the ceiling, and ran back, carrying the candle, to the washstand.

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 meager, flickering light now the face of Gypsy Nan seemed to
stare reassuringly back at her. It might not deceive any one 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 washstand, because, if she
could help it, she did not want to risk having it lighted near the
bed or door, and, tiptoeing now, 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 sat upright on the bed. It was her wits now, her wits
against Rough Rorke's; 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 Nan, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke.

"Who's dere?" she screeched. "D'ye hear, blast youse, who's dere?"