the white moll-第50章

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was　to　be　carried　out　by　the　gang；　as　she；　Rhoda　Gray；　would　say
the　dying　woman　had　informed　her；　would　be　more　than　enough　to
clear　her。　　She　had　not　had　this　proof　on　that　first　night　when
she　had　snatched　at　the　mantle　of　Gypsy　Nan　as　the　sole　means　of
escape　from　Rough　Rorke；　of　headquarters；　she　did　not　have　it
now　…　but　she　would　have　it；　stake　all　and　everything　in　life　she
had　to　have　it；　for　it；　in　itself；　literally　meant　everything　and
all　…　and　Danglar　would　make　a　written　confession；　or　else　…　or
else　…　　She　smiled　mirthlessly。　　That　was　all！　　Last　night　she　had
failed。　　To…night　she　would　not　fail。　　Before　morning　came；　if　it
were　humanly　within　her　power；　she　and　Danglar　would　have　played
out　their　game　…　to　the　end。

And　now　a　pucker　came　and　gathered　her　forehead　into　little　furrows；
and　anxiety　and　perplexity　crept　into　her　eyes。　　Another　thought
tormented　her。　　In　the　exposure　that　was　to　come　the　Adventurer；
alias　the　Pug；　was　involved。　　Was　there　any　way　to　save　the　man　to
whom　she　owed　so　much；　the　splendidly　chivalrous；　high…couraged
gentleman　she　loved；　the　thief　she　abhorred？

She　pushed　the　remains　of　her　frugal　meal　away　from　her；　stood　up
abruptly　from　the　rickety　washstand　at　which　she　had　been　seated；
and　commenced　to　pace　nervously　up　and　down　the　stark；　bare　garret。
Where　was　the　line　of　demarcation　between　right　and　wrong？　　Was　it
a　grievous　sin；　or　an　infinitely　human　thing　to　do；　to　warn　the
man　she　loved；　and　give　him　a　chance　to　escape　the　net　she　meant
to　furnish　the　police？　　He　was　a　thief；　even　a　member　of　the　gang
…　though　he　used　the　gang　as　his　puppets。　　Did　ethics　count　when
one　who　had　stood　again　and　again　between　her　and　peril　was　himself
in　danger　now？　　Would　it　be　a　righteous　thing；　or　an　act　of
despicable　ingratitude；　to　trap　him　with　the　rest？

She　laughed　out　shortly。　　Warn　him！　　Of　course；　she　would　warn　him！
But　then　…　what？　　She　shivered　a　little；　and　her　face　grew　drawn　and
tired。　　It　was　the　old；　old　story　of　the　pitcher　and　the　well。　　It　was
almost　inevitable　that　sooner　or　later；　for　some　crime　or　another；
the　man　she　loved　would　be　caught　at　last；　and　would　spend　the
greater　portion　of　his　days　behind　prison　bars。　　That　was　what　the
love　that　had　come　into　her　life　held　as　its　promise　to　her！　　It　was
terrible　enough　without　her　agency　being　the　means　of　placing　him
there！

She　did　not　want　to　think　about　it。　　She　forced　her　mind　into　other
channels；　though　they　were　scarcely　less　disquieting。　　Why　was　it
that　during　the　day　just　past　there　had　been　not　a　sign　from　Danglar
or　any　one　of　the　gang；　when　every　plan　of　theirs　had　gone　awry　last
night；　and　she　had　failed　to　keep　her　appointment　in　the　role　of
Danglar's　wife？　　Why　was　it？　　What　did　it　mean？　　Surely　Danglar
would　never　allow　what　had　happened　to　pass　unchallenged；　and　…　was
that　some　one　now？

She　halted　suddenly　by　the　door　to　listen；　her　hand　going
instinctively　to　the　wide；　voluminous　pocket　of　her　greasy　skirt
for　her　revolver。　　Yes；　there　was　a　footstep　in　the　hall　below；　but
it　was　descending　now　to　the　ground　floor；　not　coming　up。　　She　even
heard　the　street　door　close；　but　still　she　hung　there　in　a　strained；
tense　way；　and　into　her　face　there　came　creeping　a　gray　dismay。　　Her
pocket　was　empty。

The　revolver　was　gone！　　Its　loss；　pregnant　with　a　hundred　ominous
possibilities；　seemed　to　bring　a　panic　fear　upon　her；　holding　her
for　a　moment　inert　…　and　then　she　rushed　frantically　to　the　cot。
Perhaps　it　had　fallen　out　of　her　pocket　during　the　hours　she　had
lain　there　asleep。　　She　searched　the　folds　of　the　soiled　and
crumpled　blanket；　that　was　the　cot's　sole　covering；　then　snatched
the　blanket　completely　off　the　cot　and　shook　it；　and　then；　down　on
her　knees；　she　searched　the　floor　under　the　cot。　　There　was　no　sign
of　the　revolver。

Rhoda　Gray　stood　up；　and　stared　in　a　stunned　way　about　her。　　Was
this；　then；　the　explanation　of　her　having　seemingly　been　left
undisturbed　here　all　through　the　day？　　Had　some　one；　after　all；
been　here；　and　…？　　She　shook　her　head　suddenly　with　a　quick；
emphatic　gesture　of　dissent。　　The　door　was　still　locked；　she
could　see　the　key　on　the　inside；　and；　besides；　as　a　theory；　it
wasn't　logical。　　They　wouldn't　have　taken　her　revolver　and　left
her　placidly　asleep！

The　loss　of　the　revolver　was　a　vital　matter。　　It　was　her　one
safeguard；　the　one　means　by　which　she　could　first　gain　and
afterwards　hold　the　whip…hand　over　Danglar　in　the　interview　she
proposed　to　have　with　him；　the　one　means　of　escape；　the　last　resort；
if　she　herself　were　cornered　and　fell　into　his　power。　　It　had
sustained　her　more　than　once；　that　resolution　to　turn　it　against
herself　if　she　were　in　extremity。　　It　meant　everything　to　her；　that
weapon；　and　it　was　gone　now；　but　the　panic　that　had　seized　upon　her
was　gone　too；　and　she　could　think　rationally　and　collectively　again。

Last　night；　or　rather　this　morning；　when　she　had　made　her　way　back
to　the　shed　out　there　in　the　lane　behind　the　garret；　she　had　been
in　a　state　of　almost　utter　exhaustion。　　She　had　changed　from　the
clothes　of　the　White　Moll　to　those　of　Gypsy　Nan；　but　she　must　have
done　so　almost　mechanically　for　she　had　no　concrete　recollection　of
it。　　It　was　quite　likely　then；　even　more　than　probable；　that　she
had　left　the　revolver　in　the　pocket　of　her　other　clothes；　for　she
had　certainly　had；　not　only　her　revolver；　but　her　flashlight　and　her
skeleton　keys　with　her　when　she　had　visited　old　Luertz's　place　last
night；　and　later　on　too；　when　she　had　jumped　into　that　automobile
in　front　of　the　Silver　Sphinx；　she　had　had　her　revolver；　for　she
had　used　it　to　force　the　chauffeur　out　of　the　car　…　and　she　had　no
one　of　those　articles　now。

Of　course！　　That　was　it！　　She　stepped　impulsively　to　the　door；　and；
opening　it；　made　her　way　quickly　down　the　stairs　to　the　street。　　The
revolver　was　undoubtedly　in　the　pocket　of　her　other　skirt；　and　she
felt　a　surge　of　relief　sweep　upon　her；　but　a　sense　of　relief　was　far
from　enough。　　She　would　not　feel　safe　until　the　weapon　was　again　in
her　possession；　and　intuitively　she　felt　that　she　had　no　time　to
lose　in　securing　it。　　She　had　already　been　left　too　long　alone　not
to　make　a　break　in　that　unaccountable　isolation　they　had　accorded
her　as　something　to　be　expected　at　any　moment。　　She　hurried　now　down
the　street　to　the　lane　that　intervened　between　Gypsy　Nan's　house
and　the　next　corner；　glanced　quickly　about　her；　and；　seeing　no　one
in　her　immediate　vicinity；　slipped　into　the　lane。　　She　gained　the
deserted　shed　some　fifty　yards　along　the　lane；　entered　through　the
broken　door　that　hung；　half　open；　on　sagging　hinges；　and；　dropping
on　her　knees；　reached　in　under　the　decayed　and　rotting　flooring。
She　pushed　aside　impatiently　the　package　of　jewels；　at　whose
magnificence　she　had　gazed　awe…struck　and　bewildered　the　night
before；　and　drew　out　the　bundle　that　comprised　her　own　clothing。
Her　hand　sought　the　pocket　eagerly。　　Yes；　it　was　here　…　at　least
the　flashlight　was；　and　so　were　the　skeleton　keys。　　That　was　what
had　happened！　　She　had　been　near　utter　collapse　last　night；　and　she
had　forgotten；　and　…　Rhoda　Gray；　unconscious　even　that　she　still
held　the　clothing　in　her　hands；　rose　mechanically　to　her　feet。
There　was　a　sudden　weariness　in　her　eyes　as　she　stared　unseeingly
about　her。　　Yes；　the　flashlight　and　the　keys　were　here　…　but　the
revolver　was　not！　　Her　brain　harked　back　in　lightning　flashes　over
the　events　of　the　preceding　night。　　She　must　have　lost　it　somewhere；
then。　　Where？　　She　had　had　it　in　the　automobile；　that　she　knew
positively；　but　after　that　she　did　not　remember；　unless　…　yes；　it
must　have　been　that！　　When　she　had　jumped　from　the　car　and　flung
herself　down　at　the　roadside！　　It　must　have　fallen　out　of　her
pocket　then。

Her　heart　seemed　to　stand　still。　　Suppose　they　had　found　it！　　They
would　certainly　recognize　it　as　belonging　to　Gypsy　Nan！　　They　were
not　fools。　　The　deduction　would　be　obvious　…　the　identity　of　the
White　Moll　would　be　solved。　　Was　that　why　no　one　had　apparently
come　near　her？　　Were　they　playing　at　cat…and…mouse；　watching　her
before　they　struck；　so　that　she　would　lead　them　to　those　jewels
under