And then for a moment Rhoda Gray sat there fighting for her self-control, with the certain knowledge in her soul that upon her wits, and her wits alone, her life depended now. She studied the car's mechanism over the chauffeur's shoulder, even as she continued to hold her revolver pressed steadily against the back of the man's neck. She could drive a car--she could drive this one. The presence of this chauffeur, one of the gang, was an added menace; there were too many tricks he might play before she could forestall them, any one of which would deliver her into the hands of Danglar behind there--an apparently inadvertent stoppage due to traffic, for instance, that would bring the pursuing car alongside--that, or a dozen other things which would achieve the same end. “Open the door on your side!” she commanded abruptly. “And get out--without slowing the car! Do you understand?” He turned his head for a half incredulous, half frightened look at her. She met his eyes steadily--the torn veil, quite discarded now, was in her pocket. She did not know the man; but it was quite evident from the almost ludicrous dismay which spread over his face that he knew her. “The--the White Moll!” he stammered. “It's the White Moll!” “Jump!” she ordered imperatively--and her revolver pressed still more significantly against the man's flesh. He seemed in even frantic haste to obey her. He whipped the door open, and, before she could reach to the wheel, he had leaped to the street. The car swerved sharply. She flung herself over into the vacated seat, and snatched at the wheel barely in time to prevent the machine from mounting the curb. She looked around again through the window of the hood. The man had swung aboard Danglar's car, which was only a few yards behind.