didn't have one with me, or time to get one, when I got tipped off
there was something doing here to-night." He caught her ungently
by the arm. "Well, come along, my pretty lady! This'll make a
stir, this will! The White Moll!" He led her to the electric-light
switch, turned off the light, and, with his grasp tight upon her,
made for the front door. He chuckled in a sinister manner. "Say,
you're a prize, you are! And pretty clever, too, aren't you? I
wasn't looking for a woman to pull this. The White Moll! Some
saint!"

Rhoda 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 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 some one 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
care-free cheeriness the despair and misery that were 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 so brutally at her
arm!

Rough Rorke opened the door, and pulled her out to 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 whistle and his progress