A newspaper, to procure which had been the prime motive that had lured her out of her retreat that afternoon, caught her eye now, and she shivered a little as, from where it lay on the floor, the headlines seemed to leer up at her, and mock, and menace her. “The White Moll....The Saint of the East Side Exposed....Vicious Hypocrisy....Lowly Charity for Years Cloaks a Consummate Thief...” They had not spared her! Her lips firmed suddenly, as she listened. The stealthy footfall had not paused in the hall below. It was on the short, ladder-like steps now, leading up here to the garret--and now it had halted outside her door, and there came a low, insistent knocking on the panels. “Who's dere?” demanded Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, in a grumbling tone, as, getting up from the bed, she moved the chair noiselessly a few feet farther away, so that the bed would be beyond the immediate radius of the candle light. Then she shuffled across the floor to the door. “Who's dere?” she demanded again, and her hand, deep in the voluminous pocket of Gypsy Nan's greasy skirt, closed tightly around the stock of Gypsy Nan's revolver. The voice that answered her expostulated in a plaintive whisper: “My dear lady! And after all the trouble I have taken to reach here without being either seen or heard!” For an instant Rhoda Gray hesitated--there seemed something familiar about the voice--then she unlocked the door, and retreated toward the bed. The door opened and closed softly. Rhoda Gray, reaching the edge of the bed, sat down. It was the fashionably-attired, immaculate young man, who had saved her from Rough Rorke last night. She stared at him in the faint light without a word. Her mind was racing in a mad turmoil of doubt, uncertainty, fear. Was he one of the gang, or not? Was she, in the role of Gypsy Nan, supposed to know him, or not? Did he know that the real Gypsy Nan, too, had but played a part, and, therefore, when she spoke must it be in the vernacular of the East Side--or not? And then sudden enlightenment, with its incident relief, came to her. “My dear lady”--the young man's soft felt hat was under his arm, and he was plucking daintily at the fingers of his yellow gloves as he removed them--“I beg you to pardon the intrusion of a perfect stranger. I offer you my very genuine apologies. My excuse is that I come from a--I hope I am not overstepping the bounds in using the term--mutual friend.” Rhoda Gray snorted disdainfully. “Aw, cut out de boudoir talk, an' get down to cases!” she croaked. “Who are youse, anyway?” The young man had gray eyes--and they lighted up now humorously. “Boudoir? Ah--yes! Of course! Awfully neat!” His eyes, from the chair that held the candle, strayed around the scantily furnished, murky garret as though in search of a seat, and finally rested inquiringly on Rhoda Gray. “Youse can put de candle on de floor, if youse like,” she said grudgingly. “Dat's de only chair dere is.” “Thank you!” he said.