“Is dat so?” snorted Rhoda Gray. “Well den, youse can beat it--hop it--on de jump! Wot t'hell right have youse got bustin' into me room at dis time of night--eh? I ain't done nothin'!” Rough Rorke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward. “Cut it out!” he snarled. “I ain't the only visitor you've got! It's not you I want; it's the White Moll.” “Wot's dat got to do wid me?” Rhoda Gray flung back hotly. “She ain't here, is she?” “Yes, she's here!” Rough Rorke's voice held an ugly menace. “I lost her around the corner, but a woman from a window across the street, who heard the row, saw her run into this house. She ain't downstairs--so you can figure the rest out the same way I do.” “De woman was kiddin' youse!” Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, cackled derisively. “Dere ain't nobody here but me.” “We'll see about that!” said Rough Rorke shortly. “Strike a light!” “Aw, strike it yerself!” retorted Rhoda Gray. “I ain't yer servant! Dere's a candle over dere on de washstand against de wall, if youse wants it.” A match crackled and spurted into flame; its light fell upon the lamp standing on the chair beside the bed. Rough Rorke stepped toward it. “Dere ain't any oil in dat,” croaked Rhoda Gray. “Didn't I tell youse de candle was over dere on de washstand, an'--” The words seemed to freeze in her throat, the chair, the lamp, the shadowy figure of the man in the match flame to swirl before her eyes, and a sick nausea to come upon her soul itself. With a short, triumphant oath, Rough Rorke had stopped suddenly and reached in under the chair. And now he was dangling a new, black kid glove in front of her. Caught! Yes, she was caught! She remembered Gypsy Nan's attempt to put on her gloves--one must have fallen to the floor unnoticed by either of them when Gypsy Nan had thought to put them in her pocket! The man's voice came to her as from some great distance: “So, she ain't here--ain't she! I'll teach you to lie to me! I'll--” The match was dying out. Rorke raised it higher, and with the last flicker located the washstand, and made toward it, obviously for the candle. Her wits against Rough Rorke's! Nothing else could save her! Failing to find any one here but herself, certain now that the White Moll was here, only a fool could have failed in his deduction--and Rough Rorke was not a fool. Her wits against Rough Rorke's! There was the time left her while the garret was still in darkness, just that, no more! With a quick spring she leaped from the bed, seized the chair, sending the lamp to the floor, and, dragging the chair after her to make as much noise and confusion as she could, she rushed for the door, screeching at the top of her voice: “Run, dearie, run! Run!” She was scuffling with her feet, clattering the chair, as she wrenched the door open. And then, in her own voice: “Nan, I won't! I won't let you stand for this, I--”