The White Moll. Frank L. Packard

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СКАЧАТЬ carefully smoothing out the fingers of his yellow gloves. Thief and gentleman, whatever he might be, whatever he might choose to call himself, what, exactly, was it that had brought him here to-night? The White Moll, he had said; but what did he want with the White Moll?

      He answered her unspoken question now, almost as though he had read her thoughts.

      "She is very clever," he said quietly. "She must be exceedingly clever to have beaten the police the way she has for the last few years; and—er—I worship at the shrine of cleverness—especially if it be a woman's. The idea struck me last night that if she and I should—er—pool our resources, we should not have to complain of the reward."

      "Oh, so youse wants to work wid her, eh?" sniffed Rhoda Gray. "So dat's it, is it?"

      "Partially," he said. "But, quite apart from that, the reason I want to find her is because she is in very great danger. Clever as she is, it is a very different matter to-day now that the police have found her out. She has been forced into hiding, and, if alone and without any friend to help her, her situation, to put it mildly, must be desperate in the extreme. You befriended her last night, and I honor you for the unselfishness with which you laid yourself open to the future attentions of that animal Rorke, but that very fact has deprived her of what might otherwise have been a refuge and a quite secure retreat here with you. I do not wish to intrude, or force myself upon her, but I believe I could be of very material help, and so I have come to you, as I have said, because you are the only source through which I can hope to find her, and because, through your act of last night, I know you to be a trustworthy, and, perhaps, even an intimate, friend of hers."

      "Aw, go on!" said Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, deprecatingly. "Dat don't prove nothin'! I'd have done as much for a stray cat if de bulls was chasm' her. See? I told youse once youse had de wrong number. She didn't leave no address. Dat's flat, an' dat's de end of it."

      "I'm sorry," said the Adventurer gravely. "Perhaps I haven't made out a good enough case. Or perhaps, even believing me, you consider that the White Moll, and not yourself, should be the judge as to whether my services are acceptable or not?"

      "Youse can dope it out any way youse likes," said Rhoda Gray indifferently. "Me t'roat's gettin' hoarse tellin' youse dere's nothin' doin'!"

      "I'm sorry," said the Adventurer again. He smiled suddenly, and tucking his gloves into his pocket, leaned forward and tore off a small piece from the margin of the newspaper on the floor—but his head the while was now cocked in a curious listening attitude in the direction of the door. "You will pardon me, my dear lady, if I confess that, in spite of what you say, I still harbor the belief that you know where to reach the White Moll; and so—" He stopped abruptly, and she found his glance, sharp and critical, upon her. "You are expecting a visitor, perhaps?" he inquired softly.

      Rhoda Gray stared in genuine perplexity.

      "Wot's de answer?" she demanded.

      "There is some one on the stairs," replied the Adventurer.

      Rhoda Gray listened—and her perplexity deepened. She could hear nothing.

      "Youse must have good ears!" she scoffed.

      "I have," returned the Adventurer coolly. "My hearing is one of the resources that I wanted to pool with the White Moll."

      "Well, den, mabbe it's Rough Rorke." Her tone still held its scoffing note; but her words voiced the genuine enough, that had come flashing upon her. "An' if it is, after last night, an' he finds youse an' me together, dere'll be—"

      "My dear lady," interposed the Adventurer calmly, "if there were the remotest possibility that it could be Rough Rorke, I would not be here."

      "Wot do youse mean?" She had unconsciously towered her voice.

      The Adventurer shrugged his shoulders whimsically. He had laid the piece of paper on his knee, and, with a small gold pencil which he had taken from his pocket, was writing something upon it.

      "The fact that I can assure you that, whoever else it may be, the person outside there cannot be Rough Rorke, is simply a proof that, if I had the opportunity, I could be of real assistance to the White Moll," he said imperturbably. "Well"—a grim little smile flickered suddenly across his lips—"do you hear any one now?"

      Quite low, but quite unmistakably, the short, ladder-like steps just outside the door were voicing a creaky protest now as some one mounted them. Rhoda Gray did not move. It seemed as though she could hear the sudden thumping of her own heart. Who was it this time? How was she to act? What was she to say? It was so easy to make the single little slip of word or manner that would spell ruin and disaster.

      "Rubber heels and rubber soles," murmured the Adventurer. "But, at that, it is extremely well done." He held out the torn piece of paper to Rhoda Gray.

      "If"—he smiled significantly—"if, by any good fortune, you see the White Moll again, please give her this and let her decide for herself. It is a telephone number. She can always reach me there by asking for—the Adventurer." He was still extending the piece of paper. "Quick!" he whispered, as the door knob rattled.

      V.

       A Second Visitor

       Table of Contents

      Mechanically Rhoda Gray thrust the paper into the pocket of her skirt. The door swung open. A tall man, well dressed, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, a slouch hat pulled far down over his eyes, stood on the threshold, surveying the interior of the garret.

      The Adventurer rose composedly to his feet—and moved slightly back out of the direct radius of the candlelight.

      There was silence for a moment, and then the man in the doorway laughed unpleasantly.

      "Hello!" he flung out harshly. "Who's the dude, Nan?"

      Rhoda Gray, on the edge of the bed, shrugged her shoulders. The Adventurer was standing quite at his ease, his soft hat tucked under his right arm, his hand thrust into the side pocket of his coat. She could no longer see his face distinctly.

      "Well?" There was a snarl in the man's voice as he advanced from the doorway. "You heard me, didn't you? Who is he?"

      "Why don't youse ask him yerself?" inquired Rhoda Gray truculently. "I dunno."

      "You don't, eh?" The man had halted close to where the candle stood on the floor between himself and the Adventurer. "Well, then, I guess we'll find out!" He was peering in the Adventurer's direction, and now there came a sudden savage scowl to his face. "It seems to me I've seen those clothes somewhere before, and I guess now we'll take a look at your face so that there won't be any question about recognition the next time we meet."

      The Adventurer laughed softly.

      "There will be none on my part," he said calmly. "It's Danglar, isn't it? I am surely not mistaken. Parson Danglar, alias—ah! Please don't do that!"

      It seemed to Rhoda Gray that it happened in the space of time it might take a watch to tick: The newcomer stooping to the floor, and lifting the candle with the obvious intention of thrusting it into the Adventurer's face—a glint of metal, as the Adventurer whipped a revolver from the side pocket of his coat—and then, how they got there she could not tell, it was done so СКАЧАТЬ