the other room—the footsteps were already crossing the threshold from the head of the stairs. And then a voice reached her—the Pug's. It was the Pug and Pinkie Bonn.
"Strike a light, Pinkie! Dere's no use messin' around wid a flash. De old geezer 'll be back on de hop de minute he finds out he's been bunked, an' de quicker we work de better."
A match crackled into flame. An air-choked gas jet, with a protesting hiss, was lighted. And then Rhoda Gray's drawn face relaxed a little, and a strange, mirthless smile came hovering over her lips. What was she afraid of? The Pug was the Adventurer, wasn't he? This was one of the occasions when he could not escape the entanglements of the gang, and must work for the gang instead of appropriating all the loot for his own personal and nefarious ends; but he was the Adventurer. The White Moll need not fear him, even though he appeared, linked with Pinkie Bonn, in the rôle of the Pug! So there was only Pinkie Bonn—to fear.
Rhoda Gray took her revolver from her pocket. She was well armed—and in more than a material sense. The Adventurer did not know that she was aware of the Pug's identity. Her smile, still mirthless, deepened. She might even turn the tables upon them, and still secure the stolen stones. She had turned the tables upon Pinkie Bonn last night; to-night, if she used her wits, she could do it again!
And then, suddenly, she stifled an exclamation, as the Pug's voice reached her again:
"Wot are youse gapin' about? Dere ain't anything else worth pinchin' around here except wot's in de old gent's safety vault. Get a move on! We ain't got all
