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 an
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 sobriquet of "Rough" Rorke? Sick at heart,
desperate, but 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 flashlight, 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