Rhoda Gray watched him with puckered brow, as he placed the gin bottle with its candle on the floor, and appropriated the chair. He might, from his tone, have been thanking her for some priceless boon. He wore a boutonniere. His clothes fitted him like gloves. He exuded a certain studied, almost languid fastidiousness--that was wholly out of keeping with the quick, daring, agile wit that he had exhibited the night before. She found her hand toying unconsciously with the weapon in her pocket. She was aware that she was fencing with unbuttoned foils. How much did he know--about last night? “Well, why don't youse spill it?” she invited curtly. “Who are youse?” “Who am I?” He lifted the lapel of his coat, carrying the boutonniere to his nose. “My dear lady, I am an adventurer.” “Youse don't say!” observed Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan. “An' wot's dat w' en it's at home?” “In my case, first of all a gentleman, I trust,” he said pleasantly; “after that, I do not quarrel with the accepted definition of the term--though it is not altogether complimentary.” Rhoda Gray scowled. As Rhoda Gray, she might have answered him; as Gypsy Nan, it was too subtle, and she was beyond her depth. “Youse look to me like a slick crook!” she said bluntly. “I will admit,” he said, “that I have at times, perhaps, taken liberties with the law.” “Well, den,” she snapped, “cut out de high-brow stuff, an' come across wid wot brought youse here. I ain't holdin' no reception. Who's de friend youse was talkin' about?” The Adventurer looked around him, and lowered his voice. “The White Moll,” he said. Rhoda Gray eyed the man for a long minute; then she shook her head. “I take back wot I said about youse bein' a slick crook,” she announced coolly. “I guess youse're a dick from headquarters. Well, youse have got de wrong number--see? Me fingers are crossed. Try next door!” The Adventurer's eyes were fixed on the newspaper headlines on the floor. He raised them now significantly to hers.