There was an almost stupid look of bewilderment on Pinkie Bonn's face. Rhoda Gray threw back her veil. “My Gawd!” mumbled Pinkie Bonn--and licked his lips. “The White Moll!” “Yes!” said Rhoda Gray tersely. “Put your hands up over your head and go over there and stand against the wall--with your face to it!” Pinkie Bonn, like an automaton moved purely by mechanical means, obeyed. Rhoda Gray followed him, and with the muzzle of her revolver pressed into the small of the man's back, felt rapidly over his clothes with her left hand for the bulge of his revolver. She found and possessed herself of the weapon, and, stepping back, ordered him to turn around again. “I haven't much time,” she said icily. “I'll trouble you now for the cash you took from Marny Day and French Pete.” “My Gawd!” he mumbled again. “You know about that!” “Quick!” she said imperatively. “Put it on the table there, and then go back again to the wall!” Pinkie Bonn fumbled in his pocket. His face was white, almost chalky white, and it held fear; but its dominant expression was one of helpless stupefaction. He placed the sheaf of banknotes on the table, and shuffled back again to the wall. Rhoda Gray picked up the money, and retreated to the door. Still facing the man, working with her left hand behind her back, she unlocked the door again, and this time removed the key from the lock. “You are quite safe here,” she observed evenly, “since there appears to be no window through which you could get out; but you might make it a little unpleasant for me if you gave the alarm and aroused the other occupants of the house before I had got well away. I dare say that was in your mind, but”--she opened the door slightly, and inserted the key on the outer side--“I am quite sure you will reconsider any such intentions--Pinkie. It would be a very disastrous thing for you if I were caught. Somebody is 'wanted' for the murder of Marny Day at Charlie's a little while ago, and a jury would undoubtedly decide that the guilty man was the one who broke in the door there and stole the money. And if I were caught and were obliged to confess that I got it from you, and French Pete swore that it was whoever broke into the room that shot his pal, it might go hard with you, Pinkie--don't you think so?” She smiled coldly at the man's staring eyes and dropped jaw. “Good-night, Pinkie; I know you won't make any noise,” she said softly--and suddenly opened the door, and in a flash stepped back into the hall, and closed and locked the door, and whipped out the key from the lock. And inside Pinkie Bonn made no sound.