with rage.

"Damn you, if I had time, I'd wring your neck for this, you
she-devil!" he bawled-and raced back, evidently for the candle
on the washstand.

Rhoda Gray, sprawled on the floor where he had thrown her, did not
move-except to take the revolver from the pocket of her dress. She
was crooning queerly to herself, as she watched Rough Rorke light
the candle and grope around on the floor:

"She was good to me, de White Moll was. Jellies an' t'ings she
brought me, she did. An' Gypsy Nan don't ferret. Gypsy Nan don't -"

She sat up suddenly, snarling. Rorke had found the key, left the
bottle with the short stub of guttering candle standing on the floor,
and was back again.

"By God!" he gritted through his teeth, as he jabbed the key with
frantic haste into the lock. "I'll fix you for this!" He made a
clutch at her throat, as he swung the door open.

She jerked herself backward, eluding him, her revolver leveled.

"Youse keep yer dirty paws off me!" she screamed. "Yah, wot can
youse do! Wot do I care! She was good to me, she was, an -"

Rough Rorke was gone-taking the stairs three and four at a time.
Then she heard the street door slam.