erate one--but still a way--if there
was time! She darted inside the garret, locked the door, found the
matches and candle, and, running silently to the rear wall, pushed
up the board in the ceiling. In frantic haste she tore off her outer
garments, her stockings and shoes, pulled on the rough stockings and
coarse boots that Gypsy Nan had worn, slipped the other's greasy,
threadbare skirt over her head, and pinned the shawl tight about her
shoulders. There was a big, voluminous pocket in the skirt, and into
this she dropped Gypsy Nan's revolver, and the paper she had found
wrapped around the key.

She could hear a commotion from below now. It was the one thing she had
counted upon. Rough Rorke might know she had entered the house, but he
could not know whereabouts in the house she was, and he would naturally
search each room as he came to it on the way up. She fitted the
gray-streaked wig of tangled, matted hair upon her head, plunged her
hand into the box that Gypsy Nan used for her make-up and daubed some
of the grime upon both hands and face, adjusted the spectacles upon her
nose, hid her own clothing, closed the narrow trap-door in the ceiling,
and ran back, carrying the candle, to the washstand.

Here, there was a small and battered mirror, and more coolly, more
leisurely now, for the commotion still continued from the floor below,
she spread and rubbed in, as craftily as she could, the grime streaks
on her face and hands. It was neither artistic nor perfect, but in
the meager, flickering light now the face of Gypsy Nan seemed to stare
reassuringly back at her. It might not deceive any one in daylight--she
did not know, and it did not matter now--but with only this candle to
light the garret, since the lamp was empty, she could fairly count on
her identity not being questioned.

She blew out the candle, left it on the washstand, because, if she could
help it, she did not want to risk having it lighted near the bed or
door, and, tiptoeing now, went to the door, unlocked it, then threw
herself down upon the bed.

Possibly a minute went by, possibly two, and then there was a quick step
on the ladder-like stairs, the door handle was rattled violently, and
the door was flung open and slammed shut again.

Rhoda Gray sat upright on the bed. It was her wits now, her wits against
Rough Rorke's; nothing else could save her. She could not even make out
the man's form, it was so dark; but, as he had not moved, she was qui