Well, she was going there, wasn't she? And if she lost no time she should be there easily ahead of them, and her chances would be excellent of releasing the Adventurer with very little risk. From what Danglar had said, the Adventurer was there alone. Once tied and gagged there had been no need to leave anybody to guard him, save that the watchman would ordinarily serve to keep any one off the premises, which was all that was necessary. But that he had been left at all worried her greatly. He had, of course, already refused to talk. What they had done to him she did not know, but the 'solitary confinement' Danglar had referred to was undoubtedly the first step in their efforts to break his spirit. Her lips tightened as she went along. Surely she could accomplish it! She had but to evade the watchman--only, first, the lost revolver, the one safeguard against an adverse turn of fortune, must be replaced, and that was where she was going now. She knew, from her associations with the underworld as the White Moll in the old days, where such things could be purchased and no questions asked, if one were known. And she was known in the establishment to which she was going, for evil days had once fallen upon its proprietor, one “Daddy” Jacques, in that he had incurred the enmity of certain of his own ilk in the underworld, and on a certain night, which he would not be likely to forget, she had stood between him and a manhandling that would probably have cost him his life, and--Yes, this was the place. She entered a dirty-windowed, small and musty pawnshop. A little old man, almost dwarf-like in stature, with an unkempt, tawny beard, who wore a greasy and ill-fitting suit, and upon whose bald head was perched an equally greasy skull cap, gazed at her inquiringly from behind the counter. “I want a gun, and a good one, please,” she said, after a glance around her to assure herself that they were alone. The other squinted at her through his spectacles, as he shook his head. “I haven't got any, lady,” he answered. “We're not allowed to sell them without--” “Oh, yes, you have, Daddy,” she contradicted quietly, as she raised her veil. “And quick, please; I'm in a hurry.” The little old man leaned forward, staring at her for a moment as though fascinated; and then his hand, in a fumbling way, removed the skull cap from his bead. There was a curious, almost wistful reverence in his voice as he spoke. “The White Moll!” he said. “Yes,” she smiled. “But the gun, Daddy. Quick! I haven't an instant to lose.” “Yes, yes!” he said eagerly--and shuffled away. He was back in a moment, an automatic in his hand. “It's loaded, of course?” she said, as she took the weapon. She slipped it into her pocket as he nodded affirmatively. “How much, Daddy?” “The White Moll!” He seemed still under the spell of amazement. “It is nothing. There is no charge. It is nothing, of course.”