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Updated: June 20, 2025
I haven't got time to-night to coax you out of your tantrums. That's what you want, but I haven't got time to-night." She did not answer. A match crackled in Danglar's hand; the flames spurted up through the darkness.
"The White Moll, so help me!" he mumbled, and swallowed hard. Danglar's eyes never seemed to leave her face, and they narrowed now, full of hatred and a fury that lie made no attempt to conceal. She smiled at him coldly. She quite understood! He had already complained that evening that the White Moll for the last few weeks had been robbing them of the fruits of their laboriously planned schemes.
To enlist his aid she would have to explain the gang's plot; and while the Adventurer might go to the Sparrow's assistance, he might also be very much more interested in the diamond necklace that was involved, and not be entirely averse to Danglar's plan of using the Sparrow as a pawn, who, in that case, would make a very convenient scapegoat for the Adventurer instead of Danglar!
Two men sat, side face to her, one at each end of a rough, deal table Danglar, and an ugly, pock-marked, unshaven man, in a peaked cap that was drawn down over his eyes, who whittled at a stick with a huge jack-knife. The latter was Skeeny, obviously; and the jack-knife and the stick, quite as obviously, explained Danglar's facetious reference to wood-carving.
Danglar's story, as reported by the papers, even rose above his own high-water mark of vicious cunning, because it played upon a chord that appealed instantly to the police; and it rang true, not only because what the police could find out about him made it likely, but also because it contained a modicum of truth in itself; and, furthermore, Danglar had scored on still another count in that his story must stimulate the police into renewed activities as his unsuspecting allies in the one thing, the one aim and object that, at that moment, must obsess him above all others the discovery of herself, the White Moll.
The Adventurer had been trapped not through Danglar's cunning, or lack of cunning on the Adventurer's own part, but through force of circumstances that had caused him to fling all thought of self-consideration to the winds in an effort to save another's life. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her skirt, clenched until they hurt.
She halted now and uttered a sharp exclamation, as though she had caught sight of the man for the first time. The other, too, had halted at the foot of the stairs. A plaintive drawl reached her: "Don't screech, Bertha! It's only your devoted brother-in-law. Curse your infernal ladder, and my twisted back!" Danglar's brother! Bertha!
Danglar's little black eyes narrowed, and he thrust his head forward and out from his shoulders savagely. In the flickering candle light, with contorted face and snarling lips, he looked again the beast to which she had once likened him. "Never mind how I'm going to get her!" he flung out, with an oath. "I told you I'd been busy. That's enough! You'll see "
The last time she had been with Danglar as Gypsy Nan she had, in self-protection, forbidding intimacy, played up what he called her "grouch" at his neglect of her. She paused in the doorway. Halfway across the room, at the table, Danglar's gaunt, swarthy face showed under the rays of a shaded oil lamp. Behind her spectacles, she met his small, black ferret eyes steadily.
She reached the doorway, looked out and suddenly caught her breath in a low, quick inhalation, In the semi-darkness she could just make out Danglar's form, perhaps twenty-five yards away now, heading along the lane toward the street; but behind Danglar, at a well-guarded distance in the rear, hugging the shadows of the fence, she saw the form of another man.
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