justice for their
myriad depredations; she knew where their secret hoard of ill-gotten
gains was hidden--here in this attic, behind that ingeniously contrived
trap-door in the ceiling. She knew all this; and this information placed
before the police, providing only it was backed by the proof that the
scheme to rob Skarbolov 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