“He's rich!” whispered Gypsy Nan. “Think of it! Him--rich! But he gets the best of the Fifth Avenue crowd just because he keeps his joint in that rotten hole. They think they're getting the real thing in antiques! He's a queer old fool. Afraid people would know he had money if he kept it in the bank--afraid of a bank, too. Understand? We found out that every once in a while he'd change a lot of small bills for a big one--five-hundred-dollar bills--thousand-dollar bills. That put us wise. We began to watch him. It took months to find where he hid it. We've spent night after night searching through his shop. You can get in easily. There's no one there--upstairs is just a storage place for his extra stock. There's a big padlock on the back door, but there's a false link in the chain--count three links to the right from the padlock--we put it there, and--” Gypsy Nan's voice had become almost inaudible. She pulled at Rhoda Gray's wrist again, urging her closer. “Listen--quick! I--my strength!” she panted. “An antique he never sells--old escritoire against rear wall--secret drawer--take out wide middle drawer--reach in and rub your hand along the top--you'll feel the spring. We waited to--to get--get counterfeits--put counterfeits there--understand? Then he'd never know he'd been robbed--not for a long time anyway--discovered perhaps when he was dead--old wife--suffer then--I--got to make good--make good--I--” She came up suddenly on both her elbows, the dark eyes staring wildly. “Yes, yes!” she whispered. “Seven-three-nine! Look out!” Her voice rang with sudden terror, rising almost to a scream. “Look out! Can't you understand, you fool! I've told you! Seven-three-nine! Seven-three...” Rhoda Gray's arms had gone around the other's shoulders. She heard the door open-and then a quick, light step. There wasn't any other sound now. She made way mechanically for the nurse. And then, after a moment, she rose from her knees. The nurse answered her unspoken question. “Yes; it's over.” III. ALIAS GYPSY NAN Rhoda Gray went slowly from the room. In a curiously stunned sort of way she reached the street, and for a few blocks walked along scarcely conscious of the direction she was taking. Her mind was in turmoil. The night seemed to have been one of harrowing hallucination; it seemed as though it were utterly unreal, like one dreaming that one is dreaming. And then, suddenly, she looked at her watch, and the straight little shoulders squared resolutely back. The hallucination, if she chose to call it that, was not yet over! It was twenty minutes of one, and there was still Skarbolov's--and her promise.