"We'll see about that!" said Rough Rorke shortly. "Strike a light!"

"Aw, strike it yerself!" retorted Rhoda Gray. "I ain't yer servant!
Dere's a candle over dere on de washstand against de wall, if youse
wants it."

A match crackled and spurted into flame; its light fell upon the
lamp standing on the chair beside the bed. Rough Rorke stepped
toward it.

"Dere ain't any oil in dat," croaked Rhoda Gray. "Didn't I tell
youse de candle was over dere on de washstand, an' -"

The words seemed to freeze in her throat, the chair, the lamp, the
shadowy figure of the man in the match flame to swirl before her
eyes, and a sick nausea to come upon her soul itself. With a short,
triumphant oath, Rough Rorke had stopped suddenly and reached in
under the chair. And now he was dangling a new, black kid glove in
front of her. Caught! Yes, she was caught! She remembered Gypsy
Nan's attempt to put on her gloves - one must have fallen to the floor
unnoticed by either of them when Gypsy Nan had thought to put them
in her pocket! The man's voice came to her as from some great
distance:

"So, she ain't here - ain't she! I'll teach you to lie to me!
I'll -" The match was dying out. Rorke raised it higher, and with
the last flicker located the washstand, and made toward it, obviously
for the candle.

Her wits against Rough Rorke's! Nothing else could save her!