Part 10

She blew out the candle, left it on the washstand, because, if she could help it, she did not want to risk having it lighted near the bed or door, and, tiptoeing now, went to the door, unlocked it, then threw herself down upon the bed.

Possibly a minute went by, possibly two, and then there was a quick step on the ladder-like stairs, the door handle was rattled violently, and the door was flung open and slammed shut again.

Rhoda Gray sat upright on the bed. It was her wits now, her wits against Rough Rorke's; nothing else could save her. She could not even make out the man's form, it was so dark; but, as he had not moved, she was quite well aware that he was standing with his back to the door, evidently trying to place his surroundings.

It was Gypsy Nan, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke.

“Who's dere?” she screeched. “D'ye hear, blast youse, who's dere?”

Rough Rorke laughed gratingly.

“That you, Nan, my dear?”

“Who d'youse t'ink it is-me gran'mother?” demanded Rhoda Gray caustically. “Who are youse?”

“Rorke,” said Rorke shortly. “I guess you know, don't you?”

“Is dat so?” snorted Rhoda Gray. “Well den, youse can beat it--hop it--on de jump! Wot t'hell right have youse got bustin' into me room at dis time of night--eh? I ain't done nothin'!”

Rough Rorke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward.

“Cut it out!” he snarled. “I ain't the only visitor you've got! It's not you I want; it's the White Moll.”

“Wot's dat got to do wid me?” Rhoda Gray flung back hotly. “She ain't here, is she?”

“Yes, she's here!” Rough Rorke's voice held an ugly menace. “I lost her around the corner, but a woman from a window across the street, who heard the row, saw her run into this house. She ain't downstairs--so you can figure the rest out the same way I do.”

“De woman was kiddin' youse!” Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, cackled derisively. “Dere ain't nobody here but me.”

“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! Failing to find any one here but herself, certain now that the White Moll was here, only a fool could have failed in his deduction--and Rough Rorke was not a fool. Her wits against Rough Rorke's! There was the time left her while the garret was still in darkness, just that, no more!

With a quick spring she leaped from the bed, seized the chair, sending the lamp to the floor, and, dragging the chair after her to make as much noise and confusion as she could, she rushed for the door, screeching at the top of her voice:

“Run, dearie, run! Run!” She was scuffling with her feet, clattering the chair, as she wrenched the door open. And then, in her own voice: “Nan, I won't! I won't let you stand for this, I--”

Then as Gypsy Nan again: “Run, dearie! Don't youse mind old Nan!” She banged the door shut, locked it, and whipped out the key. It had taken scarcely a second. She was still screeching at the top of her voice to cover the absence of flying footers on the stairs. “Run, dearie, run! Run!”

And then, in the darkness, the candle still unlighted, Rough Rorke was on her like a madman. With a sweep of his arm he sent her crashing to the floor, and wrenched at the door. The next instant he was on her again.

“The key! Give me that key!” he roared.

For answer she flung it from her. It fell with a tinkle on the floor at the far end of the garret. The man was beside himself with rage.