owardly
selfishness the possibility of a prison term for herself, hideous as
that might be, against the penalty of death that the Sparrow would pay
if she remained inactive. But she could not leave here as the White
Moll. Somewhere, somewhere out in the night, somewhere away from this
garret where all connection with it was severed, she must complete the
transformation from Gypsy Nan to the White Moll. She could only prepare
for that now as best she could.

And there was not a moment to lose. The thought made her frantic. Over
her own clothes she put on again Gypsy Nan's greasy skirt, and drew on
again, over her own silk ones, Gypsy Nan's coarse stockings. She put on
Gypsy Nan's heavy and disreputable boots, and threw the old shawl again
over her head and shoulders. And then, with her hat--for the small shape
of which she breathed a prayer of thankfulness!--and her own shoes under
her arm and covered by the shawl, she took the candle again, closed the
trap-door, and stepped over to the washstand. Here, she dampened a
rag, that did duty as a facecloth, and thrust it into her pocket; then,
blowing out the candle, she groped her way to the door, locked it behind
her, and without any attempt at secrecy made her way downstairs.

VI. THE RENDEZVOUS

Rhoda Gray's movements were a little unsteady as she stepped out on
the sidewalk. Gypsy Nan's accepted inebriety was not without its
compensation. It enabled her, as she swayed for a moment, to scrutinize
the street in all directions. Were any of Rough Rorke's men watching the
house? She did not know; she only knew that as far as she had been
able to discover, she had not been followed when she had gone out that
afternoon. Up the street, to her right, there were a few pedestrians; to
her left, as far as the corner, the block was clear. She turned in the
latter direction. She had noticed that afternoon that there was a lane
between Gypsy Nan's house and the corner; she gained this and slipped
into it unobserved.

And now, in the comparative darkness, she hurried her steps. Somewhere
here in the lane she would make the transformation from Gypsy Nan to the
White Moll complete; it required only some place in which she could with
safety leave the garments that she discarded, and--Yes, this would do! A
tumble-down old shed, its battered door half open, ample proof that the
place was in disuse, intersected the line of high board fence on her
right.

She stole inside. It was u