radius of
the candle light. Then she shuffled across the floor to the door. "Who's
dere?" she demanded again, and her hand, deep in the voluminous pocket
of Gypsy Nan's greasy skirt, closed tightly around the stock of Gypsy
Nan's revolver.

The voice that answered her expostulated in a plaintive whisper:

"My dear lady! And after all the trouble I have taken to reach here
without being either seen or heard!"

For an instant Rhoda Gray hesitated--there seemed something familiar
about the voice--then she unlocked the door, and retreated toward the
bed.

The door opened and closed softly. Rhoda Gray, reaching the edge of the
bed, sat down. It was the fashionably-attired, immaculate young man,
who had saved her from Rough Rorke last night. She stared at him in
the faint light without a word. Her mind was racing in a mad turmoil of
doubt, uncertainty, fear. Was he one of the gang, or not? Was she, in
the role of Gypsy Nan, supposed to know him, or not? Did he know that
the real Gypsy Nan, too, had but played a part, and, therefore, when she
spoke must it be in the vernacular of the East Side--or not? And then
sudden enlightenment, with its incident relief, came to her.

"My dear lady"--the young man's soft felt hat was under his arm, and he
was plucking daintily at the fingers of his yellow gloves as he removed
them--"I beg you to pardon the intrusion of a perfect stranger. I offer
you my very genuine apologies. My excuse is that I come from a--I hope I
am not overstepping the bounds in using the term--mutual friend." Rhoda
Gray snorted disdainfully.

"Aw, cut out de boudoir talk, an' get down to cases!" she croaked. "Who
are youse, anyway?"

The young man had gray eyes--and they lighted up now humorously.

"Boudoir? Ah--yes! Of course! Awfully neat!" His eyes, from the chair
that held the candle, strayed around the scantily furnished, murky
garret as though in search of a seat, and finally rested inquiringly on
Rhoda Gray.

"Youse can put de candle on de floor, if youse like," she said
grudgingly. "Dat's de only chair dere is."

"Thank you!" he said.

Rhoda Gray watched him with puckered brow, as he placed the gin bottle
with its candle on the floor, and appropriated the chair. He might,
from his tone, have been thanking her for some priceless boon. He wore
a boutonniere. His clothes fitted him like gloves. He exuded a certain
studied, almost languid fastidiousness--that was wholly out of keeping
with the qui