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Another voice, that she recognized as Pinkie Bonn's now, reached her: "It's damned hard to spot anything out there; the water's blacker'n hell." Came a savage and impatient oath from Danglar. "She's got to come up, ain't she or drown!" he rasped. "Maybe she's swum under the wharf, or maybe she's swum under water far enough out so's we can't see her from here.
We ain't goin' to be long. Come on!" It was horribly dark. Rhoda Gray, with her hand on Pinkie Bonn's shoulder, descended the five steps. She felt the Pug keeping touch behind by holding the corner of her shawl. They went forward softly, slowly, stealthily. She felt her knees shake a little, and suddenly panic seized her, and she wanted to scream out. What was she doing? Where was she going?
There was an almost stupid look of bewilderment on Pinkie Bonn's face. Rhoda Gray threw back her veil. "My Gawd!" mumbled Pinkie Bonn and licked his lips. "The White Moll!" "Yes!" said Rhoda Gray tersely. "Put your hands up over your head and go over there and stand against the wall with your face to it!" Pinkie Bonn, like an automaton moved purely by mechanical means, obeyed.
A sudden yell as she showed even in the faint light of the open garret door, the quicker rush of feet, reached her from below. "The White Moll! That's her! The White Moll!" She flung herself flat down, wrenching both the automatic and the revolver from her pocket. She understood now! That was Pinkie Bonn's voice. It was the gang arriving to divide up the spoils, not the Sparrow and the police.
"How long ago was it?" prodded Pinkie. "I dunno," she answered. "I just went to Shluker's, an' den we comes over here. Youse can figure it fer yerself." And then Rhoda Gray stared at the other with sudden misgiving. Pinkie Bonn's face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. "I'll answer you now, Shluk," he grinned. "What do you think? That we're nuts, me an' Pug? Well, forget it!
"It'll take them half an hour to get together but it won't take that long for us to grab all that's worth grabbing out of that trap-door, and making our getaway. See? I'll teach them to throw Pierre Danglar down! Come on, hurry!" "Sure!" she mumbled mechanically. Her mind was sifting, sorting, weighing what he had said. She was not surprised. She remembered Pinkie Bonn's outburst in the boat.
And now she could see the Pug, with his dirty and discolored celluloid eye-patch, and his ingeniously contorted face; and she could see Pinkie Bonn's pasty-white, drug-stamped countenance. It was not a large room. The two men in the opposite corner along the wall from her were scarcely more than ten feet away.
Bonn's crib to Aristophanes. When it comes to fish, it is allowed that we are not an insular people for nothing. There are other forms of good living that Paris knows not of, so to speak, at first hand, native to England. Turtle soup, turbot and lobster sauce, a haunch of venison, and a grouse, are, we may say without chauvinism, a "truly royal repast."
Immediately, every one sprang to his feet, but the coroner, handing it over to the clerk from Bonn's, inquired if that was the make before mentioned. Without hesitation he replied, "Yes, Smith & Wesson; you can see for yourself," and he proceeded to examine it. "Where did you find this pistol?" asked the coroner of the officer. "In the top drawer of a shaving table standing near the head of Mr.
Won't you come and treat me to a cup of chocolate at Bonn's, just to show you haven't forgot Olov hasholom times?" And then, having thus thrown the responsibility of stand-offishness on the poorer Betsy, the Montmorenci would launch into recollections of those good old "Peace be upon him" times till the grub forgot the splendors of the caterpillar in a joyous resurrection of ancient scandals.
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