She stood up, thrust the paper for safe-keeping into her bosom, and
unlocked the door. If - if Rorke 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 footstep sounded in
the lower hall. She couldn't see, of course. But she knew. It was
Rorke! 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 Nan 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 Nan's revolver, and the paper she had
found wrapped around the key.

She could hear a commotion from below now. It was the one thing she
had counted upon. Rough Rorke might know 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 Nan used for her make-up and daubed
some of the grime upon both hands and face, adjusted the spectacles
upon her nose, hid her own clothing, closed the narrow trap-door in