the opening, and suddenly her dark eyes widened in amazement. It was a hiding-place, not only ingenious, but exceedingly generous in expanse. As far as one could reach, the ceiling metamorphised itself into a most convenient shelf, and it had been well utilised. It held a most astounding collection of things. There was a cash-box, but the cash-box was apparently wholly inadequate. There must have been thousands of dollars in those piles of banknotes that were stacked beside it. There was a large tin box, the cover off, containing some black, paste-like substance, the stuff, presumably, that Gypsy Nan used on her face in hands. There was a bunch of curiously formed keys, several boxes of revolver cartridges, an electric flashlight, and a great quantity of the choicest brands of tinned and bottled fruits and provisions. And a little to the side evidently kept ready for instant use, a suit of excellent material, under-clothing, silk stockings, shoes, and hat were neatly piled together. Rota Gray took the clothing and went back to the bedside. Gypsy Nan had made little progress in disrobing. It seemed about all the woman could do to cling to the edge of the cot and sit upright. What does all this mean, Nan? She asked, tensely, all those things up there, that money. Gypsy Nan forced a twisted smile. It means I know how bad I am, or I wouldn't have let you see what I have. She answered heavily. It means that there isn't any other way. Hurry! Get these things off! Get me dressed! But it took a long time. Gypsy Nan seemed with every moment to grow weaker. The lamp on the chair went out for want of oil. There was only the guttering candle in the gym-bottle to give light. It threw weird, flickering shadows across the garret. It seemed to enhance the already death-like pallor of the woman, as using the pitcher of water and the basin from the wash-stand now, rode a gray, removed the grime from Gypsy Nan's face and hands. It was done at last. And where there had once been Gypsy Nan, hag-like and repulsive, there was now a stylishly, even elegantly dressed woman of well under middle age. The transformation seemed to have acted as a stimulant upon Gypsy Nan. She laughed with nervous hilarity. She even tried valiantly to put on a pair of new black kid gloves, but, failing this, pushed them unsteadily into the pocket of the coat. I'm—I'm all right, she asserted fiercely, as rode a gray, pausing in the act of gathering up the discarded garments, regarded her anxiously. Bring me a package of that money after you've put those things away. Yes, and you'll find a flashlight there. We'll need it going down the stairs. Rode a gray made no answer. There was no hesitation now in her actions. As to the piling of the clothes in her arms, she added the revolver that lay on the blanket, and returning to the little trap-door in the ceiling, hid them away. But her brain was whirling again in a turmoil of doubt. This was madness, utter, stark, blind madness, this thing that she was doing. It was suicide, literally that, nothing less than suicide for one in Gypsy Nan's condition to attempt this thing. But the woman would certainly die here, too, without medical assistance. Only there was the police. Rode a gray's face, as she stood upright in the little aperture again, throwing the wavering candle-rays around her, seemed suddenly to have grown pinched and won. The police. The police. It was her conscience, then, that was gnawing at her, because of the police. What was that? Well, there was also, then, another side. Could she turn in former, traitor, become a female Judas to a dying woman, who had sobbed and thanked her maker because she had found someone whom she believed she could trust? That was a hideous and an abominable thing to do. You swore it. You swore you'd see me through. The words came and rang instantly in her ears. The sweet, poquaint little face set in hard, determined lines. Mechanically she picked up the flashlight and a package of banknotes, lowered the board in the ceiling into place, and returned to Gypsy Nan. I'm ready if there is no other way, she said soberly, as she watched the other tuck the money inside her waist. I said I would see you through, and I will. But I doubt if you are strong enough, even with what help I can give you, to get down the stairs. And even if you can, I am afraid with all my soul of the consequences to you, and—Gypsy Nan blew out the candle and staggered to her feet. There isn't any other way. She leaned heavily on Rhoda Gray's arm. Can't you see that? Don't you think I know? Haven't you seen enough here to convince you of that? I—I'm just spilling the dice for—for perhaps the last time. But it's the only chance—the only chance—go on. She urged, tremolously, shoot the glim and get me to the door. And—and for the love of God, don't make a sound. It's all up if we're seen going out. The flashlight's ray, danced in crazy gyrations as the two figures swayed and crept across the garret. Rhoda Gray unlocked the door, and as they passed out, locked it again on the outside. Hide the key, whispered Gypsy Nan. See that crack in the floor under the partition. Slip it in there. The flashlight guiding her rode a gray stoop down to where, between the rough attic flooring and the equally rough boarding of the garret partition, there was a narrow space. She pushed the key in out of sight, and then, with her arm around Gypsy Nan's waste, and with the flashlight, at cautious intervals winking ahead of her, through the darkness, she began to descend the stairs. It was slow work, desperately slow, both because they dare not make the slightest noise, and because, too, as far as strength was concerned, Gypsy Nan was close to the end of her endurance. Down one flight, and then the other they went, resting at every few steps, leaning back against the wall, black shadows that merged with the blackness around them. The flashlight used only when necessity compelled it, lest its gleam might attract the attention of some other occupant of the house. And at times Gypsy Nan's head lay cheek to Rhoda Gray's, and the other's body grew limp and became a great weight, so that it seemed she could no longer support it. They gained the street door, hung their tensely for a moment to make sure that they were not observed by any chance pass or by, then stepped out on the sidewalk. Gypsy Nan spoke, then. I can't go much further, she faltered, but it doesn't matter, now we're out of the house. It doesn't matter where you find me, only let's try a few steps more. Rhoda Gray had slipped the flashlight inside her blouse. Yes, she said, her breath coming heavily, it's all right, Nan, I understand. They walked on a little way up the block, and then Gypsy Nan's grasp suddenly tightened on Rhoda Gray's arm. Play the game, Gypsy Nan's voice said scarcely audible. You'll play the game, won't you? You'll see me through. That's a good name. As good as any. Charlotte Green. That's all you know, but don't leave me alone with them. You'll come to the hospital with me, won't you? I—Gypsy Nan collapsed in a heap on the sidewalk. Rhoda Gray glanced swiftly around her. In the squalid tenement before which she stood, there would be no help of the kind that was needed. There would be no telephone in there, by means of which she could summon an ambulance. And then her glance rested on a figure far up the block under a street-lamp. A policeman. She bent hurriedly over the prostrate woman, whispered a word of encouragement, and ran in the officer's direction. As she drew closer to the policeman, she called out to him. He turned and came running toward her, and, as he reached her, after a sharp glance into her face, touched his helmet respectfully. What's wrong with the White Mall tonight? He asked pleasantly. There's—there's a woman down there, Rhoda Gray was breathless from her run. On the sidewalk, she needs help at once. Drunk? Inquired the officer, laconically? No. I'm sure it's anything but that, Rhoda Gray answered quickly. She appears to be very sick. I think you had better summon an ambulance without delay. All right, agreed the officer. There's a patrol-box down there, in the direction you came from. We'll have a look at her on the way. He started briskly forward with Rhoda Gray beside him. Who is she, do you know? He asked. She said her name was Charlotte Green, Rhoda Gray replied. That's all she could, or would, say about herself. Then she ain't a regular around here, or I guess you'd know her, grunted the policeman. Rhoda Gray made no answer. They reached Gypsy Nan. The officer bent over her, then picked her up and carried her to the tenement doorway. I guess you're right, all right. She's bad. I'll send in a call. He said, and started on the run down the street. Gypsy Nan had lost consciousness. Rhoda Gray settled herself on the doorstep, supporting the woman's head in her lap. Her face had set again in grim, hard, perplexed lines. There seemed nothing unnatural, and something mincingly weird, something even uncanny about it all. Perhaps it was because it seemed as though she could so surely foresee the end. Gypsy Nan would not live through the night. Something told her that. The woman's masquerade, for whatever purpose it had been assumed, was over. You'll play the game, won't you? You'll see me through. There seemed something painfully futile about those words now. The officer returned. It's all right, he said. How's she seem? Rhoda Gray shook her head. A passer-by stopped, asked what was the matter, and lingered curiously. Another and another did the same. A little crowd collected. The officer kept them back. Came then the strident clang of a gong, and the rapid beat of horse's hooves. A white-coated figure jumped from the ambulance, pushed his way forward, and bent over the form in Rhoda Gray's lap. A moment more, and they were carrying Gypsy Nan to the ambulance. Rhoda Gray spoke to the officer. I think perhaps I had better go with her. Sure, said the officer. She caught snatches of the officer's words, as he made a report to the doctor. Found her here in the street. Charlotte Green, nothing else. The white mall, straight as God makes them, she'll see the woman through. He turned to Rhoda Gray. You can get in there with him, miss. It took possibly ten minutes to reach the hospital, but before that time Gypsy Nan, responding in a measure to the stimulants, had regained consciousness. She insisted on clinging to Rhoda Gray's hand as they carried in the stretcher. Don't leave me, she pleaded. And then, for the first time, Gypsy Nan's nerve seemed to fail her. I—oh my God, I—I don't want to die, she cried out. But a moment later, inside the hospital, as the admitting officer began to ask questions of Rhoda Gray, Gypsy Nan had apparently recovered her grip upon herself. Ah, let her alone! She broke in. She doesn't know me any more than you do. She found me on the street. But she was good to me, God bless her. Your name's Charlotte Green? Yes, the man nodded. Where do you live? Wherever I like, Gypsy Nan was snarling treculently now. What's it matter where I live? Don't you ever have anyone come here without a letter from the pastor of her church? She pulled out the package of banknotes. You aren't going to get stuck. This'll see you through whatever happens. Give me a private room, and—her voice was weakening rapidly. And there came a bitter, facetious laugh—the best you've got. Her voice was weakening rapidly. They carried her upstairs. She still insisted on clinging to Rhoda Gray's hand. Don't leave me! She pleaded again as they reached the door of a private room, and Rhoda Gray disengaged her hand gently. I'll stay outside here, Rhoda Gray promised. I won't go away without seeing you again. Rhoda Gray sat down on a set tea in the hall. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was five minutes to eleven. Doctors and nurses came and went from the room. Then a great quiet seemed to settle down around her. A half hour passed. A doctor went into the room and presently came out again. She intercepted him as he came along the corridor. He shook his head. She did not understand his technical explanation. There was something about a clot and blood stoppage. But as she resumed her seat, she understood very fully that the end was near. The woman was resting quietly now, the doctor had said. But if she, Rhoda Gray, cared to wait, she could see the other before leaving the hospital. And so she waited. She had promised Gypsy Nan she would. The minutes dragged along. A quarter of an hour passed. Still another. Midnight came. Fifteen minutes more went by, and then a nurse came out of her room and, standing near the door, beckoned to Rhoda Gray. She's asking for you, the nurse said. Please do not stay more than a few minutes. I shall be outside here, and if you notice the strangest change, call me instantly. Rhoda Gray nodded. I understand, she said. The door closed softly behind her. She was smiling cheerly as she crossed the room and bent over Gypsy Nan. The woman stretched out her hand. The white maul, she whispered. He told the truth. That bull did. Straight as they make them, and— Don't try to talk, Rhoda Gray interrupted gently. Wait until you're a little stronger. Stronger? Gypsy Nan shook her head. Don't try to kid me. I know. They told me. I'd have known it anyway. I'm going out. Rhoda Gray found no answer for a moment. A great lump had risen in her throat. Where would she have needed to be told? She, too, would have known it anyway. It was stamped in the gray pallor of the woman's face. She pressed Gypsy Nan's hand. And then Gypsy Nan spoke again, a queer, yearning hesitancy in her voice. Do—do you believe in God? Yes, said Rhoda Gray simply. Gypsy Nan closed her eyes. Do—do you think there's a chance, even at the last, if—if—without throwing down one's pals one tries to make good? Yes, said Rhoda Gray again. Is the door closed? Gypsy Nan attempted to raise herself on her elbow, as though to see for herself. Rhoda Gray forced the other gently back upon the pillows. It is closed, she said. You need not be afraid. What time is it? Demanded Gypsy Nan? Rhoda Gray looked at her watch. Twenty-five minutes after twelve, she answered. There's time yet, then, whispered Gypsy Nan. There's time yet. She lay silent for a moment. Then her hand closed tightly around Rhoda Gray's. Listen, she said. There's more about—about why I lived like that than I told you. And—and I can't tell you now. I can't go out like a yellow cur. I'm not going to snitch on anybody else just because I'm through myself. But—but there's something on tonight that I'd—I'd like to stop. Only the police, or anybody else, aren't to know anything about it, because then they'd nip my friends. See? But you can do it easy. You can do it alone, without anybody knowing. There's time yet. They weren't going to pull it off until half-past one. And there won't be any danger to you. All you've got to do is get the money before they do, and then see that it goes back where it belongs to-morrow. Will you? You don't want to see a crime committed to-night? If you can stop it, do you?" Rhoda Gray's face was grave. She hesitated for a moment. I'll have to know more about it before I can answer you, Nan, she said. It's the only way to stop it, Gypsy Nan whispered feverishly. I won't split on my pals. I won't. But I trust you. Will you promise not to snitch if I tell you how to stop it, even if you don't go there yourself? I'm offering you a chance to stop a twenty thousand dollar haul. If you don't promise, it's got to go through, because I've got to stand by the ones that were in it with me. I-I'd like to make good, just once. But I can't do it any other way. For God's sakes, you see that, don't you?" Yes, said Rhoda Gray in a low voice. But the promise you ask for is the same as though I promised to try and get the money you speak of. If I knew what was going on and did nothing, I would be an accomplice to the crime, and guilty myself. But you can't do anything else, Gypsy Nan was speaking with great difficulty. I won't get those that were with me in wrong. I won't. You can prevent a crime to-night, if you will. You can help me to-to make good. Rhoda Gray's lips tightened. Will you give me your word that I can do what you suggest? That it is feasible? Possible? Yes, said Gypsy Nan. You can do it easily, and-and it's safe. It-it only wants a little nerve, and-and you've got that. I promise, then, said Rhoda Gray. Thank God! Gypsy Nan pulled fiercely at Rhoda Gray's wrist. Come nearer, nearer. You know Scarbalov? Old Scarbalov, who keeps the antique store, on the street, around the corner from my place. Rhoda Gray nodded. He's rich, whispered Gypsy Nan. Think of it. Him. Rich. But he gets the best of the Fifth Avenue crowd because he keeps his joint in that rotten hole. They think they're getting the real thing in antiques. He's a queer old fool. Afraid people would know he had money if he kept it in the bank. Afraid of a bank, too. Understand? We found out that every once in a while he'd change a lot of small bills for a big one. Five hundred dollar bills. Thousand dollar bills. That put us wise. We began to watch him. It took months to find where he hid it. He spent night after night searching through his shop. You can get it easily. There's no one there. Upstairs is just a storage place for his extra stock. There's a big padlock on the back door, but there's a false link in the chain. Count three links to the right from the padlock. We put it there, and Gypsy Nan's voice became almost inaudible. She pulled at Rhoda Gray's wrist again, urging her closer. Listen, quick. I—my strength, she panted. An antique he never sells. Old escrotois against rear wall. Secret drawer. Take out wide middle drawer. Reach in and rub your hand along the top. You'll feel the spring. We waited to—to get—get counterfeits. Put counterfeits there. Understand? Then he'd never know he'd been robbed. Not for a long time, anyway. Discovered, perhaps, when he was dead. Old wife. Suffer, then. I—got to make good. Make good, I— She came up suddenly on both elbows, the dark eye, staring wildly. Yes. Yes, she whispered. Seven, three, nine. Look out! Her voice rang with sudden terror, rising almost to a scream. Look out! Can't you understand? You fool! I told you! Seven, three, nine. Seven, three— Rhoda Gray's arms had gone around the other's shoulders. She heard the door open and then a quick light step. There wasn't any other sound now. She made way mechanically for the nurse. And then, after a moment, she rose from her knees. The nurse answered her unspoken question. Yes, it's over. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of 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 3 Alias Gypsy-Nan Rhoda Gray went slowly from the room. In a curiously stunned sort of way she reached the street, and for a few blocks walked along scarcely conscious of the direction she was taking. Her mind was in turmoil. The night seemed to have been one of harrowing hallucination. It seemed as though it were utterly unreal, like one dreaming that one is dreaming. And then, suddenly, she looked at her watch, and the straight little shoulders squared resolutely back. The hallucination, if she chose to call it that, was not yet over. It was twenty minutes of one, and there was still scarbel-oves. And her promise. She quickened her pace. She did not like this promise that she had made, but, on the other hand, she had not made it either lightly or impulsively. She had no regrets on that score. She would make it again under the same conditions. How could she have done otherwise? It would have been to stand aside and permit a crime to be committed, which she was assured was easily within her power to prevent. What excuse could she have had for that? Fear wasn't an excuse. She did not like the thought of entering the back door of the store in the middle of the night like a thief, and like a thief, taking away that hidden money. She knew she was going to be afraid, horribly afraid. It frightened her now, but she could not let that fear make a moral coward of her. Her hands clenched at her sides. She would not allow herself to dwell upon that phase of it. She was going to scarbel-oves, and that was all there was to it. The only thing she really had to fear was that she would lose even a single unnecessary moment in getting there. Of past one, Gypsy Nan had said, that would give her ample time, but the quicker she went, the wider the margin of safety. Her thoughts reverted to Gypsy Nan. What had the woman meant by her last few wandering words? They had nothing to do with scarbel-oves, that was certain, but the words came back now, insistently. 739 What did 739 mean? She shook her head helplessly. Well, what did it matter? She dismissed further consideration of it. She repeated to herself Gypsy Nan's directions for finding the spring of the secret drawer. She forced herself to think of anything that would bar the entry of that fear which stood lurking at the threshold of her mind. From time to time she consulted her watch, and each time hurried the faster. It was five minutes past one, when stealing silently through the black lane and counting against the skyline the number of buildings she had previously counted on the street from the corner, she entered an equally black yard, and reached the back door of Scarbel-oves' little store. She felt out with her hands and found the padlock, and her fingers pressed on the link in the chain that Gypsy Nan had described. It gave readily. She slipped it free, and opened the door. There was a faint, almost inaudible, protesting creak from the hinges. She caught her breath quickly. Had anybody heard it? It seemed like a cannon-shot, and then her lips curled in sudden self-contempt. Who was there to hear it? She stepped forward, closed the door silently behind her, and drew out her flashlight. The ray cut through the blackness. She was in what seemed like a small outer storeroom that was littered with an untidy collection of boxes, broken furniture, and odds and ends of all sorts. Ahead of her was an open door, and through this the flashlight disclosed the shop itself. She switched off the light now as she moved forward. There were the front windows, and used too freely the light might by some unlucky chance be noticed from the street. And now, in the darkness again, she reached the doorway of the shop. She had not made any noise. She assured herself of that. She had never known that she could move so silently before. And—and—yes—she would fight down this panic that was seizing her. She would—it would only take a minute now, just another minute, if—if she would only keep her head and her nerve. That was what Gypsy Nan had said. She only needed to keep her nerve. She had never lost it, in the face of many, a really serious danger when with her father. Why would she now, when there was nothing but the silence and the darkness to be afraid of? The flashlight went on again, the ray creeping inquisitively now along the rear wall of the shop. It held, finally, on the escalatois over in the far corner at her right. Once more the light went out. She moved swiftly across the floor, and in a moment more was bending over the escalatois. And now, with her body hiding the flashlight's ray from the front windows, she examined the desk. It was an old-fashioned, spindle-legged affair with the nest of pigeon-holes and multifarious little drawers. One of the drawers, whiter than the others, and in the center, was obviously the one to which Gypsy Nan had referred. She pulled out the drawer, and in the act of reaching inside suddenly drew back her hand. What was that? Instinctively she switched off the flashlight, and stood, tense and rigid in the darkness. A minute passed, another, still she listened. There was no sound, unless—unless she could actually hear the beating of her own heart. Fancy. Imagination. The darkness played strange tricks. But it wasn't so easy to keep one's nerve. She could have sworn that she heard some sort of movement back there down the shop. Angry with herself, she thrust her hand into the opening now, and felt hurriedly around. Yes, there it was. Her fingers touched what was evidently a little knob or button. She pressed upon it. There was a faint, answering click. She turned on the flashlight again. What had before appeared to be nothing, but one of the wide, pearl inlaid partitions between two of the smaller drawers was protruding invitingly outward now by a matter of an inch or so. Rhoda Gray pulled it open. It was very shallow, scarcely three-quarters of an inch in depth, but it was quite long enough, and wide enough for its purpose. Inside there lay a little pile of banknotes, banknotes of very large denominations. The one on top was a thousand-dollar bill. She reached in and took out the money, and then from Rhoda Gray's lips there came a little cry. The flashlight dropped from her hand and smashed to the floor, and she was clinging desperately to the edge of the escrooir for support. The shop was flooded with light. Over by the side wall, one hand still on the electric switch, the other, holding a leveled revolver, stood a man. And then he spoke, with an oath, with curious amazement. My God! A woman! She did not speak or stir. It seemed as though not fear, but horror now, held her powerless to move her limbs. Her first swift brain-flash had been that it was one of Gypsy Nan's accomplices here ahead of the appointed time. That would have given her cause all too much cause for fear, but it was not one of Gypsy Nan's accomplices, and, far worse, the fear of any physical attack upon her was the sense of ruin and disaster that the realization of a quite different and more desperate situation brought her now. She knew the man. She had seen those square, heavy-clamped jaws scores of times. Those sharp, restless black eyes under overhanging, shaggy eyebrows familiar to the whole east side. It was Rourke, rough Rourke of headquarters. He came toward her, and halfway across the room another exclamation burst from his lips. This time it held a jeer, and in the jeer a sort of cynical and savage triumph. The White Mall. He was close beside her now, and now he snatched from her hand the bank-notes that all unconsciously she had still been clutching tightly. So this is what all the sweet charities been about, eh? He snapped. The White Mall. The little saint of the east side, that lends a helping hand to the crooks to get them back on the straight and narrow. The White Mall, hell! You crooked little devil! Again she did not answer. Her mind was clear now, brutally clear, brutally keen, brutally virile. What was there for her to say? She was caught here at one o'clock in the morning after breaking into the place, caught red-handed in the very act of taking the money. What story could she tell that would clear her of that? That she had taken it so that it wouldn't be stolen, and that she was going to give it back in the morning? Was there anybody in the world credulous enough to believe anything like that? Tell Gypsy Nan's story all that had happened to-night. Yes, she might have told that to-morrow, after she had returned the money, and been believed. But now? No. It would even make her appear in a still, worse light. They would credit her with being a member of this very gang to which Gypsy Nan belonged, one in the secrets of the organized band of criminals, who was trying to clear her own skirts at the expense of her Confederates. Everything, every act of hers to-night, pointed to that construction being placed upon her story, pointed to duplicity. Why had she hidden the identity of Gypsy Nan? Why had she not told the police that a crime was to be committed, and left it to the police to frustrate it? It would fit in with the story, of course, but the story was the result of having been caught in the act of stealing twenty thousand dollars in cash. What was there to say? And above all, to this man, whose reputation for callous brutality in the handling of those who fell into his hands, had earned him the sobriquette of Rough Rourke. Sick at heart, desperate, with her hands clenched now, she stood there while the man felt unceremoniously over her clothing for a concealed weapon. Finding none, he stooped, picked up the flashed light, tested it, and found it broken from its fall. "'Too bad you bust this. We'll have to go out in the dark after I switch off the light,' he said, with unpleasant facetiousness. I didn't have one with me, or time to get one, when I was tipped off there was something doing here to-night.' He caught her urgently by the arm. Well, come along, my pretty lady. This'll make a stir, this will, the white maul.' He led her to the electric light switch, turned off the light, and, with his grasp, tied upon her, made for the front door. He chuckled in a sinister manner. Say your prize you are. And pretty clever, too, aren't you? I wasn't looking for a woman to pull this. The white maul, some saint. Wrote a gray shivered. Disgrace, ruin, stared her in the face. A sea of faces in a courtroom, morbid faces, hideous faces, leered at her. Gray walls rose up before her, walls that shut out sunshine, and hope, pitiless, cold things that seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. And to-night, in just a few minutes more, a cell. From the street outside came the sound of someone making a cheery, but evidently a somewhat inebriated attempt to whistle some ragtime air. It seemed to enhance her misery, to enhance by contrast in its carefree cheeriness the despair and misery that was eating into her soul. Her hands clenched and unclenched. If there were only a chance, somewhere, somehow, if only she were not a woman, if she could only fight this hulking form that gripped her so brutally at her arm. Rough Rourke opened the door and pulled her out onto the street. She shrank back, instinctively. It was quite light here, from a nearby street-lamp, and the owner of the whistle, a young man, fashionably dressed, decidedly unsteady on his legs, and just opposite the door as they came out, had stopped both his whistling and his progress along the street to stare at them owlishly. "'Hello,' said the young man, thickly, "'what's all this about, eh? What's you doing in that place, this time of night, eh?' "'Beat it,' ordered Rough Rourke, curtly. "'That's all right,' the young man came nearer. He balanced himself with difficulty, but upon him there appeared to have descended suddenly a vast dignity. "'I'm a law, a Biden citizen. Gotta know. Gotta show me. Damn funny. Coming out of there this time of night. Eh? What's the idea?' Rough Rourke, with his free hand, grabbed the young man by the shoulder, angrily. "'Mind your own business, or you'll get into trouble,' he rasped out. "'I'm an officer, and this woman is under arrest. Beat it. Do you hear? Beat it. Run you into.' "'Is that so?' the young man's tone expressed, a futile defiance. He rocked on his feet, and stared from one to the other. "'Shay. Is that so? You will, eh? Gotta show me. How do I know you're an officer, eh? More likely, damn thief yourself, I—' The young man lurched suddenly and violently forward, breaking Rough Rourke's grip on Rota Gray. And as his arm swept out to grasp at the detective in an apparently wild effort to preserve his balance, Rota Gray felt a quick, significant push upon her shoulder. For the space of time it takes a watch to tick. She stood startled and amazed, and then, like a flash, she was speeding down the street. A roar of rage, a burst of unbridled profanity went up from Rough Rourke behind her. It was mingled with equally angry vituperation in the young man's voice. She looked behind her. The two men were swaying crazily in each other's arms. She ran on, faster than she ever had in her life. The corner was not far ahead. Her brain was working with lightning speed. Gypsy Nan's house was just around the corner. If she could get out of sight, hide, it would—' She glanced behind her again, as her ears caught the pound of racing feet. The young man was sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, shaking his fist. Rough Rourke, perhaps a bear of fifty yards away, was chasing her at top speed. Her face set hard. She could not outrun a man. There was only one hope for her, just one, to gain Gypsy Nan's doorway before Rourke got around the corner. A yard, another, still another. She swerved around the corner. And as she turned, she caught a glimpse of the detective. The man was nearer, much nearer. But it was only a little way, just a little way, to Gypsy Nan's. Not so far as the distance between her and Rourke, and—and if the man didn't gain too fast, then—then a little cry of dismay came with a new and terrifying thought. Quite apart from Rourke, someone else might see her entered Gypsy Nan's. She strained her eyes in all directions as she ran. There wasn't any one. She didn't see any one. Only Rourke, around the corner there, was bawling out at the top of his voice. And—and—she flung herself against Gypsy Nan's door, stumbled in and, closing it, heard Rourke just swinging round the corner. Had he seen her? She didn't know. She was panting, gasping for breath. It seemed as though her lungs would burst. She held her hand tightly to her bosom as she made it for the stairs. She mustn't make any noise. They mustn't hear her breathing like that. They—they mustn't hear her going up the stairs. How dark it was. If she could only see, so that she would be sure not to stumble. She couldn't go fast now. She would make a noise if she did. Stare after stare she climbed stealthily. Perhaps she was safe now. It had taken her a long time to get up here to the second floor, and there wasn't any sound yet from the street below. And now she mounted the short, ladder-like stairs to the attic and feeling with her hand for the crack in the flooring under the partition reached in for the key. As her fingers closed upon it, she choked back a cry. Someone had been here. A piece of paper was wrapped around the key. What did it mean? What did all these strange, yes sinister things that had happened to her tonight mean? How had Rourke known that a robbery was to be committed at Skarbalov's? Who was that man who had affected her escape, and who, she knew now, was no more drunk than she was? Fast, quick, piling one upon the other, the questions raced through her mind. She fought them back. There was no time for speculation now. There was only the one question that mattered. Was she safe? She stood up, thrust the paper for safekeeping into her bosom, and unlocked the door. If Rourke did not know that she had entered this house here, she could remain hidden for a few hours. It would give her time to think, and— It came this time. No strength of will would hold it back, a little moan. The front door below had opened. A heavy footsteps sounded in the lower hall. She couldn't see, of course. But she knew. It was Rourke. She heard him coming up the stairs. And then, in a flash it seemed, her brain responded to her despairing cry. There was still a way, a desperate one, but still a way, if there was time. She darted inside the garret, locked the door, found the matches and candle, and running silently to the rear wall, pushed up the board in the ceiling. In frantic haste she tore off her outer garments, her stockings and shoes, pulled on the rough stockings and coarse boots that Gypsy Nann had worn, slipped the other's greasy threadbare skirt over her head, and pinned the shawl tight about her shoulders. There was a big, voluminous pocket in the skirt, and into this she dropped Gypsy Nann's revolver and the paper she found wrapped around the key. She could hear a commotion from below now. It was the one thing she had counted upon. Rough Fork might know that she had entered the house, but he could not know whereabouts in the house she was, and he would naturally search each room as he came to it on the way up. She fitted the gray-streaked wig of tangled matted hair upon her head, plunged her hand into the box that Gypsy Nann used for her makeup, and dobbed some of the grime upon both her hands and face, adjusted the spectacles upon her nose, hid her own clothing, closed the narrow-trap door in the ceiling, and ran back carrying the candle to the wash-stand. Here there was a small and battered mirror, and more coolly, more leisurely now, for the commotion still continued from the floor below, she spread, and rubbed in, as craftily as she could, the grime streaks on her face and hands. It was neither artistic nor perfect, but in the meagre, flickering light, now the face of Gypsy Nann seemed to stare reassuringly back at her. It might not deceive anyone in daylight. She did not know, and it did not matter now, but with only this candle to light the garret, since the lamp was empty she could fairly count on her identity not being questioned. She blew out the candle, left it on the wash-stand, because, if she could help it, she did not want to risk having it lighted near the bed or door, and tiptoeing now she went to the door, unlocked it, then threw herself down upon the bed. Possibly a minute went by, possibly two, and then there was a quick step on the ladder-like stairs. The door handle was rattled violently, and the door was flung open and slammed shut again. Rhoda Gray was upright on the bed. It was her wits now, her wits against Rough Rourkes. Nothing else could save her. She could not even make out the man's form. It was so dark, but, as he had not moved, she was quite well aware that he was standing with his back to the door, evidently trying to place his surroundings. It was Gypsy Nann, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke. Who's there? She screeched. Do you hear blast juice? Who's there? Rough Rourke laughed, gratingly. That you, Nann, my dear? Who do you think it is? Me grandmother? Demanded Rhoda Gray, caustically. Who are yous? Rourke, said Rourke, shortly. I guess you know, don't you? Is that so, snorted Rhoda Gray? Well done. Yous can beat it. Hop it. On to jump. What the hell right have yous got busted into my room at this time of night, eh? I ain't done nothing. Rough Rourke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward. Cut it out, he snarled. I ain't the only visitor you've got. It's not you I want. It's the White Mall. What's that got to do with me? Wrote a gray flung back hotly. She ain't here. Is she? Yes. She's here. Rough Rourke's voice held an ugly menace. I lost her around the corner, but a woman from a window across the street, who heard the row, saw her run into this house. She ain't downstairs, so you can figure the rest out the same as I do. The woman was kiddin' yous, wrote a gray, alias gypsy-nan, cackled derisively. There ain't nobody here but me. We'll see about that, said Rough Rourke. Strike a light. Ah, strike it yourself, retorted wrote a gray. I ain't your servant. There's a candle over there on a washstand against a wall, if yous wants it. A match crackled and sputtered into flame. This light fell upon the light standing on the chair beside the bed. Rough Rourke stepped toward it. "'Drain't any oil in dat?' croaked wrote a gray. "'Didn't I tell yous to candle was over there on the washstand? And—' The words seemed to freeze in her throat, the chair, the lamp, the shadowy figure of the man in the match-flame, to swirl before her eyes, and a sick nausea to come upon her soul itself. With a short, triumphant oath, Rough Rourke stopped suddenly and reached in under the chair. And now he was dangling a new, black-kid glove in front of her. Caught. Yes, she was caught. She remembered Gypsy Nan's attempt to put on her gloves. One must have fallen to the floor unnoticed by either of them when Gypsy Nan had thought to put them in her pocket. The man's voice came to her as from some great distance. "'So, she's not here, ain't she? I'll teach you to lie to me. I'll—' The match was dying out. Rourke raised it higher, and with the last flicker located the washstand and made toward it, obviously for the candle. Her wits against Rough Rourke's. Nothing else could save her. Failing to find any one here but herself, certain now the White Mall was here only a fool could have failed in his deduction. And Rough Rourke was not a fool. Her wits against Rough Rourke's. There was the time left her, while the garret was still in darkness. Just that. No more. With a quick spring she leapt from the bed, seized the chair, sending the lamp to the floor, and dragging the chair after her to make as much noise and confusion as she could, she rushed for the door, screeching at the top of her voice. "'Run, dearie! Run! Run!' She was scuffling with her feet, clattering the chair, as she wrenched the door open, and then, in her own voice, "'Nan, I won't! I won't let you stand for this! I—' Then, gypsy Nan, again, "'Run, dearie! Don't you mind, old Nan?' She banged the door shut, locked it, and whipped out the key. It had taken scarcely a second. Still she was screeching at the top of her voice to cover the absence of flying footers on the stairs. "'Run, dearie! Run! Run!' And then, in the darkness, the candle still unlighted, Rough Rourke was on her like a madman. With a sweep of his arm he sent her crashing to the floor and wrenched at the door. The next instant he was on her again. "'The key! Give me the key!' He roared. For an answer she flung it from her. It fell with a tinkle on the floor at the far end of the garret. The man was beside himself with rage. "'Damn you! If I had time, I'd wring your neck for this, you she-devil!' He bawled and raced back, evidently for the candle on the washstand. Rhoda Gray sprawled on the floor where he had thrown her, did not move except to take the revolver from the pocket of her dress. She was crooning queerly to herself as she watched Rough Rourke light the candle and grope around the floor. "'She was good to me,' DeWight Mall was. Jellies and tings she brought me, she did. And Gypsy Nan don't fare it. Gypsy Nan don't!' She suddenly sat up snarling. Rourke had found the key, left the bottle with the short, stub of a guttering candle, standing on the floor, and was back again. "'By God!' he gritted through his teeth as he jabbed the key with frantic haste into the lock. "'I'll fix you for this!' He made a clutch at her throat as he swung open the door. She jerked herself backwards, alluding him, her revolver levelled. "'Yous keep your dirty paws off on me,' she screamed. "'Yeah, what can yous do? What do I care? She was good to me. She was and—' Rough Rourke was gone, taking the stairs three or four at a time. Then she heard the street door slam. She rose slowly to her feet, and suddenly reached out, grasping at the door to steady herself. It seemed as though every muscle had gone limp as though her arms had not strength to support her. And for a moment she hung there. Then she locked the door, staggered back, sank down on the edge of the bed, and with her chin and her hands, stared at the guttering stub of candle. And presently, in an almost aimless, mechanical way, she felt in her pocket for the piece of paper that she had found wrapped around the key and drew it out. There were three figures scrawled upon it, nothing else. Seven, three, nine. She dropped her chin in her hands again, and stared again at the candle. And after a while the candle went out. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the White Mall. After four, the adventurer, twenty-four hours had passed. Twenty-four hours. Was it no more than that, since Rhoda Gray, in the guise of Gypsy Nan, as she sat on the edge of the disreputable, poverty-stricken cot, grew suddenly tense, holding her breath as she listened? The sound reached the attic so faintly that it might be but the product solely of the imagination. No, it came again. When it defined itself now, a stealthy footstep on the lower stairs, a small leather-bound notebook in which she had been engrossed was tucked instantly away under the soiled blanket, and she glanced sharply around the garret. A new candle, which she had bought in the single excursion she had ventured to make from the house during the day, was stuck in the neck of the gin-bottle and burned now on the chair beside her. She had not bought a new lamp, it gave too much light. The old one, the pieces of it lay over there, brushed into a heap in the corner on the floor. The footstep became more audible. Her lips tightened a little. The hour was late. It must be already seven o'clock. Her eyes grew perturbed. Perhaps it was only one of the unknown tenets of the floor below going to his or her room. But on the other hand no one had come near the garret since last night, when that strange and yes sinister trick of fate had thrust her upon the personality of Gypsy Nan, and it was hoping for too much to expect such seclusion to obtain much longer. There were too many who must be interested, vitally interested, in Gypsy Nan. There was rough roar of headquarters. He had given no sign, but that did not mean he had lost interest in Gypsy Nan. There was the death of the real Gypsy Nan, which was pregnant with possibilities. And though the newspapers that she wrote aggray had bought and scanned with such tragic eagerness, had said nothing about the death of one Charlotte Green in the hospital, much less had given any hint that the identity Gypsy Nan had risked so much to hide had been discovered. It did not mean that the police, with their own ins and view, might not be fully informed, and were but keeping their own counsel while they baited a trap. Also, and even more to be feared, there were those of the criminal organization to which Gypsy Nan had belonged, and to which she, wrote aggray, through a sort of hideous proxy, now belonged herself. Sooner or later they must show their hands, and the test of her identity would come. And here her danger was the greater, because she did not know who any of them were, unless the man who had stepped in between rough roar and herself last night was one of them, which was a question that had harassed her all day. The man had been no more drunk than she had been, and he had obviously played the part to get her out of the clutches of rough roar. But against this he had seen her simply as herself, then, the White Mall, and what could the criminal associates of Gypsy Nan have cared as to what became of the White Mall? A newspaper, to procure which had been the prime motive that had lured her out of her retreat that afternoon, caught her eye now, and she shivered a little as from where it lay on the floor the headline seemed to lure at her, and mock, and menace her. The White Mall, the saint of the east side exposed, vicious hypocrisy, lowly charity for years cloaks a consummate thief. They had not spared her. Her lips firmed suddenly, and she listened. The stealthy footfall had not paused in the hall below. It was on the short, ladder-like steps now, leading up to the barret, and now it had halted outside the door, and there came a low, insistent knocking on the panels. "'Who's there?' demanded, wrote a gray, alias Gypsy Nan, in a grumbling tone, as, getting up from the bed, she moved the chair noiselessly a few feet further away, so that the bed would be beyond the immediate radius of the candle-light. Then she shuffled across the floor to the door. "'Who's there?' she demanded again, and her hand, deep in the voluminous pocket of Gypsy Nan's greasy skirt, closed tightly around the stock of Gypsy Nan's revolver. The voice that answered her expostulated in a primitive whisper. "'My dear lady, after all the trouble I have taken to reach you here without being either seen or heard?' For an instant wrote a gray hesitated. There seemed something familiar about the voice. Then she unlocked the door, and retreated toward the bed. The door opened and closed softly. Wrote a gray reaching the edge of the bed sat down. It was the fashionably attired, immaculate young man, who had saved her from rough roark last night. She stared at him in the faint light without a word. Her mind was racing in a mad turmoil of doubt, uncertainty, fear. Was he one of the gang or not? Was she, in the role of Gypsy Nan, supposed to know him or not? Did he know that the real Gypsy Nan, too, had played apart, and therefore, when she spoke, must it be in the vernacular of the East side or not? And then, sudden enlightenment, with its incident relief, came to her. My dear lady, the young man's soft, felt hat was under his arm, and he was plucking daynily at the fingers of his yellow gloves as he removed them. I beg you to pardon the intrusion of a perfect stranger. I offer you my genuine apologies. My excuse is, that I come from a—I hope I am not overstepping the bounds in using the term—mutual friend. Wrote a gray, snorted, disdainfully. Ah, cut out to Boudoir talk, and get down to cases! She croaked. Who are yous, anyway? The young man had gray eyes, and they were lighted up now humorously. Boudoir? Ah, yes, of course. Offely neat. His eyes from the chair that held the candle stared around the scantily furnished, murky garret, as though in search of a seat, and finally, rested inquiringly on Rhoda Gray. Yous can put the candle on the floor, if yous like, she said, grudgingly. That's the only chair there is. Thank you, he said. Rhoda Gray watched him with puckered brow, as he placed the gin-bottle with its candle on the floor and appropriated the chair. He might, from his tone, have been thanking her for some priceless boon. He wore a boutonniere. His clothes fitted like gloves. He exuded a certain studied, almost languid, fastidiousness that was wholly out of keeping with the quick, daring, agile wit that he had exhibited the night before. She found her hand towing unconsciously with the weapon in her pocket. She was aware that she was fencing with unbuttoned foils. How much did he know about last night? Well, why don't you spill it? She invited curtly. Who are yous? Who am I? He lifted the lapel of his coat, carrying the boutonniere to his nose. My dear lady, I am an adventurer. Yous don't say, observed Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, and what's that when it's at home? In my case, first of all, a gentleman I trust, he said pleasantly. After that I do not quarrel with the accepted definition of the term, though it is not altogether complementary. Rhoda Gray scowled. As Rhoda Gray she might have answered him. As Gypsy Nan it was too subtle, and she was beyond her depth. Yous looked to me like a slick crook, she said bluntly. I will admit, he said, that I have at times, perhaps, taken liberties with the law. Well, then, she snapped, cut out the highbrow stuff, and come across with what brought yous here. I ain't holding no reception. Whos to friend Yous was talking about? The adventurer looked around him and lowered his voice. The white maul, he said. Rhoda Gray eyed the man for a long minute. Then she shook her head. I take back what I said about Yous being a slick crook, she announced coolly. I guess Yous are a dick from headquarters. Well, Yous have got the wrong number, see? My fingers are crossed. Try next door. The adventurer's eyes fixed on the newspaper headlines on the floor. He raised them significantly to hers. You helped her get away from rough rock last night, he said gently. Well, so did I. I am very anxious to find the white maul. And as I know no other way except through You, I have got to make you believe me, if I can. Listen, my dear, and don't look at me so suspiciously. I have already admitted that I have taken liberties with the law. Let me add now that last night there was a little fortune of quite a few thousand dollars that I had already made up my mind was as good as in my pocket. I was on my way to get it. The newspaper will already have given you the details when I found that I had been forestalled by the young lady who, the papers say, is known as the white maul. He smiled whimsically. Even though one might be a slick crook, as you suggest, it is no reason why he should fail in his duty to himself as a gentleman. What other course was open to me? I discovered a very charming lady in the grip of a hulking police-brute. She also, apparently, took liberties with the law. There was a bond between us. I, uh, took it upon myself to do what I could. And besides, I was not insensible to the fact that I was under a certain obligation to her, quixotic as it may sound, in view of the fact that we were evidently competitors after the same game. You see, if she had not forestalled me and been caught herself, I should most certainly have walked into the trap that our friend of headquarters had prepared. I, uh, as I say, I did what I could. She got away, but somehow Rough Rourke later discovered her here in this room. I understand that he was not too happy over the result, that thanks to you she escaped again, and she has not been heard of since. Rhoda Gray dropped her chin into her grime-smeared hand, staring speculatively at the other. The man sat there, apparently a self-confessed crook and criminal, but also he sat there as the man to whom she owed the fact that at the present moment she was not behind prison bars. He proclaimed himself, in the same breath, both a thief and a gentleman, as far as she could make out. They were characteristics which, until now, she had never associated together, but now, curiously enough, they did not seem so utterly at variance. Of course they were at variance. Must of necessity be so. But in the personality of this man, the incongruity seemed somehow lost. Perhaps it was a sense of gratitude toward him that modified her views. He looked a gentleman. There was something about him that appealed. The gray eyes seemed full of cool, confident, self-possession, and quiet as his manner was. She sensed a latent, dynamic something lurking near the surface all the time, but she was conscious. She would much prefer to have enlisted on her behalf than against her. The strong, firm chin bore this out. He was not handsome, but with a sort of mental jerk she forced her mind back to the stark realities of her surroundings. She could not thank him for what he had done last night. She could not tell him that she was the White Mall. She could only play out the role of Gypsy Nan until, until, her hand tightened with a fierce, involuntary pressure upon her chin until it brought a physical hurt. Until what? God alone knew what the end of this miserable, impossible horror in which he found herself engulfed would be. Her eyes saw his face again. The adventurer was tactfully engaged and carefully smoothing out the fingers of his yellow gloves. Thief and gentleman, whatever he may be, whatever he might choose to call himself, what exactly was it that had brought him here to-night? The White Mall, he had said, but what did he want with the White Mall? He answered her unspoken question now, almost as though he had read her thoughts. She is very clever, he said quietly. She must be exceedingly clever to have beaten the police, the way she has for the last few years, and, uh, I worship at the shrine of cleverness, especially if it be a woman's. The idea struck me last night that if she and I should, uh, pool our resources, we should not have to complain of the reward. Oh, so Yuz wants to work with her, eh? Sniffed, wrote aggray. So that's it, is it? Partially, he said. But quite apart from that, the reason I want to find her is because she is in very great danger. Clever as she is, it is a very different matter to-day, now that the police have found her out. She has been forced into hiding, and, if alone and without any friend to help her, her situation, to put it mildly, must be desperate in the extreme. You befriended her last night, and I honor you for the unselfishness with which you laid yourself open to the future attentions of that animal roark, but that very fact has deprived her of what otherwise might have been a refuge and a quite secure retreat here with you. I do not wish to intrude or force myself upon her, but I believe I could be of very material help, and so I have come to you, as I have said, because you are the only source through which I can hope to find her, and because, through your act of last night, I know you to be a trustworthy and, perhaps, even an intimate friend of hers. Ah, go on, said Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nann, deprecatingly. That don't prove nothing. I'd have done as much for a stray cat if the bulls was chasing her. See? I told you's once you's had the wrong number. She didn't leave no address. That's flat. And that's the end of it. I'm sorry, said the adventurer, gravely. Perhaps I haven't made out a good enough case. Or perhaps, even believing me, you consider that the White Mall, and not yourself, should be the judge as to whether my services are acceptable or not. Yous can dope it out any ways you likes, said Rhoda Gray, indifferently. Retroits gettin' a horse tellin' you's dur' ain't nothin' doin'. I'm sorry, said the adventurer, again. He smiled suddenly, and tucking his gloves into his pocket, leaned forward, and tore off a small piece from the margin of the newspaper on the floor. But his head, the while, was now cocked in a curious listening attitude in the direction of the door. You'll pardon me, my dear lady, if I confess that in spite of what you say, I still harbour the belief that you know where to reach the White Mall, and so he stopped abruptly, and she found his glance sharp and critical upon her. You are expecting a visitor, perhaps? He inquired softly. Rhoda Gray stared in genuine perplexity. What's to answer, she demanded. There is someone on the stairs, replied the adventurer. Rhoda Gray listened, and her perplexity deepened. She could hear nothing. Yous must have good ears, she scoffed. I have, returned the adventurer, coolly. My hearing is one of the resources that I wanted to pool with the White Mall. Well, then, maybe it's rough roark, her tone still held its scoffing note, but her words voiced the genuine enough that had come flashing upon her. And if it is, after last night, and he finds yous and me together, there'll be, my dear lady, interposed the adventurer calmly, if there were the remotest possibility that it could be rough roark, I would not be here. What do yous mean, she had unconsciously towered her voice? The adventurer shrugged his shoulders whimsically. He had laid the piece of paper on his knee, and, with a small gold pencil, which he had taken from his pocket, was writing something upon it. The fact that I can assure you that, whoever else it may be, the person outside there cannot be rough roark, is simply a proof that if I had the opportunity, I could be of real assistance to the White Mall, he said, imperturbably, well, a grim little smile flickered suddenly across his lips. Do you hear any one now? Quite low, but quite unmistakably, the short, ladder-like steps just outside the door were voicing a creaking protest now as someone mounted them, wrote a gray did not move. It seemed as though she could hear the sudden thumping of her own heart. Who was it this time? How was she to act? What was she to say? It was so easy to make a single little slip of a word, or manner, that would spell ruin and disaster. Rubber heels, and rubber soles, murmured the adventurer. But at that it is extremely well done. He held out the torn piece of paper to wrote a gray. If he smiled significantly, if by any good fortune you see the White Mall again, please give her this, and let her decide for herself. It is a telephone number. She can always reach me there by asking for the adventurer. He was still extending the piece of paper. Quick he whispered, as the doorknob rattled.