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 quite well aware that he was standing with his back to the door, evidently trying to place his surroundings.
It was Gypsy Nan, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke.
"Who's dere?" she screeched. "D'ye hear, blast youse, who's dere?"
Rough Rorke laughed gratingly.
"That you, Nan, my dear?"
"Who d'youse t'ink it is-me gran'mother?" demanded Rhoda Gray caustically. "Who are youse?"
"Rorke," said Rorke shortly. "I guess you know, don't you?"
"Is dat so?" snorted Rhoda Gray. "Well den, youse can beat it - hop it - on de jump! Wot t'hell right have youse got bustin' into me room at dis time of night - eh? I ain't done nothin'!"
Rough Rorke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward.
"Cut it out!" he snarled. "I ain't the only visitor you've got!
It's not you I want; it's the White Moll."
"Wot's dat got to do wid me?" Rhoda Gray flung back hotly. "She ain't here, is she?"
"Yes, she's here!" Rough Rorke's voice held an ugly menace. "I lost her around the corner, but a woman from a window across the street, who heard the row, saw her run into this house. She ain't downstairs - so you can figure the rest out the same way I do."
"De woman was kiddin' youse!" Rhoda Gray, alias Gypsy Nan, cackled derisively. "Dere ain't nobody here but me."
"We'll see about that!" said Rough Rorke shortly. "Strike a light!"
"Aw, strike it yerself!" retorted Rhoda Gray. "I ain't yer servant!
Dere's a candle over dere on de washstand against de wall, if youse wants it."
A match crackled and spurted into flame; its light fell upon the lamp standing on the chair beside the bed. Rough Rorke stepped toward it.
"Dere ain't any oil in dat," croaked Rhoda Gray. "Didn't I tell youse de candle was over dere on de washstand, an' -"
