h for that.
Danglar's trap set for herself and the Adventurer last night in old
Nicky Viner's room proved that. And the fact that the woman who
had originally masqueraded as Gypsy Nan--as she, Rhoda Gray, was
masquerading now--was Danglar's wife, proved it a thousandfold more. She
could no longer remain passive, arguing with herself that it took all
her wits and all her efforts to maintain herself in the role of Gypsy
Nan, which temporarily was all that stood between her and prison bars.
To do so meant the certainty of disaster sooner or later, and if it
meant that, the need for immediate action of an offensive sort was
imperative.

And so her mind was made up. Her only chance was to find her way into
the full intimacy of the criminal band of which Danglar was apparently
the head; to search out its lair and its personnel; to reach to the
heart of it; to know Danglar's private movements, and to discover where
he lived so that she might watch him. It surely was not such a hopeless
task! True, she knew by name and sight scarcely more than three of this
crime clique, but at least she had a starting point from which to work.
There was Shluker's junk shop where she had turned the tables on Danglar
and Skeeny on the night they had planned to make the Sparrow their pawn.
It was obvious, therefore, that Shluker himself, the proprietor of the
junk shop, was one of the organization. She was going to Shluker's now.

Rhoda Gray halted suddenly, and stared wonderingly a little way up the
block ahead of her. As though by magic a crowd was collecting around
the doorway of a poverty-stricken, tumble-down frame house that made
the corner of an alleyway. And where but an instant before the street's
jostling humanity had been immersed in its wrangling with the push-cart
men who lined the curb, the carts were now deserted by every one save
their owners, whose caution exceeded their curiosity--and the crowd grew
momentarily larger in front of the house.

She drew Gypsy Nan's black, greasy shawl a little more closely around
her shoulders, and moved forward again. And now, on the outskirts of the
crowd, she could see quite plainly. There were two or three low steps
that led up to the doorway, and a man and woman were standing there. The
woman was wretchedly dressed, but with most strange incongruity she held
in her hand, obviously subconsciously, obviously quite oblivious of it,
a huge basket full to overflowing with, as nearly as Rhoda Gray