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Updated: June 20, 2025
Danglar's little black eyes narrowed. She caught a sudden glint of triumph in them. It was Danglar now who laughed. "Not much longer!" His voice was arrogant with malicious satisfaction. "The luck had to turn, hadn't it? Well, it's turned! I've got the White Moll at last!" She felt the color leave her face. It seemed as though something had closed with an icy clutch upon her heart.
She could trust to the effect upon him of an automatic in the hands of the White Mall to make him talk. Rhoda Gray walked quickly. It was not very far. She turned the corner into the street where Danglar's deformed brother, Matty, cloaked the executive activities of the gang with his cheap little notion store and halted abruptly.
It was but corroborative of the despoiled drawer; and, at the same time, the obvious reason why the door had not been relocked when whoever had come here had gone out again. Whoever had come here! She could have laughed out hysterically. Was there any doubt as to who it was? One of Danglar's emissaries; the Cricket, perhaps-or perhaps even Danglar himself!
In view of last night, in view of her failure to keep that appointment in the role of Danglar's wife, it was very strange indeed that she had been left undisturbed!
Danglar's wife! That was the horror that was in her brain, yes, and in her soul, and that would not leave her. And now night was coming upon her once more. It had even begun to grow dark here on the lower stairway that led up to that wretched, haunted garret above where in the shadows stark terror lurked. Strange! Most strange! She feared the night and yet she welcomed it.
She put her hand up to her face, hiding it with the torn veil, raced for the car, and flung herself into the tonneau. The door slammed. The car leaped from the curb. Danglar was coming down the steps. She heard him shout. The chauffeur, in a startled way, leaned out, as he evidently recognized Danglar's voice but Rhoda Gray was mistress of herself now.
Cost her what it might, with all its bitter hurt, she must remember that, even even if she had forgotten once. "Yes," she said. "And I mean to turn them over to the police, and expose every one of Danglar's gang. I you are entitled to a chance; you once stood between me and the police. I can do no less by you.
Perhaps to Shluker, and perhaps to all the rest of the gang except Danglar! Gypsy Nan was accepted at face value as just Gypsy Nan; and, if that were so, the idea of playing up a natural wifely anxiety on Danglar's behalf could not be used unless Shluker gave her a lead in that direction. But, all that apart, she was getting nowhere. She bit her lips in disappointment.
She was to resume, after to-night, the character that was supposed to lay behind the disguise of Gypsy Nan! She was to resume her supposedly true character that of Pierre Danglar's wife! "What do you mean?" she demanded tensely. "Aw, come on!" he said abruptly. "This isn't the place to talk. Pierre wants you at once. That's what the message was for.
"She is quite closely connected with that gentleman we left airing himself on the fire escape," he said grimly. "Gypsy Nan is Danglar's wife." It was very strange, very curious the alleyway seemed suddenly to be revolving around and around, and it seemed to bring her a giddiness and a faintness.
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