what she could to alleviate the misery in that squalid, one-room
home. And then the sphere of her activities had broadened, slowly
at first, not through any preconceived intention on her part, but
naturally, and as almost an inevitable corollary consequent upon
her relations with the Bussard and his ill-fortuned family.

The Bussard's circle of intimates was amongst those who lay outside
the law, those who gambled for their livelihood by staking their
wits, to win against the toils of the police; and so, more and more,
she had come into close and intimate contact with the criminal
element of New York, until to-day, throughout its length and breadth,
she was known, and, she had reason to believe, was loved and trusted
by every crook in the underworld. It was a strange eulogy,
self-pronounced! But it was none the less true. Then, she had
been Rhoda Gray; now, even the Bussard, doubtless, had forgotten
her name in the one with which he himself, at that queer baptismal
font of crimeland, had christened her - the White Moll. It even
went further than that. It embraced what might be called the
entourage of the underworld, the police and the social workers with
whom she inevitably came in contact. These, too, had long known
her as the White Moll, and had come, since she had volunteered no
further information, tacitly to accept her as such, and nothing more.

Again she shook her head. It wasn't altogether a normal life. She
was only a woman, with all the aspirations of a woman, with all the
yearning of youth for its measure of gayety and pleasure. True, she
had not made a recluse of herself outside her work; but, equally,
on the other hand, she had not made any intimate friends in her own
station in life. She had never purposed continuing indefinitely the
work she was doing, nor did she now; but, little by little, it had