Part 7

The minutes dragged along. A quarter of an hour passed. Still another. Midnight came. Fifteen minutes more went by, and then a nurse came out of the room, and, standing by the door, beckoned to Rhoda Gray.

“She is asking for you,” the nurse said. “Please do not stay more than a few minutes. I shall be outside here, and if you notice the slightest change, call me instantly.”

Rhoda Gray nodded.

“I understand,” she said.

The door closed softly behind her. She was smiling cheerily as she crossed the room and bent over Gypsy Nan.

The woman stretched out her hand.

“The White Moll!” she whispered. “He told the truth, that bull did--straight as they make 'em, and--”

“Don't try to talk,” Rhoda Gray interrupted gently. “Wait until you are a little stronger.”

“Stronger!” Gypsy Nan shook her head. “Don't try to kid me! I know. They told me. I'd have known it anyway. I'm going out.”

Rhoda Gray found no answer for a moment. A great lump had risen in her throat. Neither would she have needed to be told; she, too, would have known it anyway--it was stamped in the gray pallor of the woman's face. She pressed Gypsy Nan's hand.

And then Gypsy Nan spoke again, a queer, yearning hesitancy in her voice:

“Do--do you believe in God?”

“Yes,” said Rhoda Gray simply.

Gypsy Nan closed her eyes.

“Do--do you think there is a chance--even at the last--if--if, without throwing down one's pals, one tries to make good?”

“Yes,” said Rhoda Gray again.

“Is the door closed?” Gypsy Nan attempted to raise herself on her elbow, as though to see for herself.

Rhoda Gray forced the other gently back upon the pillows.

“It is closed,” she said. “You need not be afraid.”

“What time is it?” demanded Gypsy Nan.

Rhoda Gray looked at her watch.

“Twenty-five minutes after twelve,” she answered.

“There's time yet, then,” whispered Gypsy Nan. “There's time yet.” She lay silent for a moment, then her hand closed tightly around Rhoda Gray's. “Listen!” she said. “There's more about--about why I lived like that than I told you. And--and I can't tell you now--I can't go out like a yellow cur--I'm not going to snitch on anybody else just because I'm through myself. But--but there's something on to-night that I'd--I'd like to stop. Only the police, or anybody else, aren't to know anything about it, because then they'd nip my friends. See? But you can do it--easy. You can do it alone without anybody knowing. There's time yet. They weren't going to pull it until halfpast one--and there won't be any danger for you. All you've got to do is get the money before they do, and then see that it goes back where it belongs to-morrow. Will you? You don't want to see a crime committed to-night if--if you can stop it, do you?”

Rhoda Gray's face was grave. She hesitated for a moment.

“I'll have to know more than that before I can answer you, Nan,” she said.

“It's the only way to stop it!” Gypsy Nan whispered feverishly. “I won't split on my pals--I won't--I won't! But I trust you. Will you promise not to snitch if I tell you how to stop it, even if you don't go there yourself? I'm offering you a chance to stop a twenty-thousand-dollar haul. If you don't promise it's got to go through, because I've got to stand by the ones that were in it with me. I--I'd like to make good--just--once. But I can't do it any other way. For God's sake, you see that, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Rhoda Gray in a low voice; “but the promise you ask for is the same as though I promised to try to get the money you speak of. If I knew what was going on, and did nothing, I would be an accomplice to the crime, and guilty myself.”

“But I can't do anything else!” Gypsy Nan was speaking with great difficulty. “I won't get those that were with me in wrong--I won't! You can prevent a crime to-night, if you will--you--you can help me to--to make good.”