she did not know who any of them were, unless the man who had
stepped in between Rough Rorke and herself last night was one of
them - which was a question that had harassed her all day. The man
had been no more drunk than she had been, and he had obviously only
played the part to get her out of the clutches of Rough Rorke; but,
against this, he had seen her simply as herself then, the White Moll,
and what could the criminal associates of Gypsy Nan have cared as
to what became of the White Moll?

A newspaper, to procure which had been the prime motive that had
lured her out of her retreat that afternoon, caught her eye now,
and she shivered a little as, from where it lay on the floor, the
headlines seemed to leer up at her, and mock, and menace her.
"The White Moll....The Saint of the East Side Exposed....Vicious
Hypocrisy....Lowly Charity for Years Cloaks a Consummate Thief..."
They had not spared her!

Her lips firmed suddenly, as she listened. The stealthy footfall
had not paused in the hall below. It was on the short, ladder-like
steps now, leading up here to the garret - and now it had halted
outside her door, and there came a low, insistent knocking on the
panels.

"Who's dere?" demanded Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, in a grumbling
tone, as, getting up from the bed, she moved the chair noiselessly
a few feet farther away, so that the bed would be beyond the
immediate radius of the candle light. Then she shuffled across the
floor to the door. "Who's dere?" she demanded again, and her hand,
deep in the voluminous pocket of Gypsy Nan's greasy skirt, closed
tightly around the stock of Gypsy Nan's revolver.