The voice that answered her expostulated in a plaintive whisper:

"My dear lady! And after all the trouble I have taken to reach
here without being either seen or heard!"

For an instant Rhoda Gray hesitated - there seemed something
familiar about the voice - then she unlocked the door, and
retreated toward the bed.

The door opened and closed softly. Rhoda Gray, reaching the edge
of the bed, sat down. It was the fashionably-attired, immaculate
young man, who had saved her from Rough Rorke last night. She
stared at him in the faint light without a word. Her mind was
racing in a mad turmoil of doubt, uncertainty, fear. Was he one
of the gang, or not? Was she, in the role of Gypsy Nan, supposed
to know him, or not? Did he know that the real Gypsy Nan, too,
had but played a part, and, therefore, when she spoke must it be
in the vernacular of the East Side - or not? And then sudden
enlightenment, with its incident relief, came to her.

"My dear lady" - the young man's soft felt hat was under his arm,
and he was plucking daintily at the fingers of his yellow gloves as
he removed them - "I beg you to pardon the intrusion of a perfect
stranger. I offer you my very genuine apologies. My excuse is
that I come from a - I hope I am not overstepping the bounds in
using the term - mutual friend." Rhoda Gray snorted disdainfully.

"Aw, cut out de boudoir talk, an' get down to cases!" she croaked.
"Who are youse, anyway?"