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 of cause, for fear; but it was not one of Gypsy Nan's
accomplices, and, far worse than 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
over-hanging, shaggy eyebrows were familiar to the whole East Side.
It was Rorke - "Rough" Rorke, of headquarters.

He came toward her, and halfway across the room another exclamation
burst from his lips; but this time it held a jeer, and in the jeer
a sort of cynical and savage triumph.

"The White Moll!"

He was close beside her now, and now he snatched from her hand the
banknotes that, all unconsciously, she had still been clutching
tightly.

"So this is what all the sweet charity's been about, eh?" he
snapped. "The White Moll, the Little Saint of the East Side, that
lends a helping hand to the crooks to get 'em back on the straight
and narrow again! The White Moll-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